tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-224873982024-02-19T16:16:53.038-08:00Don Ray's Friends and HideawaysThis silly blog might keep Don Ray from going completely insane. Normally, he's very shy. This blog gives him license to interact with complete (and incomplete) strangers and to poke around places others are smart enough to avoid. He hears voices that say, "Psst! Don Ray! Over here!" Others may hear them, but they're smart enough to ignore them.
You can leave comments. Please do. For a text-only alert of new posts, e-mail donray@donray.com. The picture is Don Ray with his wife, Xiao Mei.Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-15237927205104215812021-05-19T12:19:00.001-07:002021-05-19T12:19:29.856-07:00A nightmare training session<p>At the request of family members, I'm recording some of the stories of my strange, life experiences.</p><p>Please feel free to comment below on this first attempt.</p><p><a href="https://www.dropbox.com/s/8tebbw5g2xo35s2/Training%20the%20IRS.mp3?dl=0" target="_blank">https://www.dropbox.com/s/8tebbw5g2xo35s2/Training%20the%20IRS.mp3?dl=0</a><br /></p>Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-87147671459596245252020-08-28T20:02:00.000-07:002020-08-29T13:12:56.578-07:00A mystery monument at Borden and Sayre<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6LSuhlIU7k3asigC47Pqo3VprJRMTiHMsmqNXd_f_-Z_dO2NTQZW0269nScMelu0_Q_JHP07j9Es8ZQ4FIIE-kK8u8GExLkaddsbiIkkvjmbZ_XsWAWq_jt3CpMCw9Y-FvVP/s1600/IMG_5305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6LSuhlIU7k3asigC47Pqo3VprJRMTiHMsmqNXd_f_-Z_dO2NTQZW0269nScMelu0_Q_JHP07j9Es8ZQ4FIIE-kK8u8GExLkaddsbiIkkvjmbZ_XsWAWq_jt3CpMCw9Y-FvVP/s320/IMG_5305.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
I knew what I was looking for, but I hadn't seen it since the time I was a kid. I would visit this location with my Aunt Mildred and my grandfather, C.V. Ray.<br />
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And it looked nothing like it did when we would go there.<br />
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Today, it's a painted pile of bricks protected by a wrought iron fence -- no historical marker or description sign.<br />
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Back then, there were no bricks and no protective fence.<br />
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We would make the trip from Pacoima to the southeast corner of Sayre Street and Borden Avenue in the City of San Fernando.<br />
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When we'd arrive there, we'd often have to wait our turn -- you can't imagine how popular it was.<br />
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My granddad insisted on making the trek at least once each week.<br />
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Sometimes we'd encounter people who had driven there all the way from Long Beach.<br />
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It was that popular.<br />
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Oh, and it was free to anyone -- all they needed was their own bottle.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUVanJj20_0XuvUy_sYcZeOM25XAEfPeMNm6jOzu3H4Ym4n_ewQgjjHXkCCy46vFxVi9HRP2BIv5fgQpcZDcFFak-9_2AvhOK1sALWXIlJYGRR9ZB2hFggGnknAqqtUYBuNFbK/s1600/IMG_5309.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1435" data-original-width="1600" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUVanJj20_0XuvUy_sYcZeOM25XAEfPeMNm6jOzu3H4Ym4n_ewQgjjHXkCCy46vFxVi9HRP2BIv5fgQpcZDcFFak-9_2AvhOK1sALWXIlJYGRR9ZB2hFggGnknAqqtUYBuNFbK/s320/IMG_5309.jpg" width="320" /></a>You see, they came for the spring water -- the tastiest and purist water in all of Los Angeles County.<br />
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It came out of a regular faucet -- the kind you could hook up to a garden hose.<br />
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It was just a pipe coming out of the ground, and it appeared that the grove of eucalyptus trees that grew nearby also thrived on the natural spring water.<br />
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Sometime in the '80s, one of my investigative reporting students at UCLA Extension needed a research project, so I described what you read above and challenged her to get the whole scoop.<br />
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Even then, she needed to track down the oldest of old timers at San Fernando City Hall to be able to piece together the story. The sad news she came back with was that it wasn't what it had been when I was a kid, as it was reported in the story below.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAxmlKvuDYU1pwT0oi7vdk64M_QLsuw8qO-1tro0iAo3hFPo-SGW1hH6-NgjetX4u-xWIXp-njQt-kFil2cgsCgLNwrSKIo7K5ufZJFCjrf76Ng1KbIoVPcQN7JmOV3rNJX6o-/s1600/The_Los_Angeles_Times_Sun__Aug_14__1966_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAxmlKvuDYU1pwT0oi7vdk64M_QLsuw8qO-1tro0iAo3hFPo-SGW1hH6-NgjetX4u-xWIXp-njQt-kFil2cgsCgLNwrSKIo7K5ufZJFCjrf76Ng1KbIoVPcQN7JmOV3rNJX6o-/s1600/The_Los_Angeles_Times_Sun__Aug_14__1966_.jpg" /></a><br />
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In fact, the City of San Fernando embraced the well's popularity and came up with the money to make it a more attractive destination.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIdM7GeNrdMFvAhjxTrNyabIjvxWSawE_K25nzVcjjfIwlB8JEktrP11Td3SwnE6NdhGtea0GGzP7agQQ4iye4R1iJvQexvSeRT4Egk9p5TAppEpPWQm7RijjSfsWDE5Yxnp7X/s1600/Valley_News_Fri__Nov_24__1967_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1202" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIdM7GeNrdMFvAhjxTrNyabIjvxWSawE_K25nzVcjjfIwlB8JEktrP11Td3SwnE6NdhGtea0GGzP7agQQ4iye4R1iJvQexvSeRT4Egk9p5TAppEpPWQm7RijjSfsWDE5Yxnp7X/s640/Valley_News_Fri__Nov_24__1967_.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It wasn't long before people did more than fill their take-home water bottles -- they would wash things there on the brick surfaces.<br />
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The city started getting complaints of mothers washing their babies' diapers there.<br />
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But before the city could act on it, Mother Nature intervened.<br />
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On February 9, 1971, the Sylmar Earthquake caused a break in the pipe that fed the spring water to the four faucets.<br />
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About the same time, new water regulations required all city water to be treated with chlorine -- including this well, Well #4.<br />
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My student reported that the city ordered that the water from the natural spring be routed directly into the existing water system.<br />
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Adios, clean, pure, tasty spring water.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFLtG0_zycLGN_vLukCs8ZPjHLOh1MjvdFMAYSH8TXCbg0fLDkB5s4bPiCyNB0996bxgZUGOFZ-X_7dGyW0VICD22yED_gbeDpedhcjqxrvLlcadlRCD-1NPmKWbzPVSjCZl-O/s1600/The_Los_Angeles_Times_Thu__Apr_8__1971_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="519" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFLtG0_zycLGN_vLukCs8ZPjHLOh1MjvdFMAYSH8TXCbg0fLDkB5s4bPiCyNB0996bxgZUGOFZ-X_7dGyW0VICD22yED_gbeDpedhcjqxrvLlcadlRCD-1NPmKWbzPVSjCZl-O/s640/The_Los_Angeles_Times_Thu__Apr_8__1971_.jpg" width="207" /></a><br />
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But as I stood there looking at the unmarked monument to some of my most pleasant childhood memories, I could close my eyes and remember what it was like when the City of San Fernando offered up its pure, tasty, natural spring water to anybody from anywhere.</div>
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For free.</div>
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Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0Borden / Sayre, Los Angeles, CA 91342, USA34.304661517280969 -118.4397087558197134.302889017280968 -118.44352325581971 34.306434017280971 -118.4358942558197tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-25944896916089104092020-04-15T11:22:00.001-07:002020-04-15T11:22:22.907-07:00History repeats itself down to the breakfast table.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">An open letter to my mother on April 15, 2020</span></div>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Theme"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="List Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="List Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="List Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="List Table 1 Light Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="List Table 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="List Table 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="List Table 4 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="List Table 5 Dark Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="List Table 6 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="List Table 7 Colorful Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Mention"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Smart Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Mom:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m beginning to understand more about you and your
generation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think of you when I make the breakfast – my favorite
breakfast – the way you used to do it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was creamed eggs on toast – or Eggs a la Goldenrod, as
you used to call it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I realized lately is that this dish, as well as so many
others you served us in the ‘50s, was likely a child of the Great Depression. As were your ham hocks
and beans, chipped beef on toast, egg-and-bread-enhanced meat loaf and even
milk-enhanced French Toast -- not to mention the gravies you prepared. In fact, I made three of your gravies this week alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You endured shortages during the Depression followed by
mind-boggling rationing during World War II.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We didn’t know the extent to which you had to endure “inconveniences”
during your younger years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you were around today, you’d probably kick right back
into the “make do” mindset of your youth. And you might smile and nod your head
while we bitch and complain about how the worldwide pandemic is kicking our
asses at home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I realized that, although you never had to live through
a killer pandemic, your parents and grandparents did. You were born just four
years after the end of the last worldwide flu. I can imagine that the stories
they told you about the fear, the isolation, the suffering and the losses they
endured had little meaning at the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their experiences, however, prepared you in a way for the
two major crises you would survive in the ‘30s and ‘40s. And, although we didn’t
realize it, you were preparing us for what we might have to face one day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Did your mother make creamed eggs on toast or gravies that could stretch a meager meal? Did your own
grandparents learn how to take care of their families because their parents
honed the same skills during the Civil War?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And finally, when our children emerge from this
once-in-a-century plague, will they be passing along similar survival skills to
their yet unborn grandchildren?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things were never the same following the Civil War. In fact,
some people are still stumbling over the debris from that horrible conflict. World
War I and the flu epidemic of 1918 gave way to the Roaring 20s – a brief decade
of carefree pleasure into which you were born. The Great Depression came to an end only because of the
outbreak of World War II.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second World War led to another relaxing decade, the
1950s. But human nature – or maybe just OUR human nature – wouldn’t allow the peace
of mind to continue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The cycles repeat each decade but seem to crash every century
or so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will they be eating more gravy and creamed eggs on toast a hundred
years from now?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Regardless Mom, thanks for passing along these great survival skills. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Donnie </div>
</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-67033833713392645072019-08-05T10:38:00.004-07:002019-08-05T10:42:28.901-07:00I understand the mindset of the El Paso shooter because I once wore his shoes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
As with every other Baby Boomer in the United States, I grew
up in fear of the savage invaders that were intent upon raping my mother and
sister.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They drilled us in school – “DROP!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We learned to hit the floor under our desks – instantly --because
we believed that the "enemy," those communist killers, wanted us dead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our president, our parents and other officials demanded that
we comply – for the sake of our own safety and the safety of our communities.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I turned 18, as did hundreds of thousands of my peers,
I couldn’t wait to get my hands on my own assault rifle and kill those invaders
before they could get to my mother and sister.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDbxqMu29AcFYz-Dmh3Gozfcm2Ykoq3AgprGVS2IWIG3LnD-5oPkzJlvW7yhJBh2aNg2eTQWWkCC9ZTJOBGsIWM5UdNmiRIsrsCYY_kGddNFmloBMRiKJQszVmwrDMLpgDSms/s1600/Don+Ray+in+Vietnam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="591" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXDbxqMu29AcFYz-Dmh3Gozfcm2Ykoq3AgprGVS2IWIG3LnD-5oPkzJlvW7yhJBh2aNg2eTQWWkCC9ZTJOBGsIWM5UdNmiRIsrsCYY_kGddNFmloBMRiKJQszVmwrDMLpgDSms/s640/Don+Ray+in+Vietnam.jpg" width="630" /></a></div>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I believed what they were telling me – from the
president on down – and I stepped up to do my duty.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went proudly to Vietnam and used my assault weapon on “the
enemy” – and I was eager to do it for my country, my people and my family.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were other voices out there, but I chose to believe
what my government leaders said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They’re out to get us – we must get them first!"<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My own sister – the one I was trying to protect from those
killers and rapists – tried valiantly to convince me I was wrong.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What did she know about the "enemy" anyway?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the five decades since, I’ve slowly come to understand
that my patriotic pals and I were merely pawns who were sent to kill on behalf
of older, more wealthy Americans who were really interested in preserving and
increasing their wealth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, I can understand how a young man can be brainwashed by
the lies of a president and others.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When our leaders identify the “enemies” and then make it so
easy to arm ourselves with assault weapons, I can understand the El Paso
shooter’s mindset.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He believed that he would die for his country when he
assaulted the “enemy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And do did I!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The problem today is the same as it was in 1967 when I
enlisted – young men are eager to engage in battle against the “enemy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Simply convince the young men that the “enemy” is coming, give them
an arrow, a spear, a slingshot or a sword – or even an assault weapon – and point
them in the right direction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Just as with the “Onward Christian Soldiers” we sang about in church,
we are eager to fight onward.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we’re older – and able to think more clearly, without so
much testosterone flowing – we can begin to realize that corrupt and greedy
leaders are the real enemies.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And without the easy access to weapons of war, their
pawns are useless.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real "enemies" are the people we elect and the powerful wealthy people they serve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They are working for different constituents -- not for you and me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And by the way, students today are again being drilled, but now to protect them from brainwashed young men who believe they're doing the right thing -- with a wink and a nod from their president.</div>
<br /><br />
<br /></div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-47884231806077411922019-06-16T17:56:00.001-07:002019-06-16T17:56:22.515-07:00A important pledge to my family and friends<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h4 style="text-align: left;">
Dateline: Burbank, California, Father’s Day, 2019.</h4>
<div>
I make this pledge to my family today, June 16, 2019, following a most incredible es equally stressful year.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My is not to kill two birds with one stone, but rather, to keep two long-overdue promises — one to my wife, and another to my loyal and too-forgiving friends.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
