Finding Myself

In the beginning my desire to get a monkey was not altogether altruistic. When I signed on to be a foster parent for the Helping Hands program, I knew the monkey I raised would be trained to help a quadriplegic, but my modus operandi was for me. In the aftermath of my jaw surgeries and subsequent recuperation, I was feeling broken and had no earthly direction for industry—no sense of what I could do for work—no inkling of what I could do to satisfy myself or feel useful. I didn't feel particularly independent. I wasn't functioning as I had previously and I was trying to work my way back to wellness.

Being inside our own skins, we don't always know which needs aren't being met or even realize what's missing. At that time I didn't know any of it and I was too close to my own person to figure it out. But when Ziggy came along, she was a baby. She needed me, and she didn't care what I looked like or what baggage I carried. My relationship with her was a clean slate. She gave me a chance to start a new adventure, so learning about her became a quest. I had something else to think about, and I didn't have to ask myself over and over again, "Why me?" There's no denying it, Ziggy affected my life in a big way! She tacked her needs onto the bulletin board of my heart, just as I had tacked up the letter announcing her arrival. I happily and ignorantly integrated her into my life; we read together, walked together, and spent every waking minute together. She was, and is, still a child.

But if you're enamored with the idea of raising an exotic primate as a pet, ask yourself this question: Do you really want to raise a child for 40 years? I mean, part of the fun of having foreign exchange students is they add new notes of culture into your family's database, they are fun and young and hip, and best of all—they stay only a short time and you don't have to pay for their college. With our own children, of course their stay is longer, they leave behind permanent memories and they are more expensive, but they still leave at young adulthood, usually after 18 years. A dog, a short life span. A cat, independent and temporary. A monkey—a lifetime of care. And if you have no network of support, no organization like Helping Hands to bail you out, then you are opening a fortune cookie with long and sometimes confusing consequences. Your fortune may well read: "Person who take primate must not have sulky kids or snarly spouses."

We primates expend a lot of our energies on emotions. Monkeys have those but often operate on instinct or doing whatever it is they want done at the time. They live for the moment, while humans get caught up in the jet stream of time and forget to have mindfulness. Since we're always moving ahead, we don't take time to study faces or analyze the nuance of every person around us. We act like someone in conversation who wants to speak, except in the interim of planning his contribution, he doesn't take the time to listen to what's being said. My father was like that, he would add a comment when, unbeknownst to him, the topic had changed. Most of the time it didn't matter because he was our father, and we dragged the conversation back to where it had diverged.

We human primates also whine about how time flies and get nostalgic over past memories, which are mostly just a distorted take at what we perceive was a kinder or better moment. Most of the time we're living on autopilot, then the time comes when we have to face down some catastrophe life throws at us, and time's passing becomes agonizingly still. And large. And overwhelming. Ziggy's growth, together with the pain of recuperation from all the surgeries, taught me to enjoy the days when nothing much happened, when watching her face and deciphering her body language became a source of wonder.

Even though Ziggy's vocalizations to us were limited, such as "uh-huh" for agreement, "hoo-hoo" for isolation, lip-smacking for conversation, "Heh-Heh" for alert-danger, crying for bitching or taking something away, and screaming for being pissed, we were still dying to have her tell us more. We were like anxious parents teetering on the cusp between encouraging a child who wants to say his first word, to rounds of sheer hopelessness with wanting to understand.

I'd ask Zig, "Do you love me?"

"Uh-huh," she intoned.

"Do you want peanuts," I'd say.

"Uh-huh," she replied. (Sounds oddly similar.)

But the noise when I came home from a short absence and she greeted me was unmistakable—a composite of all the sounds Ziggy was capable of, only higher in tone, squealish and happy—it couldn't be mistaken for anything but joy.

Her moods, too, and the idea of her understanding us were subtle concepts, and a half-hour spent in front of her cage watching her entertain us was never enough. Sometimes, when I tried to explain a look or a particular habit she had to other people, I wasn't able to define it but I knew what it meant when I saw it. For example, Ziggy's play face was a goofy look with a crooked smile that told us she wanted to roll up into a ball. Other times she attacked her tail as if it had a life of its own, and then she acted as if she had no control over whether it brushed her fur backwards or came up behind her head to tickle her ears. Sometimes that independent tail curled around in front of her and stroked her face as if it was a strange appendage that just happened to be there looking for something to pet.

