One night the temperature dropped to freezing, a rare occurrence in LA, and I saw paramedics pull a frozen homeless man from a phone booth.  They peeled his fingers off the phone one by one. I still wonder about him – what was his name, how did he end up there, and if I had seen him before his demise would I have helped. I wonder whom he had called or wanted to call and what he wanted to say.

I also think of the woman who, every morning, would pull on a uniform and get ready for work in and around her 4×5 tent. More than one person got ready for work in a hovel on that street – the reality of being one of the working poor in America.

Living in a half way decent place, in a bad location, and struggling for grocery money I did not even consider going 2000+ miles back to the place of my birth for Thanksgiving.  Instead, I decided to volunteer at the Midnight Mission, which was only one block down the street. I thought this was a particularly good idea because I was so close to being in the serving line myself – best to scope out things ahead of time. I asked a friend to join me, because I was too intimidated to go alone. Their response…

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, they might want to talk to me. I don’t know what to say. That could be awkward.  It ‘s just going to be sad and dirty. Let’s not.”

I was cowed and nervous so I didn’t volunteer, which made me start thinking… How many people don’t volunteer because they’re scared or have the wrong impression like my friend? What if I volunteered and wrote about it to show people what its really like?

And thus TheGoodMuse was born.

Ironically, 57 volunteer adventures later I still hadn’t returned to Skid Row to help out.  Maybe it was all a little too real or raw.  Whatever the reason I was happy when the Reader’s Digest article published and I got a personal invite to volunteer from Mai Lee, Community Relations Manager, at the Midnight Mission.

The Midnight Mission’s goal is to offer a bridge to self-sufficiency for homeless people through counseling, education, training and job placement. They also offer all the necessities of life to the homeless of Skid Row: food, shelter, clothing, personal hygiene and medical care. They do all this and much more without a dime of funding from the federal government. And although the title “Mission” would imply religious affiliation there is absolutely no sermonizing for services.

The Mission itself is an intimidating new structure of glass and steel.  Mai Lee met me in the lobby.  Tiny, energetic and smiling she said, “I don’t do an orientation for anybody.  I make it as easy to volunteer as possible.  Let’s put you to work.” She gave me a “I Love The Midnight Mission” apron as a gift and then threw me into the industrial sized kitchen to work. (P.S. Mai Lee – I’m a stress baker and I did not have an apron!  Do you know how many shirts I’ve stained? I love it. Thank you.)

I started wrapping silverware for the hundreds we would serve at lunch. Then I was put on the serving line. My job was scooping asparagus. Very glamorous. I worked alongside a wonderful drag queen named Chris who joked with the people coming down the line. Chris lived in one of the many rat-infested apartments that dot Skid Row and when she recognized a friend or acquaintance she would cackle, “Girl, get over here and get some salad! You be needing it!” At the end of lunch she told me she might come back once a week in the afternoon to volunteer because it gave her something to do.  I had moved from the serving line to chopping Romaine hearts when I was stolen from the kitchen and moved to the education section of the complex.

G Money & Me with Math Book

In a pristine classroom I was introduced to the teacher “G Money” who was prepping a room full of adults for their GED tests.  Everybody was bent low over workbooks, which looked like… math books… Eeeekkkk Math Workbooks!  I wanted to climb the wall and hang from the ceiling hissing like a vampire who’s seen a cross.  Unpleasant.  Math is so unpleasant and if anything I needed to take a workbook, sit at a desk, and have someone teach me.  As it turned out I think I helped a number of students to wrong answers.  I can’t remember the last time I’ve had to do long equations or multiply/divide fractions. I have a calculator on my phone, which I kept busting out as the students whispered, “That’s cheating!”  “I know,” I would say, “I’m just checking the answer.”  Nope not checking the answer, getting the answer, but why argue over semantics.

It’s fortunate that I met William.  Hunched over a small storybook on one side of the room William, 40 something, was working on reading comprehension. William became my focus, which spared the math students. I sat down next to him and said, “Hey what are we working on?”  He had just read a short story and now was struggling to answer the corresponding study questions. “Cool,” I said, “read it to me.” He started to read and immediately the problem became clear.  As a new reader Will read the words so slowly that they no longer made sense in a phrase. I applied a little acting.  After he read a line I would say, “Okay, how would you say that?” He would repeat the line back to me at a normal speed.  If another character showed up in the story I took their dialogue and showed him how the sentence would sound in real life.  From afar I’m sure we looked like we were goofing off, but William started to plow through the questions. I can’t tell you how great it felt watching William speed up and start enjoying the story.  It was one of my greatest volunteer moments – no doubt.

