It hit me like a truck last night. It crushed my heart where only moments before I had been lilted to the sky watching an innocent puppy play with a tennis ball in lost moments of reckless abandon, tail wagging as high as it could get, prancing up and down the block as if it was a magic tennis ball kingdom.

In order to tell this story, I guess I have to go back to the beginning, though. Otherwise, it won't make much sense. So, where did it all begin?

I guess it started with the bad economy, and the number of people who have lost their jobs and their homes. I suppose that's why we never had so many stray dogs in the neighborhood before, but now they arrive almost on a daily basis, in pairs, alone, even in small packs made up of chichuahuas, poodles and terriers, strange and non-threatening combinations.

I began to take the dogs to the shelter, because as much as I did not want to play any part in their demise, I thought it would be safer for them to have a place to sleep and eat, and a chance to be adopted. Slim, but always possible.

The dogs showed up in such numbers that soon even the shelter was saying, "Yeah, we'll be out there to get them," in a very insincere tone.

Well, one evening, a pack of these vagabond pups took shelter in my front yard. They were a tragic band. One had been hit by a car, was limping and exhibited no appetite. Another was so badly matted that the hair was choking the circulation from its legs. Still another had one good eye and one completely covered by a huge cataract.
I called the animal shelter, and waited for them to arrive, but they never showed.

Days later, I noticed that the pack was gone. All of them but one, the pup with the cataract. He roamed the blocks of my neighborhood, tail between his legs, quivering, hunkered down under parked cars which he felt were a source of protection. He was thin, but not so badly that I could see every rib. I thought to myself, "This guy really has the will to keep going against all odds."

Having just returned from picking up some dinner during my month-long struggle to overcome flu/asthma/not feeling very good, I decided that I would make his night, so I pulled over my Jeep, rolled down the window and began to fillet a chicken thigh for him, feeding him the pieces as I went.

It took him a few days to show up in my front lawn, but when he did, I fed him. He was so skiddish that he didin't want to be touched or petted. He would eat, look at me with thanks out of his one good eye, and go on his way.

My mom remembered having a friend in high school who also had the same eye condition, so we named the dog Louie after her friend Ella Lou Armstrong. It took him 2.5 seconds to learn that he had a name.

At CVS, they had dog beds on sale for $5.99, the little intertube-looking type with a big paw print in the center. I picked one up, figuring most dogs don't even like them. However, Louie moved it to a prominent place on my front walkway and curled up for the night.

I was hoping that I could tame Louie enough so that I could take him to the vet, get him checked out, and then maybe run an add for him to go to a good home. He has such a sweet disposition that he would make an excellent companion for anyone who is in need of one. I was making good progress, too. I stopped by Ross, and this time I bought him a stuffed weiner dog that squeeked for $2.99.

He appeared non-plussed when I presented it to him, but he accepted it graciously. It must have been about 1:30 in the morning when my own dogs started barking like wild things. I looked out the front window expecting to find street hoodlums of one kind or another, or another pack of wayward hounds, but no. It was just Louie, jumping up and down in the middle of the street, throwing his weiner dog into the air, catching it, squeeking it, chasing it, loving it. I had never seen such innocence before. It touched me deeply.

Well, all weekend I was doing my acting gig at the museum, saying basically the same thing over and over to each group of visitors that came my way. When I arrived home, I was looking forward to relaxing, just vegging really. But on my way down the side street my eye caught Louie, playing again in joyous reckless abandon. This time, somebody had provided him with a tennis ball.

I pulled into the driveway, and went back out to the street so I could help Louie rescue the ball from under the tire of a parked car. Then I threw and he caught, and I threw and he caught and chased and wagged and appreciated every second. I went in the house to fill his little bowl, and when I came out, I was approached by a neighbor from across the street.

"I know your fond of that dog," he began, "but he's pooping in my yard, and that's not too nice."

"He's not my dog. He's just a stray that was starving."

"Well, you better put him in your back yard, or I am going to have to call the pound, or get rid of him one way or another. I have kids that come over there. Haivng them step in the poop isn't too nice."

"I have kids that come over here, too. I just pick up the poop when a dog goes in my yard, along with the newspapers and ads people throw, and the trash from the ice cream man..."

"I will get rid of him."

I looked at little Louie, innocently curled up in his cheapy CVS bed, oblivious to the fact that this man who loves grass more than other living things was going to hurt him. I remembered the pictures in my mind of Louie, just moments before, having the time of his life with a simple tennis ball.

I wondered, "Are some of God's creatures just put here to suffer? Did I do harm by giving Louie a day or two of love?"

And I put him in my back yard, where he won't be able to stay because I would be well over the limit that the city allows. I will have to work hard to ever feel anything positive toward that neighbor again. Honestly, I will.