More than 20 years ago, I promised my bride that I would give her a comfortable life and a bright future. For the past year or so, I promised to my friends that I would, in the form of an autobiography — a book that would pull a string on my life as it relates to fathers.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am pledging to her, to my friends and anyone else who cares that I will have that book written, edited and ready for distribution and sale by Labor Day of this year — and probably much sooner.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Based upon the countless number of people who tell me that they want the book, and the media professionals who assure me that it has legs (people will want to buy it), I have promised my wife that it will generate enough to help us get back on our feet, and will become a continuing support to our later years.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hope that you can see how this book will ensure that I keep both promises.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For those who haven’t been following my life story (and why would you have?), my early childhood had its challenges — most of them at the hands and shouts and insults and abuse if my first father.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When Mom could no longer take her share of the abuse, she divorced him.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When he broke the news to my sister and me, he was thoughtful enough to assure is that he’d be OK — he told us he wasn’t our father.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He even named the two suspects.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He died a couple of years later and probably smiled in his grave as his verbal time bomb would explode and re-explode as I would grow and understand the implications.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was ten, he died, not long after my maternal grandfather in Iowa took his own life. He had been a great father figure to me when we’d go there for the summers.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That same year, Mom remarried, and I spent the next eight years with a stepfather whose own demons would surface. I’m sure it was his demons that brought out his violent tendencies.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today, thanks to years of therapy I understand why I struggled in school with dyslexia, PTSD, and ADHD, as well as learning and reading disorder.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My story will also describe the most remarkable skills I developed on my own to find astoundingly pclever ways to survive in school, in spite of my inability to read well.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I promise that you’ll smile and shake your head when I confess to some of the ways I came up with to survive exams and research assignments.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Those and other perception skills I honed as a child target would provide skills I’d use as an investigative journalist (without any need for cheating).<br />
<br />
I enlisted in the Army to escape my stepfather, and ended up in combat in Vietnam. I know know that it only exacerbated the PTSD that was already a part of me.<br />
<br />
Over the intervening years, I tried and tried to figure out why, in spite of being an award-winning, loyal, honest employee or team member, I never fit in, I’d repeatedly be falsely accused of horrible stuff — stuff I would never do.<br />
<br />
Jobs never lasted very long — I just never fit in, or gained the confidence of bosses.<br />
<br />
But all this time, on my own, with nobody to blow cigar smoke and tell me I couldn’t take on projects I would suggest, I would set out on my own to discover astounding stories.<br />
<br />
I complete some of them, but many of them still sit in boxes awaiting completion as books and documentaries.<br />
<br />
I now wonder if, had there been the right father in my life, I might have learned how complete stuff.<br />
<br />
By the way, I latched on to many perspective fathers in my life — you’ll be astounded when you learn about them, and what happened to them.<br />
<br />
I promise that the true stories and adventures I have to share will enthrall you.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
In the last year, DNA had solved the mystery of who my father really was — and the earth-shattering discovery — 47 years late — that I fathered a boy.<br />
<br />
His two daughters in their 20s are my granddaughters.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, all of these parts of my life didn’t add up to me keeping the promise I made to my bride.<br />
<br />
I’m promising her today, that I will complete this project — and that it will be successful.<br />
<br />
People tell me I’m a good storyteller and above-average writer.<br />
<br />
I hope you’ll stay tuned. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-63008701056003278172019-05-22T12:59:00.000-07:002019-05-22T20:38:09.013-07:00"The Fire" -- a preface to Don Ray's book about his lifelong pursuit of fathers and father figures.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<h2 class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>A fire that continues to burn in my consciousness.</i></h2>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
When I was six, I remember my parents' reaction to this newspaper story. For whatever reason, it had hit close to home for both of them.<br />
<br />
It was a story about a fire that broke out in the Los Angeles home of a woman and her six children. I remember how it described how five of the children either jumped out windows or climbed down the stairs to safety.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>Outside, when their mother made a headcount, her three-year-old was missing -- he hadn't made it out of the burning house.<br />
<br />
The mother went back inside to rescue him, but they both perished.<br />
<br />
The newspaper story said that the father was out of town on business.<br />
<br />
That would turn out not to be true -- I would later learn that he and his wife were separated and were involved in a contentious divorce.<br />
<br />
Her death would render the divorce proceedings unnecessary. <br />
<br />
I had never heard of these people, but it was obvious that they were family friends. In thinking back, I don't remember my parents having had any family friends at that time.<br />
<br />
I could never, however, erase the mental images the story had given me -- images of trying to escape a fire in the darkness of the early morning hours.<br />
<br />
Fires became regular nightmares for me -- in one of them, my mother and sister were focused on shopping for sale items on the top floor of the Broadway Department Store on Fourth and Hill streets in downtown L.A. while a fire was spreading its way toward us.<br />
<br />
They were oblivious, and I couldn't get their attention.<br />
<br />
Instinctively, I would forever, mentally plan the escape route I would use should the smell of smoke set me in motion.<br />
<br />
Later, in elementary school, one of the three or four books I remember reading at the school library was "Famous Fires." I still don't understand why third graders needed to read graphic books about the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire, deadly fires at circuses or theaters, and about people helplessly trapped on burning ships at sea.<br />
<br />
More nightmares.<br />
<br />
The only notable success I had in junior high school was winning the third place price in Burbank's Fire Prevention Essay Contest. The prize they arranged for the winners was a day that would put Disneyland to shame -- a day of climbing the fire engine's extended ladder to the top of the training tower, and then returning to the main fire station where, repeatedly, we were able to slide down the poles that firefighters used to get from their sleeping quarters down to where the trucks were awaiting during a fire alarm.<br />
<br />
After that, on my 10-speed bicycle, I would chase the sounds of sirens so I could follow the fire trucks to the scenes of fires. As a freelance news photographer and video stringer, I shot or recorded scores of fires -- some of them deadly.<br />
<br />
Some of those images still pop up in bad dreams. <br />
<br />
The darkest moment of my year in Vietnam involved witnessing fire take a life. I cannot remove from my brain the smell of burning flesh.<br />
<br />
Please don't ask me about it.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, the tragic fire I read about when I was a child stayed with me.<br />
<br />
I would come to know the family name associated with the fire.<br />
<br />
My mother had met the children's father during World War II when she was taking a city bus to work. He drove the bus. I'm guessing that his love of horse racing somehow clicked with my father's, and they started getting together.<br />
<br />
When I was in high school, I became a casual friend of one of those children who survived the fire, but I don't believe I ever let it be known that I was aware of the fire.<br />
<br />
I guess I should fill in some other important information here. Back when my older sister and I were about seven and nine, our father arranged a "you better sit down kids" talk where he told us that they were getting a divorce. He told us that we'd be living with mother and that we shouldn't worry about us.<br />
<br />
He told us that he wasn't our real father.<br />
<br />
He named a couple of "suspects" -- one of them was the father of those children in the house that burned.<br />
<br />
Last year, I discovered through a DNA match, that bus driver was my real father. He, my mother and my first "father" have all passed on -- so there's nobody living today to provide any details.<br />
<br />
Now, of course, I know that the three-year-old who died in that fire was my half-brother.<br />
<br />
Three of the five half siblings who survived the fire are still alive.<br />
<br />
I'm intentionally not naming anyone in the family because I have absolutely no right to revive tragic memories in their lives -- and it's not that difficult for me to surmise that the existence of me or of my mother is not something they would wish to embrace.<br />
<br />
I'm just guessing, however -- better safe than sorry.<br />
<br />
Most of my friends know about the dozens and dozens of people I've helped over the years, in finding and connecting with their own missing or hidden family members.<br />
<br />
I'm sure that my friends can see the irony here -- and how frustrating it must be to use such self-restraint.<br />
<br />
The book I'm writing will focus not only on the fathers I had, didn't have and wished I had had, but on the challenges I've faced -- and about the astounding ways I learned to compensate -- just to survive.<br />
<br />
It will provide details of some of the most interesting, infamous and inspiring people I've encountered, and about the things I learned from them -- in spite of or in lieu of the fathers that chose not to take on that role in my life.<br />
<br />
I'm writing this book because I've recently discovered that I fathered a child many years ago.<br />
<br />
There's no way that I can go back in time and be the father he deserved -- but at the very least, I can share with him, and my newly discovered granddaughters, what I learned along the way -- mistakes and all.<br />
<br />
You see, that house fire involved their aunts and uncles as well.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-58239874953373851172017-09-16T11:40:00.000-07:002017-09-16T11:40:34.524-07:00A fellow Vietnam veteran gave me a life-changing perspective<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGVzYxU2ecse9GKakQjFK8mS0nNR_xwaPjP0cmZO2fj2YYU1hpiTxXnu-OPRJNPk_cRJ-MInXBprY4oScPWzvWLLzpG5Ab7sjmtyJKqiId8qRwKiK7j8Nnfropr9PzPpSMJMgW/s1600/Don+and+Dog+on+Berm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="209" data-original-width="206" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGVzYxU2ecse9GKakQjFK8mS0nNR_xwaPjP0cmZO2fj2YYU1hpiTxXnu-OPRJNPk_cRJ-MInXBprY4oScPWzvWLLzpG5Ab7sjmtyJKqiId8qRwKiK7j8Nnfropr9PzPpSMJMgW/s200/Don+and+Dog+on+Berm.jpg" width="197" /></a>We both served in Vietnam, but we didn't meet until a few years ago -- the small Vietnam vet group in which Paul participates invited me and Fritz the Sassy Service Dog to join them every Wednesday evening in Burbank.<br />
<br />
What happens in the group stays in the group, but I can tell you that Paul is a wonderful photographer who sees beyond the camera.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HT5VIL7kMX0eWs5cTRSH3aAfZex73FxDa00vi0-ayVwKW4xWDKqIHrm8f2QqAmpB0h25gly1KlmEL68xZ9qTZgzh4DKjZ2SZNrP60F89ILXIS0eR9Pneimh-0z9eOaPVcR5J/s1600/CV+Ray+and+Don+Ray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="308" data-original-width="346" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HT5VIL7kMX0eWs5cTRSH3aAfZex73FxDa00vi0-ayVwKW4xWDKqIHrm8f2QqAmpB0h25gly1KlmEL68xZ9qTZgzh4DKjZ2SZNrP60F89ILXIS0eR9Pneimh-0z9eOaPVcR5J/s200/CV+Ray+and+Don+Ray.jpg" width="200" /></a>Following last week's meeting, he took me aside and gave me a perspective so powerful that it has changed how I see my own life and legacy.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6HT5VIL7kMX0eWs5cTRSH3aAfZex73FxDa00vi0-ayVwKW4xWDKqIHrm8f2QqAmpB0h25gly1KlmEL68xZ9qTZgzh4DKjZ2SZNrP60F89ILXIS0eR9Pneimh-0z9eOaPVcR5J/s1600/CV+Ray+and+Don+Ray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>In the group meeting, I had expressed my envy of others there who smile and laugh when they speak of their grandchildren. They spend much of their time, it seems, doing things with or doing things for the family members they created.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Indeed, I was envious of the legacy they would be passing along in their DNA and in the memories of their children's children. While they gaze into the future, they seem to take pride in what they will have passed along.<br />
<br />
I, on the other hand, was lamenting about having no such visions -- it was all going to end when my life ends.<br />
<br />
Outside on the sidewalk that evening, Paul re-framed everything for me.<br />
<br />
"Don," he said, "you do have a legacy to pass along. Your legacy will be in the stories that you are passing along to everybody.<br />
<br />
"Your wonderful stories are your legacy."<br />
<br />
It took a couple of days for it to sink in, but I soon realized he was right -- and that I do have offspring that will carry my DNA into the future.<br />
<br />
My stories are my children.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEhFy5OUhVQZJLR3OY6SQfQjyV_ldKcwy-MUREwgwc9Jm19NKU3kZsrXrka1a-byTL0IKzCKO7dqZglKEgEcZKdpD_uWuRKkULehntAIIZi-aW8K-6t-G28sCIPVuX4R7x0DLf/s1600/Don+Ray+City+Hall+old+and+new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEhFy5OUhVQZJLR3OY6SQfQjyV_ldKcwy-MUREwgwc9Jm19NKU3kZsrXrka1a-byTL0IKzCKO7dqZglKEgEcZKdpD_uWuRKkULehntAIIZi-aW8K-6t-G28sCIPVuX4R7x0DLf/s1600/Don+Ray+City+Hall+old+and+new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEhFy5OUhVQZJLR3OY6SQfQjyV_ldKcwy-MUREwgwc9Jm19NKU3kZsrXrka1a-byTL0IKzCKO7dqZglKEgEcZKdpD_uWuRKkULehntAIIZi-aW8K-6t-G28sCIPVuX4R7x0DLf/s1600/Don+Ray+City+Hall+old+and+new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>They have names such as "The Vietnam Nuclear Detonation," "Traveling with Larry Flynt," "The Inside Story of Barry Minkow's ZZZZ Best Company," "Saving a Dog's Life in Vietnam," "Breaking the Michael Jackson Child Molestation Story," "Ronald Reagan's Gift Mansion," "Accidentally Greeting Fidel Castro in Managua," "Teaching African Journalists How to Investigate Corruption from the Bottom Up,"<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGJmhIibfuM_cw6xHmWO_VNupavwQAKyhhScZtq_7qFFU6BG59lPUYVzg6qG_GACAV3oLiaMyJq6N5_S2y_C9DSKSrOI_73FVYgA5ZUKcdP0I-Ug1xQ4GZOaT6O9T6sABYHa-/s1600/Little+Donnie+in+first+grade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="202" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGJmhIibfuM_cw6xHmWO_VNupavwQAKyhhScZtq_7qFFU6BG59lPUYVzg6qG_GACAV3oLiaMyJq6N5_S2y_C9DSKSrOI_73FVYgA5ZUKcdP0I-Ug1xQ4GZOaT6O9T6sABYHa-/s200/Little+Donnie+in+first+grade.jpg" width="84" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKsqfQlbxhyApga8OHyk7xjWH9OVXtigjhmCSQ1JiPTQYbBQgvzJUveUFle-wHFzWo3X2Q9iV85Lu8_YKvRkRBUN9mljPD41zCfKHs2EpwtIfGQUSunnIbSBWOIzrlYHbt9B1P/s1600/EHP+Logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEhFy5OUhVQZJLR3OY6SQfQjyV_ldKcwy-MUREwgwc9Jm19NKU3kZsrXrka1a-byTL0IKzCKO7dqZglKEgEcZKdpD_uWuRKkULehntAIIZi-aW8K-6t-G28sCIPVuX4R7x0DLf/s1600/Don+Ray+City+Hall+old+and+new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>"Helping to Free Khadija," "The Spy of Shadow Hills," "Reuniting Adoptees with their Birth Parents," "Homeless in the High Desert," "Fritz the Sassy Service Dog," "A Midnight Copter Ride to Saigon to Save Another Dog's Life," "Inspiring Journalists in Armenia, Azerbaijan, Serbia, Bosnia, Nicaragua, Nigeria, Warsaw, the Ukraine and Malawi," "Inspiring and Empowering Journalism Students Throughout California," "The Mystery of the Spanish Kitchen," "The Endangered History Project," "Uncovering the Jim Jones Lewd Conduct Arrest," "Creating a Newspaper in Spanish -- <i>La Prenza del Mojave</i>," "<i>Diggin' Up Gold on the Old Paper Trail; A Workbook for Investigatin' Folks,</i>" "<i>A Public Records Primer and Investigator's Handbook</i>," "Scores of Oral Histories -- Gifts to the Future," "No School in Burbank Has an Official American Flag," "Traveling Alone in Cuba," "Writing for Ralph Story,"<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzrPcPse1iLVqDapvshTAQWoWxbzh5yxwVVOhM5ozp6Fny73x9m0dlGpER20pJZaQfhIIfjrPI6tZpCe9WUOneR1sS2KNXZKYy9FNI7G-QVmcktMh0QJ-aH5DMJYckHHbMyE3/s1600/Don+Ray+City+Hall+old+and+new.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="934" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSzrPcPse1iLVqDapvshTAQWoWxbzh5yxwVVOhM5ozp6Fny73x9m0dlGpER20pJZaQfhIIfjrPI6tZpCe9WUOneR1sS2KNXZKYy9FNI7G-QVmcktMh0QJ-aH5DMJYckHHbMyE3/s200/Don+Ray+City+Hall+old+and+new.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQO9xw8D9hjK7bdcaRzj6uHZC5PpFuS9SDVvuy3KwOUrWwQN7asycM0wxfYzcP1YPTZs5plrc5Sei5kRtcgRgolLmBMiZ7sO19K1tSfo8iHHNaP-nqa44aVq7ZuvGJADq7Swc/s1600/Vietnam+Don+Ray+on+Bunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="207" data-original-width="206" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQO9xw8D9hjK7bdcaRzj6uHZC5PpFuS9SDVvuy3KwOUrWwQN7asycM0wxfYzcP1YPTZs5plrc5Sei5kRtcgRgolLmBMiZ7sO19K1tSfo8iHHNaP-nqa44aVq7ZuvGJADq7Swc/s200/Vietnam+Don+Ray+on+Bunk.jpg" width="199" /></a>"Don Ray's Dazzle Tour of Los Angeles," "Forensic Fridays," "Story Time Thursdays with Don Ray," "Americans Held Captive in the Philippines by the Japanese during World War II," "Was My Father Really My Father?" "Digging Up the Truth about My Stepfather's Prison Record -- And How it Led to Me Finding Two Stepbrothers Who Would Change My Life," "Don Ray's 103 Privacy Tips," "The No-Questions-Asked Interview Technique," "Don Ray's Investigative Mindset Tips," "D.B. Cooper,"<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBE5M5T6C7AI1eYOjbeT9fnad6fl1vb6ojyEOvB3D-v_Uxf_9WBpkyk4hnrZLCRxLHaLZa05ppNsVHPaOmmP9hzBEsKYNLo5WeF0WCTr6zrXtu_WXAtj4teZ4jewEv_gpKGuOH/s1600/Little+Donnie+on+Cedar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1204" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBE5M5T6C7AI1eYOjbeT9fnad6fl1vb6ojyEOvB3D-v_Uxf_9WBpkyk4hnrZLCRxLHaLZa05ppNsVHPaOmmP9hzBEsKYNLo5WeF0WCTr6zrXtu_WXAtj4teZ4jewEv_gpKGuOH/s200/Little+Donnie+on+Cedar.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJNdRpMqrCsCwuv0edgNHBGwYcFtNjiKBg2_eVX8WLgf_raZI9wtH0lrWmxm_ja2yQyVTBiwHBBE0dMMzCJycp-yS_Z4mGJKaH7o4H-tWAq2bFHTCc7LnuaGQRwdcRyZ-2nLY/s1600/Vietnam+Don+Ray+with+Soc+Trang+Civic+Action+Group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="928" data-original-width="960" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJNdRpMqrCsCwuv0edgNHBGwYcFtNjiKBg2_eVX8WLgf_raZI9wtH0lrWmxm_ja2yQyVTBiwHBBE0dMMzCJycp-yS_Z4mGJKaH7o4H-tWAq2bFHTCc7LnuaGQRwdcRyZ-2nLY/s200/Vietnam+Don+Ray+with+Soc+Trang+Civic+Action+Group.jpg" width="200" /></a>"25 Ways to Deal with #%@* Reporters," "Don Ray Trains Thousands of Law Enforcement Investigators," "Coming to Grips with Child Abuse, PTSD, ADHD and Assorted Learning Disorders," "How I Cheated My Way Through School and Still Learned," "Doris Tidrick at the Wheel," "<i>Checking Out Lawyers</i>," "<i>Without Warning, Diary of a Disaster, The Night the St. Francis Dam Collapsed</i>," "Finding O.J. Simpson's Hidden Property," "The Roy Radin Murder Case -- And How I Traveled with His Killers," "The Years of Serving Dangerously (in El Salvador)," and many other Don Ray creations.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQO9xw8D9hjK7bdcaRzj6uHZC5PpFuS9SDVvuy3KwOUrWwQN7asycM0wxfYzcP1YPTZs5plrc5Sei5kRtcgRgolLmBMiZ7sO19K1tSfo8iHHNaP-nqa44aVq7ZuvGJADq7Swc/s1600/Vietnam+Don+Ray+on+Bunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><br />