I’ve been poor and lived at poverty level a couple of times in my life. It’s almost impossible to dig yourself out without help.  And it’s almost impossible to find help that’s not condescending or doesn’t require some kind of soul trade. The Midnight Mission offers schooling, temporary housing, counseling and medical services, a library, a barbershop, but most importantly it treats people with dignity.

“I got to go to bed.  I’m cleaning snake cages early tomorrow morning.”

“Why!?”

“Because they sh*! in them Mom.”

“This is another one of those volunteer things isn’t it?”

“No, this is for fun.”

“Really!?”

“Mom…”

“Okay.  Just be careful.  Don’t get bitten.”

“I’ll try.”

8:30 am Wednesday. Being a sloppy reptiles interior designer = the punishment you have to endure when you’re sarcastic with your mother. When all is said and done though, I will talk about my morning with Star Eco Station forever…

Star Eco Station in Culver City, CA exists because people try to smuggle exotic animals into the US (via LAX) because they’re desperate for money (the people not the animals) or out of their freaking minds. If the animals survive the journey - stuffed into cardboard tubes, taped against sweaty humans, crammed into suitcases, or mislabeled in an innocuous looking Fed Ex box – they can look forward to being skinned for accessories, fought for money, kept in some moron’s trophy room, or paraded down a red carpet on Paris Hilton’s arm.

Customs or other very shocked airport employees find the lucky ones. Often the animal is so traumatized and injured officials have no choice but to put the animal down.  Star Eco Station is a haven of last resort for some of these tortured animals. Currently, Star Eco Station houses over 200 kidnapped animals from around the world.

I attended a very brief volunteer orientation Saturday morning so I could come back on Wednesday and do whatever menial task the Star Eco Station staff may ask for. All with the understanding that I will probably never get to touch an animal for my safety and theirs.  I’m introduced to Devon, animal husbandry expert (Look it up teenagers it’s not what it sounds like), and he puts me to work chopping old fruits and vegetables donated by Trader Joes for the herbivores.

Devon and I talked about the animals while we chopped. He tells me about the parrots which outlived a succession of masters (parrots aren’t good pets they can live over 100 years!), the alligators found in a Fed Ex box, the mockingbirds found in a tube. We talk about how volunteers and employees of Star Eco Station go on to work at zoos and animal sanctuaries.  Then he’s asked by an anxious employee to step out of the room.  He leaves for a few minutes and when he walks back in he shouts over his shoulder, “Could someone clean up the blood? Thanks.”

“What blood?” I ask before I can stop myself.

“Do you really want to know?”

“No, but now that you’ve said that I kinda have to know.”

“We breed our own rats.”

“You can stop there.”

I get the picture.  There are carnivores here: alligators, caimans, bobcats, lynx, – they have to be fed too. Well that and as Devon explains they just had an angry snake on their hands.

We divide the food (chopped zucchini, sugar snap peas, apples, bananas, etc.) into bowls for the birds and Devon asks me to go ahead into the parrot room and open the automatic skylights.

Standing in the humid room, among bird smell, aiming a remote control at the ceiling I hear a slimy, “Hey Baby.”

“Okay, who said that? Not cool.” I turn around.  No one.

“Hey Baby.”

Oh good. I’m just getting cat called by a bird.  What a relief. “Hey yourself.  Which one of you said that?”

“Hey Baby.”

“Oh it’s you. Oh my God.” I say to a beautiful white parrot.

“Oh my God!” Shouts someone and I spin.

“Oh my God, which one of you said that?”

“Oh my God!” says a mischievous green parrot.

“There you are. Hahahahahaha.”

“Hahahahahaha.” – An exact replica of my laugh.

“Okay stop laughing that’s creepy.”

“Oh my God!”

“You can say that again.”

Devon comes in and suggests that there is nothing else I can do in the birdcages.  I beg to differ I’m of a simple mind and can keep this game up forever. He points me to the reptile room where I am put to work by Manny redecorating some gecko cages with fake shrubbery. He then asks me the thing I’ve been dreading all morning “Can you clean that reptile cage?”