Friendly intent and approach with Ziggy was a complex gesture: a whole-body movement using a grin, mid-eye closure, a lowering of her eyebrows, head-shaking and vocalizing that sounded like a muffled "uh-huh-uh-huh-huh-huh." And whenever anyone important to her would leave the room or was out of sight, Ziggy would plaintively call "hoo-hoo-hoo." That particular sound could never be defined as anything other than what it was—a sad and plaintive bleating.

Over time we became good at figuring out Ziggy's signals, and were able to decode whether an encounter was agonistic or playful depending upon her facial gestures, vocalizations, and the postures that accompanied them. Like learning semaphore, certain looks became predictable. For example, behavior accompanied by an open-mouth, bared-teeth threat was aimed at new stuffed animals, the "underlings" in her cage world. Whenever she was given a new dollie—what we called her stuffies—Ziggy would scratch out its eyes. We knew this was her way of removing confrontation. She even took to removing a certain amount of stuffing from their innards, picking them apart at the seams so that some of her favorites became a mere shell of their former selves. But she still carted them around afterward, one at a time, an empty carcass.

For those of you who plan on raising children or animals and have no experience, you are fooling yourself if you picture smooth days of standard operating procedure in the future. Oh, I don't want to be the wet towel here so be somewhat idealistic, but it would be better for you to approach caregiving by thinking edgier, and going in with more realistic expectations. Plus, since the memory of owning something is ever so fleeting, remember to keep a journal about your experience and your feelings so when you think about doing it again, you can remind yourself about the day your infant spit up on your Armani suit, the time you felt frustrated changing a diaper at O'Hare or the weekend getaway that was called off unexpectedly because of a childhood illness at home. Balance your writing out though, remember, too, the afternoon your child gave you a rock and he thought it was the best gift in the world, the time he matched the socks by tying them in a knot, or a pumpkin carving that was made better for his suggestion that you add a mustache just like dad's.

In my newspaper column and in my journal I have stories about the shock of seeing my Dalmatian puke-up asphalt on the salmon-colored carpet, the time our cat mistook the bean bag chair for a litter box, and the night I sat up in angst because I thought Ziggy would die from licking Neosporin off a cut. On the other hand, I also have an entry reminding me how great it felt when our Norwegian elkhound, Shana, pushed open the bedroom door several steps ahead of her visiting master and jumped on the bed to greet me, and the time my sweet old Irish setter tried to nurse a litter of kittens. By getting a truer picture of caregiving with all the days, good and bad, helps us to appreciate both the quiet times and the frantic times with equal weight. That much I've learned. The uninspired, mindful day with those I love, has become my balm for the rest.

Andrea Campbell
Hot Springs Village, Arkansas
Author of Making Crime Pay:
The Writer's Guide to Criminal Law,
Evidence and Procedure
campbell@arkansas.net
http://www.andreacampbell.com

I had, for a couple of months, been searching for a building in which to start a Healing Touch Centre. One day I was driving into Qualicum for a Naturopath appointment and I was supposed to drive straight, but for some reason, I turned right.

When I realized my error, I thought, "Oh well, I'll just turn left at the next street and that will get me back to where I was going." But, I didn't turn left at the next street, I drove two blocks until I came to a four way stop and once again realized I had made a mistake. I was driving away from where I was supposed to go!

It was a beautiful day, so I decided to park the car and walk instead of driving around spaced out. I thought the walking would help to ground me. I parked the car and instead of walking to my Naturopath, I walked in the opposite direction. I ended up at a shopping complex called Chilham Village. There is a lovely courtyard there and I decided to sit down to try to figure out what was going on with me. After I sat down, I looked up and noticed a "For Rent" sign on the building in front of me.

This is the space I ended up purchasing and we named it the Qualicum Wellness Centre!

I was concerned about approaching a bank for a mortgage as it was doubtful a bank would lend me money. I had not been in the work force for 26 years, I had no clientele for my business and the purpose of the business is Healing Touch which is an alternative treatment a lot of people have not even heard of yet. I was fretting about this over the weekend, but on Sunday evening, the gentleman who owned the building called me on the telephone. He told me that, if we could agree on a price for the space, he would carry the mortgage. We hadn't even met and had only talked on the phone once.