My veteran friend Paul awakened me to the urgency of completing many of the projects and stories that have been, patiently, waiting on the shelf for me to get my act together.<br />
<br />The rest of them deserve to be in a book that will inspire others to overcome obstacles and to contribute to mankind in their own ways.<br />
<br />
Thank you so very much, Paul.<br />
<br /></div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-32224451969861126042017-05-27T19:58:00.000-07:002017-05-29T17:14:10.041-07:00Triage for a man in immediate need of my help -- maybe yours as well.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'll call him Carl -- not his real name.<br />
<br />
I promised my new friend I wouldn't share his name or his address.<br />
<br />
He called and left a message for me at the Villa Terraza Restaurant last Thursday evening when I was there telling stories to people -- stories about the place that had once been the Old Vienna Gardens.<br />
<br />
When I returned his call on Friday, he started telling me his problems.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I asked him about the reason he left me a message. It had nothing to do with the book project we're doing or the storytelling session I had promoted on several Facebook group pages.<br />
<br />
"I saw your Facebook page," he told me, "and read that you have PTSD and ADHD, and I thought maybe you could help me."<br />
<br />
It took him about an hour to tell me his situation. It was like no story I'd ever heard.<br />
<br />
Most importantly, I learned that a very shy man with very serious problems had decided to trust me, a stranger, and that I might be one of the only people who could learn the whole story.<br />
<br />
I thought he was right.<br />
<a name='more'></a>I wrote a lot about him in this blog posting, but the details provided made him afraid that someone who knows him might recognize the details, put two and two together and then report him to the authorities for things relating to him being a hoarder.<br />
<br />
So I've removed the rest of this posting.<br />
<br />
He asked me to.<br />
<br />
I obliged him.<br />
<br />
If you're returning to this blog and find that it's different from when I first posted this, you're right.<br />
<br />
You see, when I was a child, a dog followed me home. It was a very nice dog that I would liked to have rescued. But we already had a dog and I know it would be impossible.<br />
<br />
So I climbed a tree in front of our house and waited for the dog to give up on me and go away.<br />
<br />
I think it took an hour, but he finally left -- and I felt sad about that.<br />
<br />
I still feel sad about that.<br />
<br />
I think that the experience with that little dog stayed with me because I'm always ready to help some poor soul (not just dogs) who clearly needs help. I've been burned many times, but I figure it's all part of the life of someone who wants to help people.<br />
<br />
A couple of years ago, I put on a GoFundMe page to raise money to help a woman find shelter and maybe save up enough money to move to another state and make a new start.<br />
<br />
I gave her all of the money that people contributed -- minus the administration fee that GoFundMe takes before they hand over the money. But everything I got went to her.<br />
<br />
Before long, she was telling the local police department that I was stealing her money.<br />
<br />
She had trouble understanding that the website takes a piece of it.<br />
<br />
That was the end of that.<br />
<br />
With regard to "Carl," I turned down people's offers of money for him. Been there. Done that.<br />
<br />
I wrote in this blog the brittle truth about Carl's situation. What I described was the worst I had ever seen. Carl was very unhappy when he read it because he fears that, despite all of my obfuscation, someone who knows him might figure out that it's him.<br />
<br />
So I've taken it down.<br />
<br />
I had asked for volunteers to come to his house this coming Saturday to help clean up his front yard. However, after very lengthy phone calls with him, I fear that I'm only asking for trouble for my volunteer friends and for me.<br />
<br />
Carl has carefully read pretty much every comment that anyone has made about the blog entry I shared to different Facebook groups. He believes that the people who suggested the police should take him into custody for a 5150 mental evaluation are his enemies or just don't like him.<br />
<br />
To the handful of people who said they would show up to help, he has called one of them and asked for help. Frankly, I told him that I wasn't happy having him contact my friends, but he has every right to do that. If I wanted to, I could block him from accessing my Facebook account, but I don't want to do that.<br />
<br />
I heard from some mental health professionals, some law enforcement people and some health experts who educated me, based upon what I had written about him, that he is at a very high risk of major health consequences (both physical and mental) and could very well end up as one of those hoarders whose bodies are discovered among their accumulated trash (i.e. their treasures).<br />
<br />
I care about my new friend, but I'm not able to convince him that he needs more help than I and my friends can give. He's on the verge of having one or more government agencies rescuing him from his house, condemning it and putting him into some kind of a facility.<br />
<br />
He is quick to ask for help, but the help he needs could put the helper's health or life in danger, considering the toxic condition in which he lives.<br />
<br />
He was hoping that I would bring a team of volunteers to his home on Saturday, but I cannot take the responsibility of putting friends' and strangers' health at risk.<br />
<br />
I promised him three things -- and I'll keep the promise.<br />
<br />
1. I promised to remain his friend, even when the hammer slams down on him -- which I believe is inevitable. I told him he could call on me and I'd be someone who would listen.<br />
<br />
2. I promised him I would remove from the blog all of the details I first wrote. I've done that.<br />
<br />
3. I promised him that, if he's in imminent danger of losing his house (or if he just decides to let us doin it) that The Endangered History Project, Inc., or 501(c)(3) non-profit organization, would allow him to store all of his and his father's photos, slides, films, etc., so that they will not be lost. I promised him that he would retain ownership while we kept them in safe keeping.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to drop a dime and report him. I'm not going to give up his location or his identity.<br />
<br />
One thing I AM doing for myself is this: I'm now starting to go through all of the stuff I've collected over the years with the belief that I might use them one day. I'm throwing away or giving away or selling my own clutter.<br />
<br />
You see, there's a hoarder inside of me and I need to take heed of the danger signals I see in Carl's tragic life.<br />
<br />
Last night I had a dream that somehow incorporated the theme of the Charles Dickens story, "A Christmas Carol." The only difference was that, in my nightmare, I faced The Ghost of Hoarding Past, Present and Future.<br />
<br />
</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com4San Fernando Valley, CA, USA34.1825782 -118.4396755999999933.762185200000005 -119.08512259999999 34.6029712 -117.79422859999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-57323509392366242112016-08-31T23:41:00.000-07:002016-08-31T23:41:51.048-07:00Help us learn the truth about the Spy of Shadow Hills<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white;">For more than 80 years folks in and around the San Fernando Valley have been repeating rumors about a man named Auguest Furst.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">He came to California in 1936 and built The Old Vienna Gardens Restaurant on Sunland Blvd. in what's now called Shadow Hills. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPGQHVBDlpfrS1FKNAr-RxZ6oVCVhYgciUxghgnYYnWqkyIzedj-6pCTtQ2KERO-wdGRUekbNWh-DH9QJ8LF6DPigaA8sSIj95ATlhF22PQINFRN-0QR-pE0Di9ARLeWk7edH0/s1600/ViennaGardensforSale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPGQHVBDlpfrS1FKNAr-RxZ6oVCVhYgciUxghgnYYnWqkyIzedj-6pCTtQ2KERO-wdGRUekbNWh-DH9QJ8LF6DPigaA8sSIj95ATlhF22PQINFRN-0QR-pE0Di9ARLeWk7edH0/s400/ViennaGardensforSale.jpg" width="400" /></a> <span style="background-color: white;">Before long, rumors were flying that this Bavarian born man with a thick German accent was a spy for Germany.<span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">August Furst died more than 35 years ago and the old restaurant has changed hands several times.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">But the rumors still persist.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I heard the rumors when I was a kid in nearby Sun Valley, and I heard them again 30 years later.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">That's when I decided to get to the bottom of the rumors.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I got a magazine assignment and did some research, but the magazine folded before I could write the story.<span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">The investigative files sat on my shelf for another 30 years.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">But when a wonderful friend told me in January that he and the new owner of the restaurant (I introduced them to each other) were going to open it as an Italian restaurant, I decided that now was the time to finish the investigation and write a book about it -- :<i>The Spy of Shadow Hills -- Rumors or Reality?</i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">The non-profit I formed a few years ago, The Endangered History Project, Inc.., will be publishing the book in March -- but we need your help raising the money to print the book.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">If you would, please take a look at this <span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #d5a6bd;"><b><a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/donray/the-spy-of-shadow-hills-rumors-or-reality" target="_blank"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" target="_blank">Kickstarter video</a></b></span> </span>and then read all about the project -- and the ways you can help.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">And whether you help out or not, would you please be kind enough to share this with every human being you've ever met? Or at least to your good friends?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Thanks so very much.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/donray/the-spy-of-shadow-hills-rumors-or-reality" target="_blank">Please click here to see the video and read about the campaign</a> </span></span><br />
<br /></div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0Shadow Hills, Los Angeles, California34.250715643905437 -118.3553042227538934.224471643905439 -118.39564472275389 34.276959643905435 -118.31496372275389tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-70570513360043228452016-07-17T12:22:00.001-07:002016-07-17T12:51:44.230-07:00tv<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here's you chance to see Don Ray and Fritz the Sassy Service Dog on the History Channel.<br />
The story is about a particular suspect who I first investigated in 1978. I also talked about the story in dozens and dozens of classes and lectures over the past decades.<br />
D.B. Cooper was that name a man used when he hijacked a plane in 1971 and then disappeared.<br />
I'm posting it here so that my wife's friends will have an easy way to find the video.<br />
If you click on the link below, the video will start moments before they introduce me, Don Ray.<br /> I'm the fat guy in the yellow shirt. Fritz is the dog on the floor.<br />
Enjoy<br />
<a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x4jzuzo_d-b-cooper-case-closed-2016-episode-1-part-2_school?start=1680" target="_blank">Click here to see the video</a></div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-65090932075136939862016-07-10T19:23:00.002-07:002016-07-10T19:26:31.233-07:00Don Ray's Ugly Mug Shows Up on History Channel<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Just in case you read this today, July 10, 2016, I'll be on History Channel's two-part series, "D.B. Cooper -- Case Closed? tonight. It starts at 9 p.m. (8 Central) and repeats at 11 p.m. (10 Central). I think you'll see my small contribution (or at least me talking about it) during the second half of the show this evening, Sunday. I don't think I'll be seen on Monday night's episode (same times), but you'll certainly see the results of my work.<br />
If you're reading this after July 10th, I have a feeling you can watch it on the History Channel's website.<br />
http://www.history.com/shows/d-b-cooper-case-closed<br />
<br /></div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-26579709355164058622016-05-25T12:27:00.002-07:002016-05-25T12:27:34.139-07:00Come one come all to Don Ray's pity party<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This is a whiny, pity me story <br />
<br />
My 8<sup>th</sup>
grade English teacher, Mr. Resnick, took me aside at the end of our
morning class to tell me that I'd have to sit through both of that
day's school-wide assembly.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The auditorium wasn't large enough to
accommodate all of the student body, so they'd repeat it.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
From my seat in the
middle of one of the middle rows, I watched with envy as the “smart”
and “special” students sat on the special bleacher on the stage
awaiting their prizes.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was the Awards
Assembly, and I had dreamed of one day sitting on those bleachers and
being recognized for something I had accomplished.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
One by one, the
smart kids accepted their awards for scholarship, sports, student
government and other stuff.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then Burbank's fire
chief came on stage to announce the winners of the Fire Prevention
Essay contest.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The first place
winner walked proudly from her seat on the stage bleacher to accept
her certificate.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then the second place winner followed to accept
hers.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When he announced
the third place winner, nobody came down to receive the certificate.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He repeated the
name.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Holy shit! It was my
name!</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I had to “pardon
me” past the other students in my row in the auditorium and then
walk down the aisle toward the stage.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I got there,
there was no stairway or anything I could use to get on the stage, so
I hoisted myself up as if I were climbing out of the swimming pool.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
People chuckled.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the fire chief
shook my hand and gave me the certificate, I didn't want to jump back
down into the auditorium and struggle to get to my seat, so I just
walked backstage.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now I understood why
I had to attend both assemblies.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the first
assemble ended, I waited backstage and watched the smart and special
students take a short break and then return to their bleacher seats
on the stage.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2fzcZ6m6uwJxPCFAOJH4EY_U95QjQ0zoZ2F-OxsPylWjX01E9J3L2K7_TGLqK1BkONJpjFavZeP5Kb7lKFhw7XFMxO29B5h8u0E_dp8T77yDDtScna4SFUVfXuKfkOMvvG_kU/s1600/Fire+Prevention+Essay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2fzcZ6m6uwJxPCFAOJH4EY_U95QjQ0zoZ2F-OxsPylWjX01E9J3L2K7_TGLqK1BkONJpjFavZeP5Kb7lKFhw7XFMxO29B5h8u0E_dp8T77yDDtScna4SFUVfXuKfkOMvvG_kU/s1600/Fire+Prevention+Essay.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At least I got my picture in the local paper</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Me? I just hung
around backstage until I heard the fire chief call my name again.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This time, I walked
from backstage, shook hands and walked backstage again with my
certificate.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the second
assembly ended, Mrs. Scarf, the mean drama teacher who ran the
assembly walked up to me and chewed me out.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Young man, why
did you refuse to sit in your assigned seat on the bleacher?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I guess that Mr.