The San Francisco River cuts through the middle of town, usually peacefully, though a 1983 flood proved devastating to everything in the river's path.

I was not born there, nor did I grow up there, but the first time the town revealed itself to me, I felt this immensely overwhelming aura of deja vu. It was as if I had lived a whole life there, not this life, but some life that I really don't remember, or didn't remember until I felt that sense of place that I couldn't logically explain. It was Clifton, Arizona, my home town by choice.

I had always had connections to the town, friends and relatives that lived there, that went through the struggles of gaining a voice and gaining equality in a system that was set up  to socially striate the people. I knew of long and bitter labor strikes of the past, knew the dangers of working in a copper mine, open pit or not.

My mom and dad almost moved the family there in 1973, during a recession that had them looking for work. I wanted to go. My parents made the four hour drive from Phoenix so my dad could interview with the local paper. I remember being so disappointed when he didn't get the job.

Arizona was changing, it had always been the three C's that drove the economy - copper, cattle and cotton. In grade school, Phelps Dodge Corporation used to provide these little cardboard sheets that held samples of rocks and minerals that came out of their Morenci mine. I grew to love rocks, if not Phelps Dodge. By 1983, when 14 unions went out on strike against the company, the C that reprensented copper in the three C's was being replaced by computer chips. Importance in history can change quickly.

The strike of 1983 was never settled. I prefer not to say that it was "lost," because while the union members wound up being decertified, their struggle served to blaze a new path for modern labor unions to follow. A more cautious path, indeed.

What was lost, however, was the identity of Clifton, itself. Once billed as "the town tougher than Tombstone," which would mean that it would surely refuse to just lay down and die, it didn't. Instead, it just lingered. Stubborn families remained, determined not to leave their beloved land, even if it meant driving 40 miles to get groceries or go to the doctor. Local businesses held out for better times as long as they could, but good times were not around a near corner. Now there are more boards on windows than there are open stores serving cheerful customers.

A citizen of Clifton recently wrote a letter describing how he sees that Clifton's demise is eminent, mostly because it's citizen's are too stuck in a rut. They aren't willing to step up and try to rescue their beloved community because maybe they think it isn't possible. Of course, anything is possible. If you believe, and I do.

When I remember Clifton, I remember my camera, a cheap little range finder that I bought in college for under $30. Yet, given such an amazingly rich and diverse subject, it could take pictures that made my jaw drop in awe. Pictures of red cliffs, locomotives, desert sunsets, the river that runs through it, the downtown drag, snowmen built with every flake of snow that could be gathered before it melted in the relentless Arizona winter sun.

I think of the rocks, and the energy that I could feel coming from them. It was like the answers to the universe were buried in those hills. It was a feeling of being so close to understanding what it is all about. It was nature in all of its captivating glory. Rollign hills and jagged peaks, and catfish jumping out of the river, tickling my toes as I waded through.  Even as I write this, I cannot find the words precise enough to describe how it feels to be there at the foot of the Coronado trail, the country's most scenic route. My senses have experienced what my words can't convey.

I think of people, even in the darkest hours of their lives, who would give you their last bean burrito if you were hungry, or offer you their pull out sofa if you had no place to sleep. They could find the humor in anything, and they did. It was a shared characteristic of the citizens of Clifton. Sure, they gossiped and argued and did things both right and wrong like anyone else, but life in the secluded little mining camp had made them strong and taught them the importance of being kind to one another.

It breaks my heart to think that my self-appointed home town is dying. They say the hotel has closed, and so has the gas station. They say the miners chose to live in Safford, 40 miles away, instead because they know they hold jobs that once belonged to the citizens of Clifton, and even now, after 26 years, there is still guilt associated with the situation The schools' enrollment is dwindling down to nothing, and the majority of the  money that is spent in the county bypasses Clifton completely.

I know that Clifton is worth reviving, and I am hoping that a few strong citizens will stand up and carry the torch forward. It is a place of rich Old West history, and it is a place that speaks to me in the deepest core of my being. I feel the connection to my town as strong today as I did 13 years ago, the last time I set foot there. I am willing to help however I can. I hope I will not be alone.

Missing from the front of my house. Lost on Tuesday, October 13 sometime between dawn and noon. Comes to the name, "Recycling Bin." Has been in our family since we first moved into our home. Blue with gigantic crack in its backside from being dropped too hard and too often by the trash collectors. Has the house number "1817" painted sloppily on its side. If you return my bin, you will be rewarded because I will continue to be able to do my part and not pollute California, or the Earth, more than necessary.

If you see it, please call me.

Somebody somewhere has to pay.