Talk about synchronicity! I am really excited about the prospect of helping others and can hardly wait to get this business started!

Shireen Zant
Qualicum Wellness Centre
Qualicum Beach, British Columbia

Benzene Doesn't Burn

Wednesdays were always good days. On Wednesdays, the engineering department rarely had any new suggestions to offer that would change operating conditions and thereby cause new changes in the operation. On Wednesdays, the office force had to begin to work up all their paper work for Friday's reports.

Today was a particularly good day. Blue skies and sunshine bathed the world. Thomas Mahoney sat at the central desk in his control room. The operation ran smoothly. Most of this oil refinery ran smoothly, most of the time. Many units ran into trouble a couple times a year. Operation 6 had never had any real trouble in all twenty-three years of operation. OP6 used a heavy solvent to treat lubricating oils. So long as the equipment was kept up and men did their job, there would never be any real trouble. The company kept maintenance up very well. OP6 made money every moment it ran. Motor oils, industrial lube oils and transformer oils came out the product end in great gushes of barrels of oil.

Tynesey Ronan sat in one corner reading a book. Another cowboy story. Tynesey always read cowboy stories. Jackie M'Sweeny sat in the other corner working a crossword puzzle. They were both good solid workers. They constantly watched their part of the control panel and never let anything get out of hand. As chief operator, Mahoney had the total responsibility of the men and the plant. Ronan held the position of first class and M'Sweeny was second class. They each had responsibility for their particular part of the operation, but, in the end, it was Mahoney who would be held responsible for anything and everything. They had worked together for ten years. Now, they were a really smooth group. When one made a move, the others always knew what he was about.

Capitol Street ran along the front of the plant. Those who smoked were allowed to stand out on the street and smoke. Once inside the firewalls, not even a small spark could be allowed. Firewalls completely surrounded the plant. The designers hoped the walls would contain any fire which might break out. The burning material would be contained until the company fire department could arrive and begin to fight the fire.

Outside the control room, three large petrochemical heaters and a furnace roared with the flames of the huge gas fires. The largest of the heaters contained four very large gas burners. Flames from these burners surged up the heater for about forty feet in a column four feet wide for each burner. Even though the heaters were lined with firebrick, the outside walls were hot to the touch.

Often on days like this, boredom would almost put Mahoney to sleep. At first, boredom and near sleep prevented Mahoney from responding to the alarm. When it did register in his brain, every fiber in him came alive. Mahoney jumped to his feet and ran for the door. He stepped outside, but immediately stopped. The harsh smell of raw benzene in his nostrils told him before the burning on his face began that some plant had a very bad benzene leak.

"Where is the alarm coming from?" Mahoney asked Tynesey who had run out behind him.

"It's coming from OP5!"

Mahoney turned around and saw the drops like raindrops falling all over. Some of the drops were falling against the side of the heater. Immediately, the drops evaporated. Mahoney turned to his two helpers.

"Tynesey, you guys run out and down Cap street to the South. Run as far and fast as you can. You might get far enough away!"

Ronan and M'Sweeny turned to run. Ronan turned back.

"What about you?"

"Someone has to stand by the control room until the end. There might be something that can be done to save the plant!"

While Ronan and M'Sweeny ran away, Mahoney ran back into the control room and shut the door. In here there was no smell of benzene. However, he could look out and see it still puffing off the side of the heater. What to do? If he pulled out the fires, the rising heat would still suck the benzene into the heater and set the benzene off. Benzene doesn't burn. Benzene explodes!

If he ran away and the explosion was not a very large one, he would miss the opportunity to save the plant. All of their jobs would be lost. Fear welled up within him. His stomach seemed to just constrict into a tight ball. His hands began to shake. Sweat popped out all over his face and ran down into his mouth. What to do? Suddenly, there it was. The answer. The large stainless steel desk sat in the center of the control room. Mahoney ran and sat down behind the steel desk. From this vantage point, he could see the entire control panel and the clock. The clock said exactly one P.M. The second hand clicked off the seconds. Mahoney could hear the little clicks as though they had been magnified. The claxon horn blared on. The leak continued. The second hand continued to advance a click at a time.