Resnick wanted to ensure that my writing award would be a surprise.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Yes, I felt proud,
but sad at the same time.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the late 1980s, I
had my dream job as an investigative segment producer.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was at
KCBS-TV in Hollywood.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I worked for two of the most dishonest managers
I've ever encountered.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I wouldn't know it until later, but my
immediate manager was having a secret relationship with the young
woman who was our unit's researcher.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He did everything in his power
to convince his corrupt boss that she should replace me and I should
be demoted to researcher.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the news
director called me and my manager's corrupt manager to his office to
tell me that I was being reassigned, I quoted from the “confidential
memo” my lying boss had sent to his lying boss.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I made reference to
his remarks that I had no producing experience.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To make a long story
short, the news director agreed to look at my earlier work (something
nobody there had looked at).</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Afterward he assigned me to produce a
story that would tell the truth about the ZZZZ Best Carpet Cleaning
scandal.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It would be the
first story that told exactly what was going on --- and how the
L.A.P.D. was completely wrong in its claim that the case involved
drug money.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A few months later,
when my lying manager announced that he and the researcher were
getting married, management realized that he had intentionally tried
to do me in.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They ended his contract, broke up our investigative unit
and then announced that the station had to lay off people --- and
that I was the last hired and the first to go.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On my own, I
submitted to the L.A. Press Club the ZZZZ Best story I'd written and
produced.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I entered it in the “Best News Writing” category in
their awards contest. </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I also submitted another story that I had
completed on my own time after my layoff (but before I was officially
released). I entered it into the “Best Investigative Reporting”
category.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Long story short,
both of my submissions won first place in their categories.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was proud to
accept the two awards at their big ceremony, but sad that I won them
only after I had lost my dream job.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Two more wins –
the same sadness. </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lJbf2Ql2-vM" width="420"></iframe><br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today, I learned
that the Azerbaijan Supreme Court ordered the release from prison of
my longtime friend and colleague, Khadija Ismayalova.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
She had been
locked up for a year and a half of her seven-year sentence on bogus
charges.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The real reason they arrested her was because she was
writing stories about the corruption of that country's presidential
family.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A year ago, I was in
Sarajevo, Bosnia, working with a wonderful team of investigative
reporters on the Khadia Project in which we were continuing Khadija's
corruption investigations.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The message was, if you imprison a
journalist, there will be dozens who will continue her work.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Truth be told, when
the project wrapped up last year, the project leader was unhappy with
something I was or wasn't doing.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I failed completely in my attempts
to create a two-way dialog with him, so I left as an outsider.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was delighted a
while back to learn that the Khadija Project had won the most
prestigious award for investigative reporting.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
One of my life dreams
would be fulfilled, while at the same time, I knew it would not be
likely that I would be able to join the team when the investigative
news organization hands out the award next month in New Orleans.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I had gotten over
that sad, pity me feeling until today when I heard the great news
about Khadija's release.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today, I'm immersed
in my own pity party because there's no appropriate place for me to
shout out how proud I am.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've been in this
lonely place so many times in my life.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
What's a difficult-to-get-along-with
misfit to do?<br />
<br />
There's nobody else to blame except me. </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maybe the answer is some form of the a simple phrase.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Grow up! </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-32152789795120437912015-03-29T09:50:00.000-07:002015-03-29T09:50:09.899-07:00Signs of Spring in Sarajevo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Fritz and I have been in Sarajevo for nearly two months, but I've been too busy doing investigative journalism to post to the blog.<br />
This is to celebrate the coming of spring in Sarajevo.<br />
We went out this morning to capture some of the telltale signs. First, we're offering a glimpse of the winter we're leaving behind.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Jd10HRAcxD00D1mKLOKqDkSwlqgfAonEM5PlmbrqB7YvFd7SPv4PA2Giqoh1pMoWjsqitMEopwJMsQgV71DONSAyxCKj8fvFYKslfJONoE4HkL51xoTwHVPfJH7SCHFC1nfI/s1600/Fritz+snow+park+wide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2Jd10HRAcxD00D1mKLOKqDkSwlqgfAonEM5PlmbrqB7YvFd7SPv4PA2Giqoh1pMoWjsqitMEopwJMsQgV71DONSAyxCKj8fvFYKslfJONoE4HkL51xoTwHVPfJH7SCHFC1nfI/s1600/Fritz+snow+park+wide.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2RVXoPz95hD3Ul2GioG0B7hqiscfye8BEi9IR3AWG3j5LTRQgg8DC_bDGLStYUAV1aLq-JCYZM_3hH7RurfYLDxZ9tARIUZyuAnEBD-C243ZKJUii3qIdS2WejUneCZM3Feu/s1600/Fritz+head+shot+snow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2RVXoPz95hD3Ul2GioG0B7hqiscfye8BEi9IR3AWG3j5LTRQgg8DC_bDGLStYUAV1aLq-JCYZM_3hH7RurfYLDxZ9tARIUZyuAnEBD-C243ZKJUii3qIdS2WejUneCZM3Feu/s1600/Fritz+head+shot+snow.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaw_jhdBRLbOoRVb0HZ9t_eh5Aylf3cWGW38s0A4rEaFOOKncK83K80SB415vBx_bcRQDIqq5r8Po6l9eK52M6tWDtS-oNyE-7aktFS49T2hdIrF_eBUdIimmHYgCn7ytOgNQ/s1600/Shoes+in+the+snow-001.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVaw_jhdBRLbOoRVb0HZ9t_eh5Aylf3cWGW38s0A4rEaFOOKncK83K80SB415vBx_bcRQDIqq5r8Po6l9eK52M6tWDtS-oNyE-7aktFS49T2hdIrF_eBUdIimmHYgCn7ytOgNQ/s1600/Shoes+in+the+snow-001.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2RVXoPz95hD3Ul2GioG0B7hqiscfye8BEi9IR3AWG3j5LTRQgg8DC_bDGLStYUAV1aLq-JCYZM_3hH7RurfYLDxZ9tARIUZyuAnEBD-C243ZKJUii3qIdS2WejUneCZM3Feu/s1600/Fritz+head+shot+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>Fritz took to the snow right from the start. He loved to romp in it and dig down deep into it.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAkTfme1FENL4ijEcNDwmOAziI-pIWVQ1QfonSVRC3k4vzsdZGdi7pPG1i9rLzwH9BRAHI0GtSBvoTI-gipkAJampXMC20LE47M6igsIqmXWMxMLKxqj9BhsMDAZBqH1M0f1w/s1600/Signs+of+Spring+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCAkTfme1FENL4ijEcNDwmOAziI-pIWVQ1QfonSVRC3k4vzsdZGdi7pPG1i9rLzwH9BRAHI0GtSBvoTI-gipkAJampXMC20LE47M6igsIqmXWMxMLKxqj9BhsMDAZBqH1M0f1w/s1600/Signs+of+Spring+2.jpg" height="320" width="319" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbT9yXrnIKcrHjYAM6caZ8j0uPCFhacEo2Q1U9yPO64eXx79HOyGDQ3rmKgIvqJxClHGv-o36PyyvkFwiF7xmSDGYdTx7SX_EcCs_QvdjIJwx1_yzs4tetv7dbGANYWZ-3EpNV/s1600/Signs+of+Spring+6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbT9yXrnIKcrHjYAM6caZ8j0uPCFhacEo2Q1U9yPO64eXx79HOyGDQ3rmKgIvqJxClHGv-o36PyyvkFwiF7xmSDGYdTx7SX_EcCs_QvdjIJwx1_yzs4tetv7dbGANYWZ-3EpNV/s1600/Signs+of+Spring+6.jpg" height="178" width="200" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_OESovzOytixyGkPy1fQmvoO81C0HbKZNQSyxbcEfTdek6PnVL8sBYFPgNRh5pvB-9xo6S8KXv5sc41Gi7SX18YsqORSjAcQFwtDoD1xh8Rm5Mq_hcfkVJ8ozDZhO8ho3Pry/s1600/Signs+of+Spring+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_OESovzOytixyGkPy1fQmvoO81C0HbKZNQSyxbcEfTdek6PnVL8sBYFPgNRh5pvB-9xo6S8KXv5sc41Gi7SX18YsqORSjAcQFwtDoD1xh8Rm5Mq_hcfkVJ8ozDZhO8ho3Pry/s1600/Signs+of+Spring+3.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
Once the snow finally melted away, the trees, shrubs and flowers came back to life.<br /><br />I don't know if it was because the sun started rising in the sky each day or because the temperature starting rising.<br />
<br />
Maybe they have their own seasonal alarm clock.<br />
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It's nice to know that the people buried in this city cemetery are still pushing up daisies after all of these years.<br />
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We headed east toward Old Town Sarajevo. Fritz enjoyed meeting people along the way, but he was more interested in meeting creatures of his own species.<br />
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The warm sunshine was enough to lure people outside so they could just soak it up.<br />
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Street vendors didn't do well during the winter. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7wPXw9C7fuiljitPR3A2vD3GLPqwkJG5Wg0g1nmtsHqAnLuTIq6BgJJaLtzsU9jUgd8TzRdPrAEb22RBk1Ju8FxxT3ZLbX0xwwwn6XB0o9Bu1oJ5pup-qXMdSduVpDiP1mfgT/s1600/Signs+of+Spring+18.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7wPXw9C7fuiljitPR3A2vD3GLPqwkJG5Wg0g1nmtsHqAnLuTIq6BgJJaLtzsU9jUgd8TzRdPrAEb22RBk1Ju8FxxT3ZLbX0xwwwn6XB0o9Bu1oJ5pup-qXMdSduVpDiP1mfgT/s1600/Signs+of+Spring+18.jpg" height="371" width="640" /></a></div>
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Fritz and I looked watched this old man for a long time.<br />
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Every so often people would hand him a coin or two.<br />
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It made me wonder how he made ends meet during the winter when it's not as easy to get people to take their hands out of their pockets to hand him money. <br />
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Even though the coming of spring is about renewal, it's clear that in Sarajevo, people are still struggling.<br />
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Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-66643643548011122612014-12-30T13:37:00.001-08:002014-12-30T13:37:41.074-08:00Our beloved neighborhood 'recluse' is getting treatment for serious burns<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This post is the first of what will be regular updates to the condition and situation of Edward Lattner, who police and firefighters rescued Monday from his burning home in Burbank, California.<br />
Please see the earlier post for details from yesterday. And please consider subscribing to, sharing and commenting on this blog so that you'll get automatic updates.<br />
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Ed's lifelong friend (consider him a brother), Louis Dow II, got word in Florida from Ed's neighbors as the fire trucks were arriving yesterday (Monday) morning. He says he rushed to the airport for the first flight to California, and he's been at Ed's side or looking after Ed's house since he arrived. That's Louis in the photo.<br />
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He told me and other concerned neighbors that Ed is heavily sedated at West Hills Hospital's Burn Unit with serious burns mostly on his hands, arms and head. The pain was too much for him.<br />
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"They're treating him really well," Louis said. "He''s got a great team of doctors." He says the hospital is providing him with lodging while he's looking in on Ed.<br />
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The good news, Louis said, is that Ed is going to live. However, he'll be hospitalized for a long time. Tomorrow (Wednesday) the doctors will begin skin grafts. They'll also put a scope down into his lungs and also monitor the condition of his kidneys and heart.<br />
<br />
The bad news for Ed is that it's clear that he'll never again get to live in the house he's occupied all of his 77 years. His parents built the house in 1937. He's lived there by himself since they died.<br />
<br />
Louis asked me to say "thanks" to all of my neighbors and friends who have offered to help. He will be packing up and removing the last of Ed's things from the hours -- neither the house nor Ed are in any condition for occupancy. The fate of the house is up in the air. There are family obstacles someone will need to address. If anybody has reason to speak witth Louis, he says I can share his contact information with them directly.<br />
<br />
Ed has been a fixture in the neighborhoods surrounding his house on South Griffith Park. For decades, people have watched Ed walk deliberately -- in short, staccado steps with his head aiming just low enough to avoid eye contact with passersby.<br />
<br />
I've talked with him more than a dozen times when my dogs and I pass him on the sidewalk. The conversation has never advanced beyond a reluctant-sounding "Hello."<br />
<br />
Louis promised me he's going to provide some photos of Ed --- and he's going to keep me (and other neighbors) up to date on the quiet man's situation.<br />
<br />
Again, it would be great if you would subscribe to this blog and receive notices when I post an update or something new.<br />
<br />
Thanks for reading this far. Give me any suggestions you may have.</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-30338532249519452662014-12-29T13:49:00.002-08:002014-12-30T13:07:07.938-08:00A recluse with so many friends in his time of need.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
(Updates will be in a new blog postings. Click on the blog title --Don Ray''s Friends etc.-- to navigate to newer postings)<br />
Burbank Policer Officer Brent Fekety responed to the 911 call from Ed Lattner's neighbors this morning.<br />
His house was on fire.<br />
The nearby engine and rescue ambulance from Fire Station 15 were across town doing a training exercise, so it would take a couple of minutes longer for Engine 11 to arrive from Third and Orange Grove.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcKAt-VNcflCzcg0KLV5Qbv6YNuqNLBql7Mlfx0EIfhdGp-k0iC73qBYzY6sIMxjgB0WjBLqeXpJDrjq0ZLbcmNsEQJYghaeN8yL9xBfwIKi-569Bmj5Pb3e3xeU4xdtZst2d7/s1600/1229141025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcKAt-VNcflCzcg0KLV5Qbv6YNuqNLBql7Mlfx0EIfhdGp-k0iC73qBYzY6sIMxjgB0WjBLqeXpJDrjq0ZLbcmNsEQJYghaeN8yL9xBfwIKi-569Bmj5Pb3e3xeU4xdtZst2d7/s1600/1229141025.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Officer Fekety went inside the burning house at 326 S. Griffith Park Ave. (just around the corner from our house) and pulled Ed from the flames -- but his clothes were still on fire.<br />
Firefighters arrived moments later and found Ed breathing but suffering from burns. They rushed him to Providence Saint Joseph Medical Center.<br />
Neighbors gathered outside his house where his sofa, his melted TV and some other furniture were on the lawn --- not far from where the singed clothes they had cut off of him lay.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn60v1OqMtsI-D9sBlI6N4zjQcHWi1RjMnpPkUTeuewBRGUvkRi8rD8lGamMwCkDpuwxEvaxHuTFuMy1pxe-k_ipFZFC5apJ52hangdLrEN-jot3GkndFSzZXXofzJCuwm1S9J/s1600/IMG_20141229_133910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn60v1OqMtsI-D9sBlI6N4zjQcHWi1RjMnpPkUTeuewBRGUvkRi8rD8lGamMwCkDpuwxEvaxHuTFuMy1pxe-k_ipFZFC5apJ52hangdLrEN-jot3GkndFSzZXXofzJCuwm1S9J/s1600/IMG_20141229_133910.JPG" height="100" width="320" /></a></div>
Everyone loves the elderly recluse --- even though he rarely spoke more than an obligatory "hello" when people would pass the slightly hunched-over, slim man in the same dark jacket when he would walk around the neighborhood.<br />
He was always walking --- regardless of the weather.<br />
And everyone knew where he lived. To strangers, the plain house in an upper-middle-class neighborhood seemed to be abandoned.<br />
The lawn was always in need of water, a good mowing and edging. There were no plants outside, except a tree near the curb --- a tree that had unkempt bushes growing without maintenance.<br />
There was no car in the driveway and nothing but some seemingly unused city trash containers in front of the detatched garage.<br />
No signs of anyone living there.<br />
At night, the place seemed to be completely dark --- nothing to see behind the always-drawn shades. If you stood on the sidewalk for a while at night, however, you could eventually distinguish a trace of light through the edge of a window -- a glow that looked different from the reflection of the street lights.<br />
Neighbors say that his parents built the house back in the '30s and Ed has never lived anywhere else. His folks died quite a few years ago and Ed stayed in the house.<br />
"He's always been a recluse," one neighbor told me.<br />
They were trying to piece together his story. They say he has a half-brother living out of state --- far away. Word has it that he they tried to get Ed to go there, but Ed refused.<br />
"If I go with you," a neighbor quoted him as saying, "you'll sell my house and take all my money."<br />
As Fritz and I walked back home, I encountered the parking enforcement woman. The minute I told her that the house that burned belongs to the old man who is always out walking, she knew who I was talking about.<br />
Everyone would see him on his daily and evening walks.<br />
Everybody is fond of the old man in dark clothes who walks with his head down --- even though he believes he has no friends.<br />
That can happen to recluses.</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-34273052566847496072014-10-01T07:24:00.000-07:002014-10-01T07:24:27.002-07:00The elephant outside your school.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Orlando Sentinel Photo</span> </div>
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California’s
legislature has proven again that,
when it comes to the environment, it’s nothing short of progressive,
but within limits. It caught the attention of the nation’s media by passing a
law that will forbid supermarkets — and eventually smaller stores and
pharmacies — from stuffing groceries and other items into single-use plastic
bags.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The purported issue is the harm that petroleum-based bags do
to the environment. The bags stubbornly refuse — for decades or even centuries —
to deteriorate in landfills. That means Poochie’s poop may stay so fresh that future
archeologists will know more about what dogs ate than we did back in the 21<sup>st</sup>
Century.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Don’t look now, but it also forces supermarkets and their
cousins to provide a paper
alternative — for a fee, though, of course. If you hear them complain in
public, listen for their laughter on the way to the bank.</div>
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<br /></div>
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If petroleum leeching into the environment is the issue,
however, why not take simple and easy steps to reduce the amount of poisonous
garbage that cars and SUVs spew into our air every weekday morning and
afternoon? It’s pretty easy to
recycle plastic bags, but there’s no way to recover the millions of gallons of
gasoline mommies and daddies waste every day when they drive their kids to
school.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
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“Why back in my day, we walked to school,” I can hear many
of us say. “We marched through six feet of snow — and it was uphill both ways!”