“Sure.” I say through my teeth.  I arrange my supplies for cleaning, open the cage, and then shut the door lightning fast. “Ummm Manny… There is still a creature in this cage.”

“Oh yeah! Sorry about that.” He removes said creature and I get back to work.

Because I’m press…kinda, and was very sweet and worked without complaint I got to hold one lizard which no beginner volunteer is ever allowed to do.  I held Crayola the chameleon [pictured above].  Crayola, like women from New Mexico, likes the color turquoise.  Crayola has amazing feet that wrapped around my fingers so that if my hand had turned over he would not have moved.  I wanted to keep him, and the geckos, and the angelfish, and one of the black mockingbird and… this is the problem.  No one should have these animals.  They’re wild and like most wild animals make lousy pets because they are a pain in the ass to take care of – trust me. But they are pretty to look at so if you want to interact with them just come volunteer at or visit Star Eco Station.

Star Eco Station rehabilitate’s animals, but their central mission is prevention through education.  If they can teach children not to treat animals like possessions and to respect wild animals in their habitats then the cycle of animal cruelty will end.

Anyone can volunteer at Star Eco Station.  You simply need to attend a volunteer orientation, and then you’re free to come in, and help prep the animals food, clean cages, walk the tortoises, and various other chores that the staff needs.

Star Eco Station is fun, educational, and honestly an adventure.  I guarantee one visit will give you stories to tell for the next month – at least.

Reader’s Digest called last week to inform me that because I was featured in the “Make it Matter” section of the June/July issue I get a $1500 grant for either my non-profit or a non-profit of my choice. I don’t have a non-profit. I just help them. So I’m going to give the money to a non-profit. Problem is I can’t make up my mind. I worked with dozens upon dozens of different groups and I love them all for different reasons.

To fix the problem I sat down with a group of scientists. Okay, not scientists… People in the know… Anyway, we came up with a list of the non-profits who are efficient, badass, and most of all desperately need money. Vote please! Rock the Vote and all that jazz. Vote for you favorite. Who should get the money? Below are the 5 finalists’ mission statements and a link to each group’s webpage. I have my favorites now I want to see yours. You can vote for your top three at once, but only one time! Poll will be live from July 1st at midnight to 11:59 pm on July 15th. Have fun…

The Charities Mission Statements and Websites:

EarthEcho International – EarthEcho.org

EarthEcho International’s mission is to empower youth to take action that restores and protects our water planet. Education combined with service learning offers a tremendous opportunity to empower young minds, but there is very little ocean education and service learning available today on a national scale. EarthEcho International’s programs works to fill these voids in ways that unite the efforts of other prominent organizations. http://www.earthecho.org

Heal the Bay ­– HealtheBay.org

Heal the Bay is a nonprofit environmental organization dedicated to making Southern California coastal waters and watersheds, including Santa Monica Bay, safe, healthy and clean. We use research, education, community action and advocacy to pursue our mission. http://www.healthebay.org

Kidsave – Kidsave.org

Kidsave works to create change in policy and practice – so forgotten kids in government care can grow up in families. We help older kids in the US foster care system get adopted, help Russian orphans find families in Russia, and help orphans from Colombia, Russia and Sierra Leone find families and mentors in their own countries. http://www.kidsave.org

Kiva –Kiva.org

Kiva’s mission is to connect people, through lending, for the sake of alleviating poverty. Kiva empowers individuals to lend to an entrepreneur across the globe. By combining microfinance with the Internet, Kiva is creating a global community of people connected through lending. http://www.kiva.org

The Lange Foundation – LangeFoundation.com

The Lange Foundation is dedicated to saving impounded companion animals from being destroyed, and preparing them for a journey to a new, safe, loving world. Lange Foundation is a nonprofit 501(c)(3), tax-deductible organization. http://www.langefoundation.com

I don’t want to tell you this next piece because I’m sure I will get emails about being insensitive, trashy, heartless etc. but here ya go… I decided to go as a crack head like my roommate (it was a theme group). Insensitive – yes. Easy to do – you bet ya.

We sprinkled our black clothes with powdered sugar, put on makeup a la Amy Winehouse, dreaded our hair and using various Hollywood makeup tricks picked up on sets made it look like we were… well you get the idea.