Maybe it would be alright. Maybe it would not blow. If it did blow, all the glass windows would blow inward and throw shards of glass all over like a hailstorm. When it did blow, all the air would be burned out of the room. Maybe he could crawl the twelve feet to the door. There was a self-contained mask outside the door in a box on the wall. If he survived the blast and the burning, he might make it to the mask and be able to run away.

The second hand clicked on toward the bottom of the clock.

When the blast came, he knew the flying glass would pierce everything, including him. The tremendous heat would burn him to a crisp. There would be no chance to get to the mask. He could not live through this one.

Thomas Mahoney's hands stopped shaking. His heart stopped pounding in his ears. The knot in his stomach slowly relaxed. He knew he was going to die. It surprised him how calm he became after he had accepted certain death.

Thomas sat and watched the seconds click off. He thought about the guards knocking on the door to tell Hannah he would never be coming home. Now, he could take time to think about the hunting trip last season. He had hurried to get off work, get home and pack, get into the car and finally tumble out at the camp. Deer hunting was so pleasant. He could just take a stand and hunker down against a tree and wait. Wait in the warm sunshine. Sunlight filtered down through the trees. He had enjoyed the peaceful hunt so much that he nearly fell asleep. He did awaken to see the tail end of a large buck deer disappear into some brush. It had walked right past him as he dreamed away the day. However, it was all right. His brother, Joe, had shot the deer. The clock still spoke to him in little clicks. Hannah had been thrilled at the diamond earrings he had bought her. She had immediately put them in her ears and stood before the mirror to admire the earrings. It was true. Little things made women happy.

The ground shook. Here it comes! Any second now the windows will come crashing in. The great ball of fire will engulf the room. The crash did not come. The fire did not come. Instead, the claxon alarm stopped. Shortly, the phone rang. Mahoney answered the phone.

"Mahoney, are you all right?"

"Sure, everything is fine here. The problem was at OP5. Didn't bother us at all."

After his shift ended, Mahoney drove home and parked in back of the house. He picked up the evening paper and walked into the kitchen.

"Hi, Tommy. I am glad you are all right. I heard the horn. Something went wrong down there today. Didn't it?"

"Oh, those guys at OP5 again. You know how they like to play around."

"That's all?"

"That's it." Thomas poured himself a couple fingers of whiskey and threw it down. Then, he started into the living room to read his paper.

"You are into the whiskey before supper and you tell me that's it! There was nothing to it?"

"Nothing at all."

Francis X. Curry
North Fort Myers, Florida
Author of Just Stories
www.buybooksontheweb.com

Honesty

One day coming home late from work, a woman stopped in at the butcher shop. She asked the butcher whether he had a big chicken.

He said, "You're lucky, there's one left."

When he took it out of the case, she asked, "How much does it weigh?"

"About two pounds."

"Have you got a bigger one?" she asked. "I need a bigger one."

He hesitated and then took it back into the cooler with him. He didn't have any others. It was the end of the day. So he came out with the same chicken and said, "Here you go. How about this one?"

"How much does this one weigh?"

"About three pounds."

She thought about it, counted her change, and said, "Okay, I'll take them both."

We cannot take for granted the importance of honesty. Spirit will bring it right back at us.

Reverend Dr. Christian Sorenson
Spiritual Leader of Seaside Church's TV Broadcasts
"Power of One" on XUPN
Seaside Church of Religious Science
Encinitas, California
www.seasidechurch.org

I had the good fortune to have an afternoon off to go golfing. I went as a single and was grouped with a threesome of men, all of whom obviously knew each other. As they set out on the golf course, the other three men chatted back and forth. They worked in life insurance and talked about the pros and cons of the various plans. Neither of the men spoke to me for the first three holes. One finally apologized and introduced himself. He asked what I did for a living.

I hesitated before replying, "Oh, I'm in life insurance." My comment was met with shocked responses, as I had not participated once during their discussion about life insurance options.

"What company?"

"mutual life edu.com."

They looked puzzled and eventually one of them commented, "Oh, you're just a teacher."

Anonymous
Chula Vista, California