That daily exercise may have been one of the reasons old farts are still around
today to reminisce. And the time us fogeys spent socializing with our
schoolmates along the way helped us socialize a lot better than what takes
place in the backseat of the family’s Ford Explorer.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It would be easy to speculate that the oil companies are not
going to discourage the modern meme — they know how it enhances their profits. No, the culprits
are the parents who choose to believe that walking to school is dangerous. They
watch the so-called news. That predator
back in East Orange, New
Jersey, could be hiding in the bushes around the corner in Burbank, Calif.
“Times have changed,” they’ll tell you. “Times have changed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s bull crap, I say. I believe that it’s more about
keeping up (read that as “completing”) with the other parents in the my-kid-is-more-special-than-yours-is
competition. Everyone knows that the best thing they could do for their kids is
to encourage them to get exercise. Heck. American kids are fatter than they’ve
ever been and the skyrocketing cases Type II diabetes will shorten their lives.
Yes, it’s likely you will live have a longer lifespan than your kids will.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’d support a campaign to encourage the nearly lost art of
walking to school. Police are suggesting that communities agree to no-drive
zones within two blocks of schools. The idea is that parents could drop off
their kids fairly close to the school — and pray
that that pervert won’t snatch them up.</div>
</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-15387415997529655562014-09-28T18:28:00.002-07:002014-09-28T18:28:51.638-07:00Alone and happy at an indoor picnic.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHsu3uATJ42jWVBp9I9LDeaGGmRkVbpyo4fLYFmIyidD74yXEVCoEMfLu5lXI9cDfcJ3otJuxkBaZCunHt33WAKHd7B7J8yxgU4XfbtONXAAh9EZsCXIvTjXPN91nkIbHTyUu/s1600/Hometown+breakfast.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHsu3uATJ42jWVBp9I9LDeaGGmRkVbpyo4fLYFmIyidD74yXEVCoEMfLu5lXI9cDfcJ3otJuxkBaZCunHt33WAKHd7B7J8yxgU4XfbtONXAAh9EZsCXIvTjXPN91nkIbHTyUu/s1600/Hometown+breakfast.jpeg" height="166" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three revelations came to me this morning when I went for
breakfast at Burbank’s
Hometown Buffet.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first was that it had all the makings of a picnic in
just about any Los Angeles
County park.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second revelation was that it’s possible to be in a
restaurant, with my back to the crowd, with screaming kids around and not have
a PTSD attack of paranoia and panic.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The third revelation was more of a confirmation of a
definition of “happy” that I had stumbled upon on Friday morning during a
counseling session.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It would take me a while to figure out the second
revelation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The third one came to me when after I left and was driving
to my office.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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The first one became obvious fairly quickly — only because I
was alone, I was in no hurry, and I took the time to observe things.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
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I sat at a table for four facing the soft-serve machine and
the syrups and toppings to its left — it’s where most of the action was taking
place.</div>
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The first observation what that I was one of the only Caucasians
in the restaurant — the rest was a delightful salad of Latinos, Asians, Blacks
and South Asians.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The accents bounced melodically from table to table.</div>
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The first to visit were an Asian mother and her daughter,
who was about 12 and had Down Syndrome. Mother enthralled me when she
oh-so-patiently stood back while the girl carefully operated the lever while it
filled the cone and swirled the vanilla as it rose to a drooping peak. If
Mother’s eyes had met mine, I was ready to tell her what a lucky child she had —
lucky to have such a caring mom.</div>
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When I was waiting for my turn at the sausage at the buffet station,
a 12-year-old Latino asked his seven-year-old sister how many pieces of molded
hash brown potatoes she wanted. As she said, “Two,” he shook his head like a
little father and gently corrected her.</div>
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“Only one, Mija.” No argument would follow.</div>
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At the table to the left of mine, a father and his
four-year-old son got up. “You stay here while we get some food.” I didn’t turn
my head. From the periphery, I thought he was talking to his wife. Later, when
she spoke in your young Spanish accent, I realized she was his daughter.</div>
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“I’ll be twelve in a couple of months!” She was already
talking about her quincienera celebration that would follow in three years. She
asked him if he could take her to Hawaii.
Since Mother wasn’t there, I thought maybe he had custody for the weekend.</div>
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<br /></div>
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One thing for sure is that he was delighted to be present with his children.</div>
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Right about then a giant of a barrel-chested man in his 40s
rounded the corner caressing his tiny baby up against his cheek. As they passed
to my right, he planted a smooch so loud that everyone could hear it.</div>
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Right behind him — but unrelated — was a teenager with one
of those soft casts on his right ankle. His sweatshirt was contradictory — “Fullerton
Wrestling Champ.” I knew there was a story in there somewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Pretty soon, the Asian mother was heading for the exit when
she turned back and realized her daughter was eating ice cream from the bowl
with a spoon as she walked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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“Put that down,” Mother said — almost impatiently but not
quite. “You can’t take that with you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Everyone was in holiday spirit, even though it was just a
Saturday morning breakfast. That’s when it donned on me that it felt as we were
at a park. Even when I was a kid, I had observed that ethnic families made of
the vast majority of picnickers — maybe even 95 percent of them. I had always
figured that money had something to do with it. I had thought that maybe the
white families were more likely to spend lots of money at theme parks.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But later, I came to realize that many of the white folks living
in Southern California had migrated from “back
East” and, as a result, were lacking a large, local extended family. Maybe the
foreign immigrants came with entire families.</div>
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Regardless, Hometown Buffet had somehow took on the
qualities of picnics in the park — like the picnics I had would see when I
played football with my friends. We would chase the errant ball into groups of
people speaking other languages.</div>
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And, all too often, someone would send us out with a barbecued
drumstick, a tamale or seasoned beef or chicken on a wooden skewer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most important was the love that filled our eyes, our ears
and our hearts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s what I was feeling this morning at Hometown Buffet.
It was an indoor picnic, and, even though I was alone, I didn’t feel lonely or
sad — I felt like I belonged there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was sitting and contemplating when something surprised me. Two little girls behind me started
screaming in joy. The fact that it didn’t startle me at all is what surprised me. Any other time, I would involuntarily
jump at the loud noise — especially the shrill screams of kids. This time,
however, it didn’t bother me a bit.</div>
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<br /></div>
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What was different?</div>
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<br /></div>
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I finally figured it out — since I was there alone, there
was nobody with me that I instinctive had to protect.
I wasn’t on guard. I realized that I was as comfortable there as I had been,
traveling alone, on a Trés Estrellas de Oro bus from Tijuana to Ensenada — replete
with kids laughing and crying and even sometimes falling asleep on my lap, as
if I were their father. The bus was transporting love as well as people (and an
occasional rooster or hen).</div>
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<br /></div>
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Looking back, it was that surrounding atmosphere of love
that made the breakfast so enjoyable. I had arrived under a cloud of sadness,
but when I left, I was strikingly happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Only later did I remember the off-the-cuff definition I had
given to my counselor on Friday morning. It seemed to ring true.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Happiness is when you can give love to people and feel
their love in return.”</div>
</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-16731558567595877992014-07-02T15:05:00.000-07:002014-07-02T17:06:48.131-07:00A teacher's lessons --- lessons that last a lifetime<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Les Bruckner, Former Burbank High Teacher</span></b></span></td></tr>
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<tr align="center"><td class="tr-caption"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Jerry Bloom, Former Burbank High Student</span></b></span></td></tr>
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Here's absolute, living proof that teachers can make a difference.<br />
The wonderful folks at the Santa Clarita Sunshine Rotary Club invited me to give a short presentation today. Great people.<br />
I had the pleasure of meeting Salvation Army Ministry Leader Jerry Bloom. He had recently moved to the area after doing the organization's work for many years in Ventura.<br />
During my talk, I mentioned that I always hated history when I was in school, but learned to love it later. <br />
When I was done speaking, he told me that he also hated history, but he had a teacher who made it come alive for him.<br />
"I went to John Muir Junior High School in Burbank," he said, "and then to Burbank High."<br />
What a wonderful coincidence, I told him. "So did I!"<br />
"My history teacher at Burbank High changed my life," he said. "His name was Mr. Bruckner."<br />
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I smiled, nodded and told him that Mr. Bruckner had also been my government teacher.<br />
I had a feeling I knew what he was going to say next.<br />
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"He had been a football coach," Jerry said. "He was a tough guy --- a big guy. He could be assertive.<br />
"One day I walked into his class and he took me aside. He told me that he had seen me hanging out with the wrong friends. He said to me, 'You need to find a new set of friends!'"<br />
Jerry says he told the teacher that he was very capable of picking his own friends, thank you.<br />
"When class was over I was standing against wall. He came up to me and put his finger on my chest<br />
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"He said, 'No! I'm going to pick your friends for you! You're hanging out with the wrong friends!'"<br />
Jerry said everything changed for him that day.<br />
Jerry's dad was a minister in Burbank, he says. Jerry admits that being a preacher's kid turned him into a bit of a rebel.<br />
"But somehow, I wanted to earn Mr. Bruckner's respect. I began to think twice about who I picked as a friend," Jerry said. "I realized that it was important to pick the right friends. I wanted him to see me the right way.<br />
"He turned my life around."<br />
Many years later, Jerry says he ran into Mr. Bruckner at Don's Restaurant on Glenoaks in Burbank. He approached his old teacher to thank him for the influence he had had on him when he was a sophomore in high school.<br />
"I don't think he recognized me," Jerry said, "but he knew what I was talking about. I'm sure he touched a lot of students over the years."<br />
I knew that Jerry was right about Mr. Bruckner. I've heard from two of my classmates who remembered Mr. Bruckner as someone who you didn't mess with --- but someone who, at the same time, earned their respect. That was how it was with me.<br />
When I got back to my office, I called Mr. Bruckner's son, Scott. When I told him about the wonderful encounter I had had with another of his dad's students, he wasn't surprised. Scott said that there were many former students who, years later, went out of their way to thank his father.<br />
Mr. Bruckner is 96 years old and lives in a care facility. He has trouble remembering things.<br />
However, it's clear that there are more than a few of his students who won't forget him.<br />
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Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-13050587796001598652014-06-20T21:14:00.001-07:002014-06-20T21:14:51.907-07:00Big Mike loves his job and it shows.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Big Mike" Ledesma has immersed himself in his job and history.</td></tr>
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There's no cell phone reception where Mike Ledesma works in the bunker-like basement of the Los Angeles County Recorder's office in Norwalk, California. Only the most determined, hard-core researchers, title searchers or investigators find their way down there. Big Mike, as people call him, is part of a close-knit mini-team that watches over the oldest of the old maps and deeds and other documents people have brought in over the past couple of centuries --- brought in to make sure there's a permanent copy on file in case something happens to the original.<br />
Today, he perked up when I came in -- I was giving a one-on-one public records orientation tour to a talented 20-year-old kid, Jayden Fishein, who had decided that a summer break from college should still include some learning.<br />
Before I could even introduce Jayden, Big Mike was already telling me about the cool stuff he had discovered in the cavernous collection of index books, documents, microfilm, maps and boxes. He explained to Jayden that he realized that he was surrounded by so much history that he felt compelled to do research on his own when he had the time.<br />
Then he told us proudly about a PowerPoint presentation he had recently shown to staff members and management. It was about the history of Chavez Ravine.<br />
"I'm a big Dodger fan," he said, "and I kept hearing people refer to Dodger Stadium as Chavez Ravine." He said he decided to learn more about that particular ravine, but he discovered that there are ravines in the area with other names. He rattled off a list of other ravines and then told us about what he had discovered about what had once occupied the ground where the the pitcher's mound is now.<br />
When he told me that it was the site of the first Jewish cemetery in Los Angeles, I started to correct him. I knew where it was -- it was down the hill behind the old Naval Reserve Center. I've shown the obscure historical marker to many people. But Big Mike cut me off.<br />
"They moved it," he said. "They moved it a long time ago. I'm talking about it's original location. It's where Dodger Stadium is now!"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jayden Fishbein caught the research bug.</td></tr>
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All I could say was, "Mike, I hope you'll share a copy of that PowerPoint presentation.<br />
<br />I couldn't imagine that Mike could top the story of the cemetery, but he did. He looked at Jayden and said, "Do you want to see something really interesting?"<br />
I answered for the kid. "Of course he does!"<br />
Big Mike pushed his chair back from the counter, bent down and came up with a smile on his face and a big cardboard box.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Abel Stearns' Cattle Brand</td></tr>
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"Look at these," he said.<br />
It was a box filled with pieces of old leather. Right away, I could see that each of them proudly wore a cattle brand. Some were shaped like heads of cattle, or like the ears from steers. And some of them had writing burned or etched into them. They were what cattle ranchers brought to the county office so that they could register their ranches' brands.<br />