I was secretly hoping that someone would say, “nice costume.” To which I was going to reply “What costume? This is a costume party?” That was going to be the highlight of my boring day. Unfortunately, I have quick actor friends who upon seeing me enter the party said, “Hey you were suppose to wear a costume!” Damn.

Anyway, long story abbreviated I got 3 hours of sleep and was cursing myself when I had to wake up for Run for the Trees at 6am the next morning. Mornings are the devils playground. Why is the world such a hostile place? Mornings.

Arriving at the race base camp at Dockweiler Beach I tucked last nights dreaded hair into a baseball cap, stuck my Ipod firmly in my ears, dragged my feet over to the registration table, got my number, and then had to pick up a t-shirt. I hate event t-shirts as noted in this blog numerous times before. Surprise, the smallest size they had was women’s mediums. Note to non-profit coordinators for the 100th time – we hate the t-shirts! They are wasteful, bad for the environment, and ugly as hell, but if you are obsessively compelled to make them (and apparently you are) and find sick pleasure in forcing us to wear them order more smalls and extra smalls especially at a 5k, 10k, marathon races.

Run for the Trees’ purpose was to raise funds for the Amazon Foundation, which was founded in 2009 to acquire and preserve large tracts of the Amazon Rainforest. Fine and good, however, as I waited for the race to begin I noticed something quite disturbing. Between the flyers being handed out, drinks in disposable plastic, and new t-shirts it’s arguable that more waste was produced by this event than trees saved.

Back to the race – I stood there, in the large starting pack, hopping from one foot to the other trying to warm up and calm down at the same time. Two nights before I had run 4.25 miles to test that I could do the distance. I felt great after that run, but I had completed it in an hour. Everyone around me looked like they were serious about racing. Like stretching/warming up serious. They were actually going to run fast! For real. Did they know it was not even 8 am yet on Sunday? I hate being at the back. Okay, I’m a bit OCD about being first. Not good.

The race started and I immediately began to hyperventilate. I had to be first! Had too! Okay that’s not going to happen. It took half a mile to get my breathing under control. I was running too fast. At one mile my stomach cramped and my mouth dried up. I kept thinking, “What the hell is happening? I’m freaking athletic. My stomach hurts too badly. I’m going to have to stop.” Then a few ten year olds passed me. Embarrassing. Then a guy pushing a baby stroller tried to pass me. No sir. No sir. I draw the line at being beat by a human pushing another human.

Finally, I fixed my gaze on the muscular back of the ripped guy in front of me. “He’s going to finish with a good time. And he’s not bad to look at. Stay 10 feet behind him till the end.” And that’s what I did. Pulling up only at the very end to protect my knee from a steep downhill finish I crossed the line in 27:12. Not bad for a first timer. However, because it’s in my DNA to never be satisfied, I’m now pissed I couldn’t finish under 27. Although I consider waking up early and then racing akin to being burned with a hot poker I might have to do that again just to shoot for 26.

P.S. Those stomach cramps turned out to be a stomach virus so I spent the rest of the day curled up on the bathroom floor pressing my head against cold tiles thinking about how I could have gone just a bit faster. Too competitive not to race – not competitive enough to train. It’s a curse.

On May 12th the June/July issue of Reader’s Digest hit the newsstands featuring a story about TheGoodMuse (page 51 – damn right memorized). Since that day I have been inundated by the most humbling, unbelievable response and I just wanted to take a moment to say, “Thank you.”

The purpose of TheGoodMuse and all these Volunteering Journals, besides being a tribute to my late and incredibly wonderful grandfather, was to demystify the volunteering experience and to encourage people to try something new. Ninety percent of the time I started one of these adventures with no clue what I was doing. None. I was always nervous, but I figured if I could do it, you could do it, and maybe we could share a little laugh along the way.

You have contacted me on Facebook, Twitter (@raeganpayne & @TheGoodMuse), with posts on TheGoodMuse, through email (raegan@thegoodmuse.com), and even called my mother.  I loved hearing every one of your stories about your volunteering adventures and mishaps. Please keep sending them.

It’s unbelievable to me that the story continues to spread. For example: yesterday I almost wet my pants when Deepak Chopra tweeted about me.

My intention at this point is to continue the Volunteer Journals. At this writing I’m at 55 and plan to complete 56 this weekend with a 5k run “For the Trees” on Dockweiler Beach.  If you know of any non-profits you want me to work with for goodness sake email me.