It was one of the running jokes in the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding that the Greek Americans used Windex to cure just about everything. Well, for people of Latin decent, the miracle cure is known as Bibaporu. It got this nickname from the countless moms with heavy Spanish accents that just couldn't quite pronounce it the way it was meant to be said (you know the b and the v are just so close in sound en Espanol.)

Why is this interesting to me at all? About two weeks ago, I began to wheeze at night.  I would try to sleep, but the wheezing would come on and I would struggle to breathe. I tried everything. I boiled a pot of water and stood there breathing in the steam with an oversized t-shirt covering my head so the steam wouldn't escape. I tried chamomile tea and green tea. I tried allergy medicine, though I can't touch Benadryl because 1 tablet puts me to sleep for three days. I tried my asthma inhaler over and over and over...and then my nebulizer which was broken and even after much wishing and praying, remained broken.

Unable to get a good night's sleep for almost two weeks, I yanked the plastic tubing aparatus off of my nebulizer and marched (well, drove) to my physician's  assistant's office to beg for help. I had no appointment, so I waited until she was between patients, maybe an hour. Finally I got called. She took me into a room and listened as I breathed deeply. "It's allergy," she pronounced as she found the wheezing was not coming from my lungs but from my bronchial tubes.

That was when she said the magic words. Sure, she told me to do everything I had already done, boil a pot of water and breathe in the steam, but she added a step. "Put some Vicks Vaporub in the water."

"Duh!" I thought to myself. How could I have forgotten? I think maybe I was just trying to step away from tradition and find a more sophisticated (and expensive, and chemical) cure. So I ran (well, drove) to CVS, bought a brand new jar of bibaporu, got back in my car and rubbed it on my neck and under my nose. Instant relief. I could breathe...clearly. Almost heaven.

I began to research, historian that I am, to find out if any other cultures believed that bibaporu was the be-all and end-all of modern medicine. Well, come to find out that a zoo in Great Britian was using it on their meerkats' noses when introducing new members into the existing family. Seems the Vicks masked the foreign smell of the new animals long enough for them to get acquainted. Otherwise, they might kill each other. See, bibaporu saves lives.

So, while scientists are out there spending millions of dollars of research money in order to develop new prescription medication, I am going to replenish my pharmacopia of remedios de la familia: rubbing alcohol for rubs to bring down fevers, Coca-Cola syrup for nausea, sweet oil for ear aches (there is the burning paper in the ear tradition, but that's just too much for me), tobacco for sucking out poison from insect bites, and Absorbine Jr. for any and all types of arthritis pain. And if everything else fails, I'll just have to find a way to properly apply the Vick's Vaporub. It always works.

I believe in Mercury Retrograde, as I seem to have gotten stuck in a black hole of it. Everything electronic I touch just breaks. Aaargh!

I wanted my students to see this video as we begin our unit on electricity and magnetism. Mark, the guy in the video, was my high school sweetheart. Barb was one of his wives. He's had, well, several now. That's ok.

There were two reasons I wanted to show it to my students. The first one is that they need to be really aware of the dangers of playing with electricity. That's obvious. The second one is that they are often so easy to give up. They just quit at the first sign of difficulty. If Barbara Guerra isn't the antithesis of that, than I don't know who is.

I, too, have had many hurdles to overcome in my lifetime, and I never quit, but my obstacles were never so obvious. I think Barbara is an amazing woman, even though it is weird is that the only way I even knew about her was because Mark's little brother Jason who used to be with us on Zaadz told me about the video.

Life is strange.

The video will give you an error message, but click on the box below that says it's from Montel, and you can watch most of it.

Last Saturday, I got up at the crack of dawn and drove to a community college I had never been to before, clutching a form letter in my hand, my prized possession, that reminded me that I was really doing this and told me to go to room 301B. I arrived at the campus at 7:45 A.M. for the class which began at 9:00 A.M. I followed the signs and located the correct building. Then I searched for the elevator and finally the classroom. Only the workers who were setting up for another event were present. Other than that, it was a ghost town.

I sat down and began writing out my grocery list, and even began planning lessons for school the next week. Suddenly, I noticed time was slipping by and nobody else was coming. I began to panic. I made sure to be extra early because this class was the first of six that would start me on the road to being able to adopt two children which I became aware of by watching Wednesday's Child. After waiting and hoping for twenty-some years to become pregnant and have a child of my own, I finally realized that it was not going to happen, so I got to the location extra early in order to make sure nothing would go wrong with doing it this way. And still it did.

By the time I found the correct classroom, a completely different room number than what my letter read, the class was already full. I felt my heart sinking to my ankles. I complained quite vocally, and even though the woman in charge insisted they had contacted everyone to tell them of the room change, I held my ground. "You didn't contact me." I also began to pray nonstop.