I couldn't wait to get my hands on them. The writing was hard to read on most of them, but then I recognized a name -- the name of the man who was once owned more cattle ranches than just about anyone in Southern California. I was the signature of Abel Stearns. Everybody who has studied Los Angeles history knows about Abel Sterns.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQK3znrkCxsEQyKvnCLy6UrKk9Qp1B3uw2GQSN5-RxXfcNHSnwipvPxeDb7lzn4UR4Tt0KSbCO83XXgaD_1f6rM82YLa4KzY9z2DU4C3CUmv9n1PQf0_UpzyjXh30GJeQ3dudf/s1600/Abel+Stearns+up+close.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQK3znrkCxsEQyKvnCLy6UrKk9Qp1B3uw2GQSN5-RxXfcNHSnwipvPxeDb7lzn4UR4Tt0KSbCO83XXgaD_1f6rM82YLa4KzY9z2DU4C3CUmv9n1PQf0_UpzyjXh30GJeQ3dudf/s1600/Abel+Stearns+up+close.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a>I was in cowhide heaven.<br />
Then Leonard, a longer-time employee in the office plopped a microfilm cassette into a viewer and said, "I found the book they used to register the brands."<br />
Even though I was determined to complete some other important research, I couldn't take my attention away from the cowhide brand registers.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENP4UVdZmbuXY6GkHumTIF1l1G-A8TwKP93sriNLzLDQJcvgWK89k9H6xkuYW-PmG-WQ6p_Ys7THu6TkygOWwhWL-G4hv9gi7ipDyw4IXWWPX5eV0WWHDe4HlgWKyOudmSrZ-/s1600/Cattle+Brand+microfilm+image.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhENP4UVdZmbuXY6GkHumTIF1l1G-A8TwKP93sriNLzLDQJcvgWK89k9H6xkuYW-PmG-WQ6p_Ys7THu6TkygOWwhWL-G4hv9gi7ipDyw4IXWWPX5eV0WWHDe4HlgWKyOudmSrZ-/s1600/Cattle+Brand+microfilm+image.jpg" height="400" width="293" /></a>Now I'm already trying to figure when I can get back there to see if I can match some of the brands with the images they have on microfilm.<br />
This could keep me busy for a long time.<br />
Can you imagine how cool it would be to work with Big Mike, Leonard and the others down there?<br />
There's nothing like the beautiful smell of archives.<br />
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Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-88457795046388872342014-06-17T17:34:00.003-07:002014-06-18T10:02:19.350-07:00Farewell to a Vietnam veteran who showed others how to live.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
An update: Some corrections to yesterday's post -- plus a wonderful response from Maureen Gerwig, Mike's widow. Her response is at the bottom. <br />
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From the tidbits I had heard about Mike Gerwig from his wife, Maureen, it's clear that they were both determined to squeeze out every ounce of adventure life had to offer. During his memorial service today at the Riverside National Cemetery, a heavily-laden Air Force C-17 transport jet circled over again and again from March Air Reserve Base, just across the freeway, as young pilots practiced touch-and-go landings.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4D6bdkStSfYc9vNwY7_M_2eGnE9xe-zaEtvQQEljmpM0L-8nAWimPDqq6KayJVx3KeioH_DiR0Z5EVLz4gOdNWFCdeQ7kP7XL31FWM50o8cHxDn2Z_enRHyvsb6ag4WfGibt/s1600/Maureen+Gerwig.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>It reminded Maureen that they had first met, some four decades ago, while skydiving out of nearby Perris Valley Airport. It's ironic that, back then, they could have looked down and seen the very spot where she would say "goodbye" to him for the last time. When they fell out of the sky alongside each other, you see, they also fell <i>for</i> each other.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4D6bdkStSfYc9vNwY7_M_2eGnE9xe-zaEtvQQEljmpM0L-8nAWimPDqq6KayJVx3KeioH_DiR0Z5EVLz4gOdNWFCdeQ7kP7XL31FWM50o8cHxDn2Z_enRHyvsb6ag4WfGibt/s1600/Maureen+Gerwig.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a>They would travel the world together -- and not in any conventional way. Again, they thirsted for adventure.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4D6bdkStSfYc9vNwY7_M_2eGnE9xe-zaEtvQQEljmpM0L-8nAWimPDqq6KayJVx3KeioH_DiR0Z5EVLz4gOdNWFCdeQ7kP7XL31FWM50o8cHxDn2Z_enRHyvsb6ag4WfGibt/s1600/Maureen+Gerwig.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4D6bdkStSfYc9vNwY7_M_2eGnE9xe-zaEtvQQEljmpM0L-8nAWimPDqq6KayJVx3KeioH_DiR0Z5EVLz4gOdNWFCdeQ7kP7XL31FWM50o8cHxDn2Z_enRHyvsb6ag4WfGibt/s1600/Maureen+Gerwig.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a>She told a couple of Mike's skydiving buddies today about how she and Mike had biked through the Soviet mountains, had hiked across northern England and had fallen asleep gazing at the aurora borealis during a month-long camping trip -- a trip that required a four-hour dog sled journey (not by snowmobile as I incorrectly reported) through the wilderness just to get to the secluded lake in the northern Yukons.<br />
Mike had fought in Vietnam. Maureen helped him fight at home -- fight to get him the treatment he needed for the damage that combat and Agent Orange had done to his body and his mind.<br />
She fought -- for him and beside him -- right up to the end.<br />
When time had run out for Mike -- when it was clear that he wouldn't get the transplant he so needed, Maureen drove him to the V.A. facility in La Jolla, near San Diego, so he could say goodbye to his dying brother. It was Memorial Day weekend.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOlmX98Liq5OKQPv2NMMeSGmbpDrxZ6TdTbUA5WdMhcAkSB0VOpaaaVx_mzzpn3y0sy3BAZPCIaC84TOK03TxiAdA15n5qyvn1AUmB6vwiVa-tO_2fxqN-tMZ2C01UxZO1FYYb/s1600/Mike+Gerwig%27s+card+in+loving+memory.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOlmX98Liq5OKQPv2NMMeSGmbpDrxZ6TdTbUA5WdMhcAkSB0VOpaaaVx_mzzpn3y0sy3BAZPCIaC84TOK03TxiAdA15n5qyvn1AUmB6vwiVa-tO_2fxqN-tMZ2C01UxZO1FYYb/s1600/Mike+Gerwig's+card+in+loving+memory.jpg" height="200" width="155" /></a><br />
When they got back to their Woodland Hills home, Mike asked Maureen to take him to the emergency hospital. He was too weak to return home. He spent his final hours in a Veterans Administration hospice at the Sepulveda facility. When Maureen got the call that he had died, she drove there expecting to find a depressing place that smelled of urine and looked like a rest-home warehouse nightmare. <br />
But she was wrong. Instead, she entered what seemed like a paradise of love and care. They had made up Mike's bed and draped him in an American flag. They encouraged her to spend as much time as she wanted with him. Afterwards, staff members and fellow veterans conducted a bedside ceremony for Mike. They even played Taps.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtz9Oh6DYZ58ABnTRYlpRCULIXmUJh7z8L6fHSaXXgYLmSXr34c0kDkbibIk_aiJhbmowapIHUodc7PncneFiVJj61UYNaKvfuc3f7KskdWh-kmEzH1VJ1pvkSikTYbAlpLBs3/s1600/Honor+guard.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtz9Oh6DYZ58ABnTRYlpRCULIXmUJh7z8L6fHSaXXgYLmSXr34c0kDkbibIk_aiJhbmowapIHUodc7PncneFiVJj61UYNaKvfuc3f7KskdWh-kmEzH1VJ1pvkSikTYbAlpLBs3/s1600/Honor+guard.jpg" height="135" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOlmX98Liq5OKQPv2NMMeSGmbpDrxZ6TdTbUA5WdMhcAkSB0VOpaaaVx_mzzpn3y0sy3BAZPCIaC84TOK03TxiAdA15n5qyvn1AUmB6vwiVa-tO_2fxqN-tMZ2C01UxZO1FYYb/s1600/Mike+Gerwig%27s+card+in+loving+memory.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Today's memorial ceremony was equally beautiful. Mike's long-time skydiving buddies, John Bull and Tom Brown came to honor him, along with Tom's daughter, Elisa. She remembered admiring the deep friendship between her father and Mike. John and Tom talked about Mike's generosity and the encouragement he would give to beginning and experienced skydivers.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XmSa941gQutfKp4PUd62mwTLrM7GhvWCwmlctSrnrluJhohQGXOcYrHePUJwrOj7EoTxuZEUQy46556wuYykv0SYoq8puqxSGt7jzt7wn5iRpr45V8UyZLnumwmhQxrmVzVX/s1600/Mike+Gerwig%27s+urn+with+cap.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XmSa941gQutfKp4PUd62mwTLrM7GhvWCwmlctSrnrluJhohQGXOcYrHePUJwrOj7EoTxuZEUQy46556wuYykv0SYoq8puqxSGt7jzt7wn5iRpr45V8UyZLnumwmhQxrmVzVX/s1600/Mike+Gerwig's+urn+with+cap.jpg" height="171" width="200" /></a>The Army Honor Guard members were the picture of respect and precision. They marched in with Mike's wicker urn and the American Flag that they later would unfold, ceremoniously refold and hand to Maureen. They fired volley of three rifle shots and then stood at "present arms" while the bugler played Taps.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3sA_xrsaAqDR0yXKMDdEXWC6xDrcHoOXQJ60jPXTKq3fnEAzgoko_uCjv2wnPnF1TxaJvmGe8KXG6uGGJatA-b2eI6YsXFdJmc7BV90mMdt_WhAy9NOMOTy_i-mPAaSC1GPz/s1600/John+Bull,+Maureen+Gerwig,+Tom+Brown,+Elise+Brown+flag+bearer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik3sA_xrsaAqDR0yXKMDdEXWC6xDrcHoOXQJ60jPXTKq3fnEAzgoko_uCjv2wnPnF1TxaJvmGe8KXG6uGGJatA-b2eI6YsXFdJmc7BV90mMdt_WhAy9NOMOTy_i-mPAaSC1GPz/s1600/John+Bull,+Maureen+Gerwig,+Tom+Brown,+Elise+Brown+flag+bearer.jpg" height="117" width="200" /></a>It turns out that I had the privilege of representing Vietnam veterans at Mike's ceremony. I was hoping there would be others there, but knowing the life of being a Vietnam veteran with PTSD, I could only figure that, like me, Mike preferred to spend his time with his wife.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYXIyb-unVmBVJc8PKfasKa-uyJAQKJJdKUgiuNcDrB0_OUY8R6St_s65IkxHf6qD-xGmm8taW-aeWMGQoHl_LDRT8VE5gbzgbP0kkbA-4ryavVBh4-Lx1O16im2SyKVvZWzL/s1600/Flag+and+spent+shells.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYXIyb-unVmBVJc8PKfasKa-uyJAQKJJdKUgiuNcDrB0_OUY8R6St_s65IkxHf6qD-xGmm8taW-aeWMGQoHl_LDRT8VE5gbzgbP0kkbA-4ryavVBh4-Lx1O16im2SyKVvZWzL/s1600/Flag+and+spent+shells.jpg" height="91" width="200" /></a>Solitude and isolation easily can become a way of life for combat veterans.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxmv4pR9BHtw3A12Ur7dLMGa72wXaXsbA75VsSLePzE5WY6AnjvSgxtzrj7_-cO6WmQ1Av-GZ0PK8S5-e8agox6o7CsogLr8PwjEe7sEzRd5x3ixtOaWzIdVQD-_22E30jcN7/s1600/War+Dog+Statue.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaxmv4pR9BHtw3A12Ur7dLMGa72wXaXsbA75VsSLePzE5WY6AnjvSgxtzrj7_-cO6WmQ1Av-GZ0PK8S5-e8agox6o7CsogLr8PwjEe7sEzRd5x3ixtOaWzIdVQD-_22E30jcN7/s1600/War+Dog+Statue.jpg" height="200" width="111" /></a>I meant to go straight home when I left, but something called out to me from across the 215 freeway. It had been more than 10 years since I last visited the War Dog Memorial at the March Air Force Base Museum. I had been there when they first unveiled the statue of an alert German shepherd and his handler. I hadn't noticed before that both of them are looking out in the direction of the Riverside National Cemetery -- and they were in direct view of Mike's final resting place. They'll be watching over him the way my dog Fritz watched over me in Vietnam.<br />
<br />
Then I realized that, in all likelihood, the dog and his handler be watching over me one day as well.<br />
<br />
The trip to Riverside today took on even more meaning than I had anticipated. When I was driving home, I was regretting that Xiao Mei hadn't been able to come along. The day will come when she'll be coming to visit me there -- without me being able to give her directions.<br />
<br />
Maureen Gerwig's response email:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Don,</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Just read your blog. Beautiful. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">After the funeral services I followed John Bull and Tom Brown
over to the Perris skydiving complex where they were going to make a jump in
honor of Mike and Elisa said she was going to make her first jump, in honor of
Mike. The place has certainly changed since I was last there in the early
1980s. Because I didn’t want to get caught up in traffic on the way home, I did
not stay for the jump. However, I know Mike would have been overwhelmed and
honored by it all. (Weather conditions prevented the others from being able to make a jump).</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Yes, Mike’s skydiving buddies being there was such a gift to
the occasion and brought the memory of Mike alive.</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">There were just a few things in the blog, though, one about
falling asleep together after watching the </span> <span style="font-size: medium;">aurora borealis
and driving in by a snow mobile. I would never ride in a snow mobile except if
maybe I was a rancher or someone who used it for work purposes. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">We spent the month of February living in a cabin out in the
Yukon wilderness. The cabin was owned by a dog musher, who also competed on a
regular basis in the Yukon Quest. His name was Blaine, and I can’t remember his
last name, but I got his name by calling around beforehand when I was at home in
Los Angeles, because I wanted to experience living in the wilderness in the
middle of winter. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">The cabin we stayed in was Blaine’s original cabin, and he had
just finished building himself a much larger new cabin just over the knoll. We
flew into Whitehorse and were driven to a place off the highway where we met
Blaine and some of his dogs. As soon as we were dropped off, Blaine had us
immediately get the dogs harnessed to the two dog sleds because it was a
four-hour trip to the cabin. Blaine and I took one sled and Mike handled the
other sled by himself. As we started off, we quickly came to a sharp turn in
the trail and Blaine was looking back at Mike, because he said most people don’t
make that turn and wind up tipping over. Mike took the turn in perfect form.
Mike was having the time of his life. The temperature was minus 18, and at one
point we had to stop and put booties on all the dogs to protect their feet.
</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">We stayed there for a little over three weeks living in
Blaine’s old cabin, which was built half underground. Blaine stayed over the
knoll in his new, much larger cabin. The dogs, about 18 of them, were spread
out at their respective places outside. The outdoor toilet was situated in
between the two cabins. There was no electricity, plumbing or telephone. We
were surrounded by the beautiful silence of nature. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Each day Blaine would lead us out on little day trips. For
about a two-day period, Blaine made a dog sled trip and came back with more
supplies.</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">The night we saw the aurora borealis, Blaine suggested we
could take our sleeping bags with us and camp outside overnight. We put on our
snow shoes and traveled about a mile to an overlook with a somewhat forested
area behind us where we set up our overhead tarp and sleeping bags. Then the
three of us walked over to the edge of the overlook and waited to see if the
aurora borealis would show itself that night. We were not disappointed. For
Blaine it was something he’s seen all his life; for us it was memorable. Then
we, all three of us, went and got in our sleeping bags. That night the
temperature dropped to somewhere around minus 27 degrees. So, no, we weren’t
laying there asleep in each other’s arms in the snow in the minus 27 degree
temperatures. And at no time was a snow mobile to be seen. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I also have three beautiful blown-up photographs of Mike taken
from that Yukon adventure. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Also, we didn’t bicycle across Russia. It was a mountain bike
trek put together by REI, the outdoor store that’s based in Seattle. They also
offer outdoor adventure travel. There nine people on the trip; it was a very
eclectic group of people. It was a month-long mountain bike trip through the
Crimea during the period of Perestroika. The trip was in late September/early
October of 1990. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I will share with you something Mike wrote about that trip.
It’s from something he wrote back in 2009, I think, when veterans who filed PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder)
claims used to have to write essays, I guess you might call them, about their
war experiences.</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Mike wrote: "In 1990, my wife and I went on a mountain bike
trip with REI Adventures to the former Soviet Union. While on this trip I
encountered Soviets vets from the Soviet war in Afghanistan. I saw how these
Russian Afghan war vets were treated the same way as Vietnam vets were and how
they suffered the same feelings of anxiety and feelings of insignificance as
Vietnam vets. They were also into heavy drinking and drugs to numb their
feelings of being watched and judged by the Russian people. When these Russian
Afghanistan vets learned I was a Vietnam vet, there was a sense of shared
experience, that sense of knowing without even having to talk about it.”
</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I witnessed this. It happened when we were in Leningrad, now
Saint Petersburg. One of the members of the support staff, who accompanied us
throughout the trip, was walking with us. We saw a shabby looking group of men
in kind of a small courtyard squeezed between some run-down buildings. Boris,
the support guy, said, “They’re veterans from the Afghan war,” and he went over
to them and told them Mike was a Vietnam vet. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">When these Russian Afghan war vets heard that, they rushed over
and surrounded Mike. And even though Mike didn’t speak Russian and they didn’t
speak English, you could feel the intensity of emotions flowing between them.
They just swarmed around him, shaking his hand, hugging him, speaking to him in
Russian. One of them even gave Mike a Russian military belt, which I still
have. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">I just felt I needed to go into more detail so that maybe you
could correct it so it sounds closer to the real facts. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Again, I so appreciated you being there yesterday.