So from the bottom of my heart thank you.  You have no idea how much your support means.

I never go back home. Not just because of the expensive plane tickets. My family can be… difficult. My grandfather was one of the only consistent people in my life, thus the tribute when he departed. But I wanted to attend my brother’s law school graduation, which would put me in the path of my extended family. So I flew into Nashville, TN two weeks after the worst flood in over a century. I spent some time doing disaster relief. Oh… and I helped clean up after the catastrophic flood too…

Once I had landed in the bosom of the south it was next to impossible to find time to escape the cavalcade of dinners, lunches, and general family nagging to volunteer. Finally, on Sunday, I secured two hours to myself. I set off for the neighborhood of Antioch; an old part of Nashville that had found itself submerged under 30 feet of water only days before.

I’ve never been in a disaster zone. I’ve seen Anderson Cooper in disaster zones – in his tight black t-shirts, looking good, emotionally sad, but always pulled together. I thought I would be prepared as an Anderson devotee, but no. The smell hit me first, then the insects, then the mud and then the sadness.

A flood zone smells like death. Like a rodent that died in your garage or wall or behind the fridge – only magnified and put in a humidifier so it sticks to your skin. Everything is rotting, molding, turning black, and crumbling. Flood conditions are also the perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes. In two weeks Nashville had developed swarms so thick they needed ground control to keep from knocking into each other. As soon as I stepped out of my car I was covered in mud. I hadn’t necessarily done anything the mud just jumped on my clothes. These were the small things I hadn’t anticipated. The sadness though… you could taste it. It was in the silence, the lack of laughter, the slowness with which everyone moved, the dirt that people didn’t wipe from their cheeks, it was everywhere. I had been told that insurance companies weren’t reimbursing people in Nashville because no one had flood insurance. The people of Antioch had been wiped out and you better believe that level of despair has a taste.

The visuals were too bizarre to absorb. Everything seemed like a special effect: a double-wide trailer thrown against a hardware store, a beautiful Victorian split in half, and trees decorated with toilet seats, clothing, and tricycles twenty feet in the air. I’ve attached pictures I took of some of the damage.

I’m not going to talk much about what I did. I only had two hours to give and other people were going to be there all day so I didn’t do much. The house I was working on was being gutted of everything that could grow mold – that meant everything save the 2 x 4s and bricks. It smelled like death, was dirty, and felt like a steam sauna. Basically I scooped, swept, and carried wood and plaster to a debris pile.

I found a Norfolk Naval Base cap in the debris. I couldn’t let them throw it away. I took it to the guy everyone said was an owner or knew the owner. No one could get the story straight. He said to trash it – there had been a whole uniform, but at this moment the family didn’t want to keep it. I proceeded to look for the uniform in the debris. Tossing away military uniforms is tantamount to sin. I couldn’t find it. But I kept the hat. Maybe when the panic subsides I can get it back to the owner.

To physically volunteer in Nashville check out Hands On Nashville www.HON.org. To give to flood relief go to RedCross.org.

They asked for it. I wrote it. They were warned. Ladies and gentlemen – a 12 page play about a cat who might or might not be killing the residents of a small town nursing home. It’s all about perspectives and dying wishes and it’s supposed to be amusing. Click here to read The Reaper to premier at Lake Arrowhead Reps Short Play Festival this fall.

I absolutely did not want to do this. Nope. Not at all. Of course I’m American so I had recommended other people do it, but never intended to do it myself. (I felt all recommend-y after I saw this video of Seun Adebiyi). The reason for the avoidance was pure primal fear. Real fear. The fear of huge needles going through my bones. Marrow donation. Pain on a stick. Or pain on the end of a very long needle to be more accurate.

I mean…didn’t that kid die in A Separate Peace because his bone marrow leaked into his blood? It was something screwed up like that. I hate that book. It damaged me forever. And now I am supposed to let some doctor stick a needle into my hip and pop out marrow. No thank you. You can look elsewhere. I have people counting on me. Or at least cats. I have cats counting on me. Cats that would starve if I didn’t provide them food. And I can’t be weak or sick. Do you know how much I work out? I mean this could seriously put a dent into my schedule…

Would I feel comfortable giving that speech to a kid dying from leukemia? Who I matched perfectly. They don’t deserve to die because I’m selfish. Should I turn down an opportunity to have the rarest of human experiences – to be the perfect match? The perfect match in some way, anyway, is better than forever being singular. I know I don’t match the blood type of the people in my family. Figures. As previously mentioned my blood is extremely rare. So what happens to me? If I were to get sick what would happen to me? What would I say to someone who gave me the excuse speech above?