There were five "late" people. The social workers let us stay, saying that some people might opt out of the classes once they heard all of the requirements. One woman did, and that left one space. I was number two in line. During the break, I went up to the woman in charge to ask what to do in the event that I did not get to stay. She informed me that they were working on it. Within a few minutes, the social worker walked back in and announced that the couple in front of me could stay, and so could I. I looked up and thanked God for the answer I desired, and my heart went out to the two women who were asked to leave because the class was full.

I sat there for hours listening to the requirements, knowing that I would be a good mother, a loving mother, and knowing that I would provide joy and enrichment to my adopted children's lives. It wasn't until I got home that I started to freak out again.

I began to wonder if I can keep my house clean enough, my laundry done enough, my yard clipped enough, keep the plumbing from busting and the floor tiles from cracking and the paint from chipping and the dust from settling and the cleaning chemicals well hidden and the medications under lock and key along with the knives and kitchen scissors and sharp art supplies and ...oh my! My mind was going rapid-fire with doubt and making mountains out of molehills.

I know that I used to be able to do everything. I was superwoman at one point. However, my job is stressful and requires hours of work beyond quitting time, and I am in a Master's program, and my mom is aging and not very independent anymore. Can I still find it in me to do everything perfectly?

So, this weekend was the first weekend that I set out to plan further in advance for teaching my class, to do what I had to do, and to delegate more of the catering business responsibilities to my employees. This weekend was the first time I told myself, "Girl, you are just getting over this big botched surgery. You are good and you are strong, and you will get there if you take it moment by moment. One thing at a time."

The thought of not being able to adopt the children scares me so that I am motivated to move mountain ranges if they get in the way. But to be perfect? Nobody's perfect, so why do I suddenly feel that I have to be?

I was driving home from work the other day and I got to this certain corner about three blocks away from home when this thought hit me so hard, I was surprised I was still in one piece. My thought was, "If I was Barack Obama, what would I fix first? There are just too many problems." It was getting deep and philosophical and traffic was piling up behind me as I pondered instead of turning right.

Poor Barack, he is only one man and he has expactations piled on him in heeps and mounds by the AGP (American General Public.) He is only one man and he is going to be challenged by the political machine that is well oiled and set in place so strongly that change is barely noticed. While the world seems to be falling apart in various corners, and the homefront is crumbling before our very eyes, how does one man put on the brakes and turn things around decidedly within an acceptable amount of time? And if he doesn't, do we just give up on him, too?

Then it came to me, there at that corner of Hobart and Vernon in the middle of South Central Los Angeles, that one man can only change the world if we pave the way for him to do so. First, it is up to us, the AGP, to be open, to be as patient as possible, and to start solving the problems right here in our back yard. And here, on the corner of Hobart and Vernon, my backyard is a definite shambles outlined by liquor stores, graffiti and police cars swooped up on the gas station at the corner.

It is pretty common knowledge that you cannot truly help someone else unless you have helped yourself first. So, while Obama is concentrating on world peace, we can start at home, being more understanding with our family members, by communicating better with those we deal with daily, by being more helpful to our neighbors, and more giving to the communities in which we live. We can continue to say, "Do I really need that?" and live simpler. We can work toward being more self-sustaining. By doing so, we will create an environment that is ripe and ready to accept the "change" when it comes our way. Now is not the time to be judgmental. Now is the time to reach out.

Come Tuesday, Wall Street will still be a mess, the banks will still be greedy and won't admit they used deceptive practices to make shaky home loans, the retailers will still be suffering, and thousands will still be faced with losing their jobs. Joe the Plumber will be worried about those new taxes that he faces, and Hillary will still have all of her family members emailing me to help pay down her campaign debt. Large corporations  will still be requesting bailouts while the AGP's bucket remains dry as a tumbleweed blowing across a desert highway in a dust storm.

It seems like a miracle has happened, most certainly, but how will we stand witness to it? How will we ensure that Barack Obama does stand for change in our country and in the world? How can we ensure that things will be better for our children? We have had too many years of cringing each time George W. Bush couldn't say a word correctly in front of millions of people, and we have become a tad bit passive aggressive because we felt powerless to change it. So, if Barack is bringing us the power, how will we use it?

It is truly our moment under the sun, the moon and the stars, and Tuesday is sure to give so many of us a feeling of exhilaration beyond compare. But it's not all about Tuesday. What will you do on Wednesday to birth the change in your heart? That is my question, and I don't have the answer. I only know that if I wake up on Wednesday status quo, that I am leaving it all to Barack, and he can't do it all on his own.

New Moon on Monday
New World on Tuesday
What will Wednesday bring?