Originally, I thought it would be me alone attending the service. As I was
driving home, I kept thinking as Mike was put to his final rest that he should
be surrounded to such a loving group of friends who cared. </span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Take good care.</span></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Your friend, Maureen </span></div>
<div>
</div>
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Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-19367334202087425392014-06-13T18:38:00.000-07:002014-06-13T19:00:22.580-07:00If you're a poor immigrant who's been arrested --- you're screwed!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
That's what I learned at lunch today from a most amazing and dedicated defense investigator.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYe5X0sNabwOnnrihnCHNIDIWlX9r4TpP84p1vSARbAtFD0YTGioYJztIQYHcp3zRy6iUyWgrQ_QMHp5kL7udjRgPiCTwlOuOI7wf7mmp2DoudfjDOVmzIxiqypFxvUmtUtoPY/s1600/Martin+Rosales.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYe5X0sNabwOnnrihnCHNIDIWlX9r4TpP84p1vSARbAtFD0YTGioYJztIQYHcp3zRy6iUyWgrQ_QMHp5kL7udjRgPiCTwlOuOI7wf7mmp2DoudfjDOVmzIxiqypFxvUmtUtoPY/s1600/Martin+Rosales.jpg" height="372" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Private investigator Martin Rosales fights for "victims" of an unfair system.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"When I go to court for a client," the licensed private investigator said, "the prosecutors treat me like I'm a wetback. So you can imagine how much worse they treat defendants who don't speak the language and don't know the system."<br />
Martin Rosales came to the United States some four decades ago from Durango, Mexico. He managed restaurants, dabbled in real estate, among other things, before he realized his purpose in life was to help the underdog.<br />
He would find those underdogs in courtrooms and county jails. He discovered that people from other countries -- people who don't know the language and don't know the system here -- do not get the legal representation that U.S. born citizens enjoy.<br />
<br />
And whether he gets paid or not, he is determined to come to their rescue.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
I first met Martin and his 29-year-old son (and investigative partner) when they attended a daylong public records research seminar I conducted several months ago for Riverside County public defender investigators. He and his son were outsiders, but they both have a passion for learning, he said.<br />
He showed up again in front of the L.A. County Registrar/Recorder/Clerk's office this morning. He was eager to learn more. He had read that I was conducting a day-long tour/lecture on how to locate, request and analyze records relating to campaign contributions, voter registration, real estate records and birth, marriage and death certificates.<br />
"I figure that if I learn just one new thing," he said, "It's worth driving here from Riverside."<br />
He's a sponge for information.<br />
At lunch, I was able to learn more about that spark inside of him -- a spark that can erupt into a bonfire when he witnesses injustice. Before the meal ended, he had ignited a fire in me. When these things happen, there's no turning back for me.<br />
Martin painted a disturbing picture of a story that plays out every day throughout Southern California. It involves undocumented mothers who have children who were born into U.S. citizenship. He says that they develop relationships with men and, somewhere along the way, learn through the grapevine that the unsuspecting "boyfriend" could become more than a lover -- he could be her ticket to obtaining her legal status. He could ensure that she gets her "green card." And with that green card, she can qualify form a plethora so social services for mothers and their children.<br />
It's not marriage she's interested in -- it's getting the boyfriend arrested on charges of abusing her children. And it doesn't matter that it may not be true.<br />
"She calls the police and tells them that her boyfriend is molesting her kids," Martin said. The police will arrest the boyfriend and prosecutors are eager to press charges.<br />
That's when the nightmare begins for the boyfriend, he says.<br />
"This is when they need good legal representation," Martin said, "but there's nobody helping them." Before long, he said, the boyfriend could easily go to prison for sixteen years to life. The already over-worked public defender, Martin says, is quick to advise his client to plead guilty to a single count of improperly touching each of the children and a single count of kidnapping a child. The kidnapping occurs, he says, when the boyfriend isolated a child without his or her permission.<br />
"It's a trap," Martin says. "They don't tell the defendant that pleading guilty to the kidnapping charge will put them in prison for at least 16 years -- and maybe for the rest of his life." It's this "kidnapping enhancement" that forces the judge to give the defendant a long minimum sentence.<br />
"The public defender should never advise the client to cop to a kidnapping charge," Martin said, "but they do. There's nobody there to tell them differently.<br />
That's why Martin gets involved when he hears about someone facing such charges.<br />
"I heard about a friend of a friend who had been held over for trial for molestation and kidnapping, so I went to the jail to tell him not to accept a plea before he gets a competent attorney." Then Martin showed up in court for a pretrial hearing.<br />
"I couldn't believe what I watched! First his public defender tried to convince him to accept a plea offer from the district attorney. He refused," Martin said. "Then the public defender walk way to talk to the D.A. He turned to the translator and said, 'Make him accept the deal.'"<br />
Martin says he watched the courtroom interpreter yell in Spanish at defendant to try to convince him to accept the plea bargain.<br />
"He still refused to go along with it, so the judge scheduled another hearing, but said, 'This will be your last chance.'"<br />
Martin says he was able to find a private attorney before that next hearing. She was able to negotiate a plea bargain that didn't include the kidnapping charge.<br />
"He could have been in prison the rest of his life," Martin said. "He had to go to prison, but for a much shorter time."<br />
Nowadays, Martin tries his best to convince attorneys to appoint him as the defense investigator -- but he insists on looking at the entire case file and at all of the discovery documents that the prosecutors and police investigators must share.<br />
"I look at every detail of the case -- every piece of evidence," Martin said, "and I always find that the police made mistakes."<br />
I heard many more examples at lunch today. I left there wanting to get involved. We talked about a publicity campaign in Spanish that can educate people before the police knock on their doors. We talked about creating an organization that can provide quality defense investigation -- whether or not the defendant can afford it.<br />
We talked of bringing together others in the criminal justice community who know about the problem and are willing to do something to make change.<br />
Maybe you will want to get involved?<br />
Let me know.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-71349824212243364962014-05-17T08:40:00.002-07:002014-05-17T08:40:29.997-07:00Piddling in the Wind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's likely that the younger folks will read this and say, "What's the big deal, Old Man?" Then again, it's unlikely that the younger folks will read this at all. The older folks may split into two groups: 1) "Dang it all to heck, I feel your frustration, Don Ray," and 2) "Get over it, Don Ray. This is progress and you can't stop progress!"<br />
<br />
This is about a dining experience with my family last night, and how I allowed my anger and angst over uncontrolled technology (and the corporate conspiracy to computerize its customers) get the best of me. I allowed it to ruin what might have been a decent meal --- and it led to a promise that I'd never set foot in that place again. <br />
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<br />
So help me gosh.<br />
<br />
Our nearly 25-year-old son decided to treat Mother to a belated Mother's Day dinner at a Chili's Bar and Grill in Monrovia. I'll confess from the start that Chili's Bar and Grill is not a place that calls out to me --- especially on a Friday night. But this is between a son and his mother, so keep quiet, Don Ray!<br />
<br />
No doubt, Xiao Mei and David enjoyed checking out the interesting people who also were waiting for that call that the table was ready. But me? I nudged my wife to point out the disgusting scene unfolding in front of us. A boy of about nine or ten sat with his grandmother in the waiting area. The disgusting part was that they were both absorbed, entranced and hypnotized by their individual smart phones. I grumbled as I thought about the wonderful memories the lad won't have of Grandma.<br />
<br />
It was when we got to our table by a window (Xiao Mei likes to look out the window) that I saw the intruder gazing up at us from the tabletop. It was a computer screen, replete with colorful icons -- an icon for every customer's eye. I looked around and realized that every table sported a wireless terminal. What's worse is that someone at almost every table was interacting with the glaring intruder.<br />
<br />
Of course, David's attention quickly jolted in the direction of the hypnotizing high-tech squatter on our table. But my reflexes were even faster than his glance. I grabbed the wireless billboard and placed it on the window sill -- facing outward. I placed it behind the giant "specials" menu so that it would block even the screen's reflection in the window.<br />
<br />
The tabletop terminal, however, still maintained its dominance, blinding be damned. Xiao Mei joined David's protest. The computerized confederate became the topic of a dinnertime debate. But I wouldn't budge. As I was delivering a well-thought-out declaration that this would be a technology-free, family meal, David and Xiao Mei burst out in laughter and pointed out the window. Right up against the glass, two young faces were delightedly ogling the content of the outwardly facing monitor. Their parents were sitting on an outdoor bench awaiting their table. They, of course, were oblivious to the whereabouts of their kids, who had walked through the bushes to get to the magic screen. The parents, you see, were head-down in their own electronic devices.<br />
<br />
Much of the dinner discussion revolved around my bullheaded boycott. When I asked the robotic waitress for the check, she proudly told us that we could use the little computer screen to pay the bill. I asked if we could opt for an actual bill, but my wife and son protested.<br />
<br />
"I think it will be fun to pay at the table," Xiao Mei said. David agreed. He swiped his two gift cards through the slot on the side of the terminal. It quickly spit out a long, ad-cluttered receipt.<br />
<br />
"It says we're eight dollars short," David said. Now I willingly put my debit card through the slot. The waitress came around behind me to help. I had to turn the screen around so she couldn't see it.<br />
<br />
"Either you do it or I will do it," I said. "Not both of us. I can't focus on both you and the computer." She got the message. The computer screen then pissed me off even more. It suggested the tip amount. I grumbled that I didn't like that amount. The waitress said, "You can move that slide to the left or right to change the percentage."<br />
<br />
When she finally walked away, I figured out how to move the tip to a higher range (it wasn't the server's fault, you see) and then finally rid myself of that horrible terminal. But it didn't end there. The computer now wanted us to rate the experience.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OVUOWv9V4C6dzYM0kg6YH13ZE8j9h1BhoevZvMZp2naIftmJv1fmRTdrYiIG-Yk0SCkSkxFx2CYtAB24M8BnsMTVsbKdtdTUzhhhd4wE3m6C5z6bR9j3dSjABPD6uS5cwCdg/s1600/Chili's+sucks+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
Long story short, I rated the overall experience a zero on a scale of one to ten. I rated it a zero on the questions of "Will you recommend Chili's to your friends?" and "Will you come back again?" Then I gave individual high mark to the food and the service. Finally, the computer displayed a fake keyboard and asked me why I hated them so much. I cursed as I tried to find the symbols that would replace the letters "u" and "c" and "k" -- no need to be too graphic.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OVUOWv9V4C6dzYM0kg6YH13ZE8j9h1BhoevZvMZp2naIftmJv1fmRTdrYiIG-Yk0SCkSkxFx2CYtAB24M8BnsMTVsbKdtdTUzhhhd4wE3m6C5z6bR9j3dSjABPD6uS5cwCdg/s1600/Chili's+sucks+2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OVUOWv9V4C6dzYM0kg6YH13ZE8j9h1BhoevZvMZp2naIftmJv1fmRTdrYiIG-Yk0SCkSkxFx2CYtAB24M8BnsMTVsbKdtdTUzhhhd4wE3m6C5z6bR9j3dSjABPD6uS5cwCdg/s1600/Chili's+sucks+2.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a><br /><br />When we left the restaurant, we had a really nice time. David asked me about some big stories I had worked on, and how I had fought for the truth -- even though it had cost me my job.<br />
<br />
It would have been great to do more family talk at the dinner table.<br />
<br />
I'm obsolete and I know it.</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-4539853087599747552014-03-22T18:37:00.000-07:002014-03-25T10:06:53.357-07:00The Incredible Tale of Lazarus, the Headless Rooster<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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</xml><![endif]-->Update: Please read the story below, but first, you can now watch a rare film about Lazarus from 1949.<br />
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
By Don Ray and Neal
Velgos</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
First written in 1984
but never before published.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Who would believe such a
farfetched tale? A chicken gets its head chopped off, then comes back to life
and walks around crowing for three weeks as if nothing is wrong. Stranger things
have happened. That’s where the humans come in. Thousands show up to see the
headless wonder. City officials pose next to it for photos. And eventually, the
owner has to go to court to keep it alive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Many folks in South-Central
Los Angeles believed the story — at least those who saw it with
their own eyes. They recalled that spring day in 1949 when a neighbor woman
bought the beheaded chicken, and had to change her dinner plans that evening.
The woman was Martha Green, and she named her headless — but definitely not
lifeless — chicken Lazarus. The two of them made nationwide news that year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Lazarus put the small community
of Watts on the map, at least briefly. It was
long before riots that would start<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>just
a block way and would scar the city and its people in 1965. It the story of
Lazarus played out years before Simon Rodia’s Watts Towers
would be recognized as a folk art landmark.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
The story began on April 2<sup>nd</sup>
in a feed store in the 11800 block of San
Pedro Street, where a New Hampshire Red Fry had an
appointment with the chopping block. Mrs. Green paid $2 for the four-pound
chicken, dropped it in her bag and covered it with vegetables and canned goods.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
It didn’t make a peep until she
got it home an hour later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Mrs. Green told reporters that
she had dumped it in the sink, turned on the hot water and put away the food.
She turned around to pluck the bird, but what she saw made her scream and run
from the house. The rooster stood on the sink — very much alive — and crowed
the best it could — without its head, that is.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYZYTihS-IQMn6T4ShoShRMYRp7_nrKKe8T4ZOGUWWj6od_eRw43e1-Y7QYNAg085uyYabABgJAfzoyK77DA4gADOiRFFOtISZdWxKNwpsHixg6qe7wpYW0rsDuFdn_eBC0A7E/s1600/Lazarus+feeding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYZYTihS-IQMn6T4ShoShRMYRp7_nrKKe8T4ZOGUWWj6od_eRw43e1-Y7QYNAg085uyYabABgJAfzoyK77DA4gADOiRFFOtISZdWxKNwpsHixg6qe7wpYW0rsDuFdn_eBC0A7E/s1600/Lazarus+feeding.jpg" height="400" width="270" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Mrs. Green, then close to 60
years old, was not frightened for long. She had raised and killed hundreds of
chickens on the farm back in Illinois,
and not one of them had ever ignored death’s call in quite this way. There had
to be some explanation, and her strong religious belief supplied the answer.
She spread the word that Lazarus was a sign from God.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Walter Pierce, 69, who still lived
in Watts in 1984, recalled how the story
spread around the neighborhood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“Everyone around here was
saying a woman’s go a chicken with its neck cut off — crowing! It was a
miracle. And all miracles,” he said, “come from heaven.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Edward S. Cooper, 77 in 1984,
was an attorney who watched with interest as the episode unfolded.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“The story got out very
quickly,” he said, “and people came to her home on foot, on bicycles, and
what-not. And from then on, the story was picked up and Lazarus became a real
thing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
</div>
<a name='more'></a>Indeed, feature stories and
articles appeared in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Los Angeles
Sentinel</i> and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Los Angeles Times</i>,
which brought thousands of people to Mrs. Green’s yard at the corner of 188<sup>th</sup>
Street and Avalon Boulevard where she would exhibit Lazarus at various times
during the day.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Albert B. Moore, who was 94 in
1984, knew Mrs. Green, and first saw Lazarus there at her house.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“He’d walk around there in the
yard,” Moore
said. “There were so many people you couldn’t see him. They used to feed the
rooster down through its throat. That was an amazing thing, you know.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Edward Cooper said that the
people who gathered at the house were of all ages and races. However, some
spectators came with greater hopes than just seeing the miracle chicken — they
wanted the chance to experience their own miracle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“It was an attraction, and
people thought it was a miracle — that Mrs. Green had healing powers,” said
Cooper. “People came to her home that were ill or crippled and wanted to have
some relief for their illnesses.”</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZlcJah-xoPNQfGmFRt9EVCqG0V3WBQZPD9ljHYXH6jaXAXK963ho9chvs9dBWSHY5H7feATmc7pRbnmOSCoKWzYW487du7o-KUlrxIC_LWd0xj5GxvCtyQsyxqpN8c-Avlh5/s1600/Lazaras+notice..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0ZlcJah-xoPNQfGmFRt9EVCqG0V3WBQZPD9ljHYXH6jaXAXK963ho9chvs9dBWSHY5H7feATmc7pRbnmOSCoKWzYW487du7o-KUlrxIC_LWd0xj5GxvCtyQsyxqpN8c-Avlh5/s1600/Lazaras+notice..jpg" height="400" width="342" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
There are no known accounts of
anyone being cured, but Mrs. Green attracted many followers, and the crowds
kept coming to her home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
The novelty turned to
controversy when one particular man appeared in the crowd one day. He was an
inspector for the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA) who
did not like what he saw. He insisted that authorities charge her with harboring
a wounded animal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
He ordered that Lazarus be put
out of his misery.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
This was unacceptable to Mrs.
Green. No man had the right to kill this “act of God,” which, by now, she had
also grown quite fond of as a pet. She went to the attorney, Edward Cooper, who
had represented her before, and convinced him to help her fight the matter in
court.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
In the meantime, the City of Los Angeles placed Lazarus
in the care of Dr. Allen Ross, a veterinarian. Mrs. Green, her attorney and Dr.