I’d want to tell them they’re an ass. Which I guess is what I was. So I signed up today. For Be the Match. I get the kit shortly and then I’ll send a swab of my DNA back to be categorized (I’ll write about it when it happens). The site says they don’t have to take marrow and can take stem cells and that the marrow procedure is far less painful than it sounds. I called my M.D. father to make sure they weren’t sweetening the deal. He said the stem cell procedure is virtually painless and if they do take marrow I’ll be sore for a few days. I would be good as new in a few weeks – nothing to whine about.

I can’t say I’m excited about this one because I’m not. I’m just scared. I’m sure the person dying of cancer is more frightened than me so again I’m an ass. In a way both my fear and even the potential pain are a gift. You don’t know what it is to feel safe without fear and you don’t know what health is without pain. So…I guess…bring it.

Update: May 9th, 2010 – The DNA kit came today -(tiny) yeah…  less than enthusiastic.  Sorry.  Still scared. The Kit was easy enough to use.  4 long Q-tips in an envelope.  The same kinda Q-tips used in a pelvic exam – a handy visual for those ladies in the audience.  I was instructed to swallow and then swab (like a pirate) the inside of my cheek with each stick, put them back in the envelope, seal it with a bio hazard sticker I wish I could keep, and drop it back into the mail.  Done.  Did it in 3 minutes.  Easy.  Except I think I forgot to swallow twice.

Do not confuse the title as I have when telling people about this adventure. It’s not trash for teachers or teaching trash or trashy teachers. I’m pretty sure that last one is a movie of sorts. No. Trash for Teaching or T4T is a non-profit, which collects clean and safe cast off materials from the manufacturing process and then repurposes them as art supplies and teaching tools. As their slogan says, “Minimizing Waste. Maximizing education.”

I thought the idea of using unwanted manufacturing items as kindergarten art supplies sounded dangerous, dirty, and reminded me of propaganda videos showing communist children playing on rusty bed springs. Yes, I thought that… until I turned up to help T4T at an Earth Day fair in Redondo Beach, CA. Inside their Trash for Teaching van aka the Treasure Truck (which they drive to schools, birthday parties, libraries, fairs, etc.) is a wealth of industrial debris and let me just say – it’s really really cool stuff. Stuff that can only be described as stuff – not trash. Brightly colored fabric swatches from American Apparel, cardboard tubes the size of flower pots, hundreds of yards of shimmer papers, plastic pieces, cardboard cutouts, and even tiny springs (not rusty). Fun stuff. Stuff I wanted to play with right then.

No time for play though. We had to set up a giant loom made of paper scraps on which we would weave a fish made of torn movie posters. The purpose of the loom was to attract and hopefully trap small children. Small children with parents – they generally come as a package deal. Kathy, the founder of T4T, was trying to get the word out to these parental units and other passing adults about the Trash for Teaching mission. As she said, “We’re hurting right now.” Preach on sister. Through my volunteer wanderings these past two years I’ve definitely noticed that Kathy and her group are not alone in their pains. Call it a recession or depression, money trouble means those at the bottom – non-profits – are hit hard. Compounding the problem in T4T’s home state of California art programs in public education had funding slashed in 2008.

But Trash for Teaching faces one more unique problem as they try to spread the word to reuse in a world of disposable. Namely, that they have the word “trash” in their title. People like me assume that children should not be playing with trash. Yet sitting in their van on Saturday morning it was all I could do not to stack the cast off tubes and cones into a castle.

So if you are a manufacturer – Trash for Teaching will accept your clean and safe cast offs go to the website www.trashforteaching.org for more info.

If you’re a parent hire the Treasure Truck for a birthday party. If you’re a teacher, librarian, principal, or administrator call 323-262-3400 for a day of arts education care of T4T.

1) Computer Recycling  – Help bridge the digital divide by donating your computer to a reuse group like: Computer Recycling Center  or Per Scholas  . They will restore the machine and then give it to a non-profit, group or individual in need of a computer.  If you…Read Full Article