Ross went to court in Compton
before Justice of the Peace Stanley Moffat. I was a strange case for Cooper,
who said he donated his time and effort.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“I decided to take the case
because I felt that, if the evidence showed that the rooster was not suffering,
the SPCA would have no basis to request that it be destroyed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
The star witness was Dr. Ross,
who testified that the person who had cut the head off the chicken had cut at
an angle — just above the brains. That’s what kept it alive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
It was the memorable conclusion
to the three-day hearing that Cooper remembered best.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“During the entire trial,” he
said, “the chicken was before Judge Moffat on the council’s table. And as he
found Mrs. Green not guilty, the chicken got up and started crowing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
The judge acquitted Mr. Green,
and ordered that the veterinarian return Lazarus to her — by now, some two
weeks after it lost its head. And the rooster still showed no signs of ill
health.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
For some reason, the case was
important enough to the SPCA that it refilled the case in downtown Los Angeles, another
jurisdiction, for the same purpose — to put Lazarus to death.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Lazarus was unaware of the second
battle that was pending, He was causally strolling around Mrs. Green’s fenced
front yard when they came to serve the papers. Mrs. Green and her loyal friends
were first shocked, and then angered. They immediately vowed to pick up the
fight one more time. But it was Lazarus, now on his twentieth extra day of
life, who decided that enough was enough.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
He let out one last, defiant
crow, hung his neck and died.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
The crowd was in turmoil, but
Mrs. Green reportedly looked toward the heavens and praised the Lord for taking
the life of Lazarus — before a mere mortal could do the task.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Newspapers from all over the
country reported the death of Lazarus. But the feeling of loss was greatest
right there in Mrs. Green’s neighborhood.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“I felt sad,” said Albert
Moore. “When you get attached to something — whether it’s a dog or a cat or a
headless rooster — and it should happen to pass, you can’t help but feel it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Not everyone, however, shared
his feelings — particularly some of Mrs. Green’s closest neighbors. Mildred
Jones, 74 in 1984, remembered the constant crowd of people near the house. She
said she chose not to see the chicken.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“I don’t enjoy looking at
something like that,” she said. “But there were a lot of people who came up
there at the corner. I didn’t want to see a chicken without its head, running
around. Those kinds of things are gruesome to me — like something on television
that gets to be too much for you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Another neighbor said she was
at work during the hours Lazarus was available for public viewing. However, she
said she probably wouldn’t have gone to see him anyway. She strongly
disapproved of Mrs. Green’s involvement with it, she said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
And there were many who doubted
that Lazarus was a diving miracle at all. Mrs. Kathryn Epps, 66 in 1984, was
the wife of Mrs. Green’s minister. She took a more scientific view of Lazarus.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“I expect it was something that
didn’t happen,” she said. “It was something in the nerves. I’m not one of those
people who thinks that God had something to do with it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
For his legal efforts in the
case, Edward Cooper was able to enjoy a lot f of favorable publicity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“The case had worldwide
attention and I received letters from all over the world,” he said. “I
represented several churches after that in the black area.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Those who missed the chance to
see Lazarus in person while he was alive got to see him in a film featurette
that played in theaters throughout the South. Also, the drama of the Lazarus
affair came out in the form of a play that bore the name of the famous rooster.
It had a brief run in a downtown Los
Angeles theater. Theatergoers at the time even got to
see Lazarus in person — stuffed and standing proudly behind glass in the lobby.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Lazarus’ whereabouts is a bit
of a mystery today. The last anyone recalled seeing it was shortly before Mrs.
Green died, a decade or so after the rooster died. She was, for quite some
time, a local heroine. People said she kept the stuffed fowl on the mantelpiece
in her home. The people who lived in that house in 1984 knew nothing of
Lazarus’ fate. Several years ago, a demolition crew removed the house.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOYaBNRASl23A4Bz1N-Gkz0eZ2bQAndm8P7Akbou8dHK3X-925HWkDXbOD9Cxl6U_U1oSzPRz99sXooE4LlAUAS0gTyGjHkwAnQP9tCmodIJMzQFvtIT4xfoc_FIwiHjjGAU0/s1600/Lazarus+the+headless+chicken+home+today.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOYaBNRASl23A4Bz1N-Gkz0eZ2bQAndm8P7Akbou8dHK3X-925HWkDXbOD9Cxl6U_U1oSzPRz99sXooE4LlAUAS0gTyGjHkwAnQP9tCmodIJMzQFvtIT4xfoc_FIwiHjjGAU0/s1600/Lazarus+the+headless+chicken+home+today.jpg" height="282" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Other than the 105 Freeway a
half a block north and the townhouses that replaced Mrs. Green’s house, the
neighborhood has not changed that much.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
In 1984, just about everybody
that had lived near there for very long had heard something about that local,
legendary story of Lazarus. But the newer neighbors, many of which are Latinos,
know nothing about what happened in 1949.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
Walter Pierce, in 1984, was
still intrigued, however.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt;">
“I never went to see that
chicken,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I sure am sorry I didn’t.”</div>
</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-16919624281458981302014-02-17T20:03:00.000-08:002014-02-18T21:18:20.106-08:00Courage and Tragedy Under Fire --- and what followed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a code of silence at the PTSD (post-traumatic stress
disorder) Clinic in East L.A. Whatever veterans say inside those walls stays
there. But a fellow Vietnam
veteran met me for lunch today on Whittier
Blvd., and he felt like talking. I listened. When
he finished telling me the story of that firefight back on February 8, 1967 —
and how it would come back to haunt him decades later — I cautiously asked him
if I could write about him — if I could share his story.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He agreed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNJ-sfpIK_KaGe-YKwkkSMtFkmjP5dASy9IU88QYdLaEc5XrjN4omlNN4FE7TBrVrz1TIySgcl8tNs68qzqppGGjY9a4Mo7mHqNE6qh9eeX2Wc5_trI-_hpnnKzGO4SBgcXyT/s1600/Edward+Vietnam+Vet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfNJ-sfpIK_KaGe-YKwkkSMtFkmjP5dASy9IU88QYdLaEc5XrjN4omlNN4FE7TBrVrz1TIySgcl8tNs68qzqppGGjY9a4Mo7mHqNE6qh9eeX2Wc5_trI-_hpnnKzGO4SBgcXyT/s1600/Edward+Vietnam+Vet.jpg" height="200" width="147" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His name is Edward. I’d share his last name with you — he’s
OK with that — but that code of silence I mentioned gnaws on me. He turned 69
last month. He works the graveyard shift as a security officer at a railroad
yard. He feels safer in the dark — safer when he’s not around a lot of people.
And it gives him more time to spend with his 14-year-old daughter during the
day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4OxrXcQyDFhPSeGV8aAwHpRei91d_8jgS1o9EJDnVyusrD9HR85keU0HZWH25a78aHA3Tr6_yiczDWrwgkG4DAI23eCaaPvFuH-wfYPLaFERycS2pXrIi_xHzhgULBhtcHhFw/s1600/Keith+Campbell+Medic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4OxrXcQyDFhPSeGV8aAwHpRei91d_8jgS1o9EJDnVyusrD9HR85keU0HZWH25a78aHA3Tr6_yiczDWrwgkG4DAI23eCaaPvFuH-wfYPLaFERycS2pXrIi_xHzhgULBhtcHhFw/s1600/Keith+Campbell+Medic.jpg" height="200" width="145" /></a>Bank in 1999, however, he was working the day shift as a
quality control inspector in a factory. He had successfully buried the memories
of that day in Vietnam
— the day a medic named Keith Campbell saved his life. He had buried the
memories of watching a bullet strike his rescuer in the neck. He had buried the
memories of a burst of more AK-47 bullets that instantly killed Keith Campbell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in 1999, Edward was playing with his kids in a park when a woman he’d never
known burst into his world. Medic Keith Campbell’s sister had finally fulfilled
her dream of meeting the man whose life her brother had saved, moments before the
medic, himself, fell to enemy bullets.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She wanted to look into the last pair of eyes her brother
had seen.</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On February 8, 1967, Edward was what we called “short.” In
three weeks, he would complete his tour and would be heading home. Please note
that I didn’t say “three short weeks.” The “shorter” you were in Vietnam, the
longer the days lasted. Three weeks was an eternity. The night before, the Viet
Cong had lobbed mortars inside his perimeter, so at dawn, his platoon got the
assignment to go on a day patrol. They preferred night patrols — it’s easier to
be invisible in the dark, you see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, and Edward was to be the point man. Everyone would
follow him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We were in the jungle,” he said, “under a thick canopy. We
were in a staggered formation when we entered a rubber tree plantation. We tried
to walk alongside a ridge so that they couldn’t see us as well. Then all hell
broke loose. It sounded like machine guns and AK-47s.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Within moments, Edward felt something hit his back and he
went to the ground. The firefight was so intense, however, that nobody could
reach him. He was pinned down next to a log. He lay there bleeding for more
than four hours — the Vietcong were in a bunker of sorts and wouldn’t let
anybody get near Edward.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then someone he had never known, a medic, Keith Campbell,
ran through enemy fire in Edward’s direction.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No! Get out,” Edward recalled shouting to him. “Kill zone!
This is a kill zone!” But Campbell
somehow got to him. Edward remembers being scared, angry and fearing he was
going to die. He seems to remember Campbell
injecting him with something — probably morphine — and then working on the
bullet wound in the middle of Edward’s upper back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“All of a sudden, POW! He gets shot,” Edward
said, “and his body went up and then down on top of me. They kept hitting him!”
Edward says he lost consciousness — either from loss of blood, from the
morphine, or both. It seemed like hours before two of Edward’s buddies could
get to him. They dragged him and the medic out on rubber ponchos and placed
them alongside maybe a dozen other casualties — some still living, some dead.
Helicopters took him to a M.A.S.H. unit. Later he’d go to a hospital in Saigon,
then to Japan and eventually
to a hospital in San Francisco
where he slowly and painfully recovered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Edward looks back at his post-Vietnam life as a blur. He now
knows that the drugs and the booze and the anger that enveloped his life for so
many years were all part of his desperate attempt to kill the recurring
thought: “I should have died — not Keith Campbell!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A couple of failed marriages and several children later,
Edward was able to stabilize and make a living. He only rarely awoke in a
puddle of sweat to that recurring nightmare — the nightmare that even the drugs
and booze couldn’t quell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was lying in the back of a dump truck with Keith Campbell
and a bunch of other guys. They were all dead. I was the only one alive,”
Edward said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in 1999, Keith Campbell’s sister found him. She had
hired a private investigator to locate the soldier whose life her brother had been
trying to save. She had traveled all the way from Delaware to meet him. She had been waiting
in the car when his neighbor pointed him out at the park. It all happened so
fast, he said. He and Keith’s sister would spend a day together. She had so
many questions.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She wanted to touch my wound,” he said. “She wanted to
touch the last thing her brother had touched.” As he spoke to me, Edward pulled
his collar down showed me the indentation — the hole — in the middle of his
back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I touched it as well.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Keith’s sister invited Edward to travel to Fort Sam Houston
near San Antonio, Texas, to the opening celebration of the new
Keith Campbell Medical Library. Edward said he couldn’t afford it, so Keith’s
sister said she’d organize a fundraiser.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But Keith’s mother wouldn’t have it,” Edward said. “She
insisted that she would pay my way there, and she would put me up in her
place.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a flurry of publicity about Edward — how the
medic’s sister was determined to track him down. However, the experience had jolted
Edward back into the past. He was now having to talk about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before long, his PTSD symptoms rose to the surface — the
startle response to loud noises, the claustrophobia, the desire to work alone
at night where he would feel safer. He remembered recently when several
helicopters flew low over where he was sleeping and he had the flashback of
being pinned down. The helicopters were coming to evacuate him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It even affected his sense of smell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When I was pinned down that day, I could smell my own blood.
I remember that it smelled like bacon.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, there are times when the smell of cooking bacon
triggers his frightening thoughts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the nightmares returned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Edward has kept this stuff inside of him for a long time.</div>
</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22487398.post-77860941712437819132013-12-10T13:48:00.000-08:002014-02-14T07:58:26.326-08:00A Tale of Four Fathers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>A Tale of Four Fathers</b></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
By Don Ray</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>I wrote this sometime in the
1980s or ‘90s but never published it anywhere. Some people don't know about my hobby of tracking down missing people on behalf of friends or family members. At the end, there's a link to a story the Idelle Davidson wrote about for the Los Angeles Times about my antics.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sandy, Doreen, George and Melinda don’t know each other, but
they have a few things in common. They’re all in their early-to-mid 30s, they’re
all reasonably well-adjusted, people like them, and all four of them, recently,
have been thinking about trying to get in touch with their long-lost fathers.
For each, the decision has been difficult and painful.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sandy and Doreen came to me because they had heard that I’m
an investigative reporter who is good at using public records to track down
people from years past. Neither had ever known their fathers. George and
Melinda knew pretty much where to find their fathers, but both were gun shy
because of their last encounters with fathers who were no longer involved in
their families because of divorce.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sandy
is a 35-year-old wife and mother of two who, herself, was born out of wedlock —
the byproduct of a brief, but intense, racially mixed romance. She told me she
felt that her mother had resented her throughout her entire life. She says she spent half
her life in white neighborhoods where people treated her as a black, and the
other half in black neighborhoods where people hated her for being white. Also,
over the years, she said that other family members had convinced her that her
natural father wanted nothing to do with her. It was only when her own
children’s questions about their missing grandfather became harder and harder
to dodge that she decided to ask someone, me, to track down her father.
However, she warned me, she did not want to know a thing about him unless he
truly wanted to talk with her as well. She was certain, however, that he wouldn’t
want that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doreen came to me in much the same manner. Her therapist had
suggested that she might be able to come to terms with some gnawing feelings
about her father if she would only look him up somehow. Doreen’s father had
left her mother while she was pregnant with Doreen. Even though she had never
known the man, Doreen was fighting feelings of being the victim of betrayal and
neglect. She had to find him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
George had been drinking when he last spoke to his father on
the phone a decade ago. He suspects that his father had been in the same
condition at the time. They fired such harsh words at each other that,
probably, both of them were afraid to step again into the line of fire. As more
time passed, the fears and anxiety became even more intense. However, when some
of George’s problems seemed to be getting more and more difficult to handle, he
felt a more intense need to talk with his father. He told me he was able to
track down a phone number for his father about two years ago, but he had been
afraid to call. He had been carrying the number in his wallet ever since. But
now, he finally got up enough courage to call.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Melinda told me that she and her father had had a classic misunderstanding
five or six years ago, and her father had ended up feeling hurt. When they talked
again, he overreacted so much that she became angry. They had both held onto
the anger over the years — and that makes it harder for either to reach out a
hand of peace. She knew that he’s in his mid 70s and that, surely, he feels
that his family has abandoned him. She wanted to know where he was, but still hadn’t
gotten up the courage to call him.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Within a couple of days, I had located Sandy’s father. He had married someone else and
had children that he, himself, had raised. He was a successful salesman and a
happy grandfather. When we finally made contact, he agreed to give Sandy a one-minute,
tape-recorded message. That was all the time he would get to convince her he
wants to see her.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This is your father,” he told her, “and I’d love to get the
chance to earn your friendship and respect. I’ll give you the right to yell at
me, cuss me, even beat the hell out of me — once. Sandy, thank God you were able to get a hold
of me. I’d give anything to see you — even if it was just once.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Sandy
heard the tape, she called him, asked questions, yelled at him a bit and then
cried. She cried tears she’d been holding back for years. Now that they’ve
gotten together, there are new problems. She’s opened up a Pandora ’s Box of
emotions that involves everyone in her family, and she’s now trying to sort
them all out. One thing is for sure, she told me, he’s now a permanent part of
her life and family. And, if any other member can’t handle it, she says, then
it’s them who can leave.</div>
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“He’s not perfect,” she says, “but the man is my father.”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doreen’s father was a bit more difficult to locate. I was
able to determine that her grandfather had died a dozen or so years ago. It was
in a copy of the man’s will that I learned that his son — Doreen’s father — had
already died. I learned some of the details by tracking down an uncle Doreen
had never met. When I told her that her father had died 20 years earlier,
possibly of alcoholism, Doreen didn’t know what to feel. She called me back,
however, three days later to say that the information had had some positive
effects. Aside from being able to close the book on feelings that he had
neglected her, she says she broke the news to her mother. Her mother had also
been in pain for two decades because her ex-husband had never called or written.
In one way, it was a relief for both Doreen and her mother to know that the man
had been unable to contact them — not necessarily unwilling.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
George finally decided to take the risk and call his father.
They were both more than a little nervous when the conversation began, but
before long, the conversion took on a feeling of optimism. They planted the
seeds of a new father-son relationship, and made firm plans for a Father’s Day
reunion. Even though George’s sister and brother are still unwilling to take
the risk, for once, George said, he is doing what was right.</div>
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<br /></div>
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For Melinda, it’s still a mystery. She says she’s going to
call her father. “Probably,” she says, “within a couple of days.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s for Melinda that I feel the saddest — sad because I
know how long George had said the same thing — that he’d call in a couple of
weeks. I feel sad as well because of the pain I felt at the age of ten when my
father died. I feel sad because I spent so many years resenting a stepfather
who was so willing to be my father, despite his flaws. I’m sad, as well,
because he, as well, died — only months after I had accepted him as a
father.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To Melinda — and to anyone else who is a phone call away
from your father — now’s the time.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://articles.latimes.com/1987-06-25/news/vw-10387_1_investigative-journalist" target="_blank">Investigative TV Journalist Doubles as a Finder of Lost Persons</a></div>
</div>
Don Rayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01670783103115697335noreply@blogger.com1