Don Ray Media

Look for the blonde woman with a blue and white dress. She talks about being weak from beri beri. She’s 96 now. She called me because she wants to see the fini...shed documentary before she’s gone. She’s the only one of the prisoners and rescuing soldiers who is still living. Come hell or high waters or this pandemic, I’m going to finish this as soon as possible. You can help by telling me that this a film you may want to see.

Trump is nothing more than a miserable speed bump -- it might shake us up, but we'll get past it. If we don't keep our eyes on what's important, the long road ahead, we may have to go over the speed bump twice.

Today, the project moves forward. I've published the first part. I hope you'll subscribe to my blog after you've read this.... And please leave feedback on the blog page if you can. Thanks.

My legs are like rubber right now -- my heart is still thumping like I've run a mile. I'm sure the story I'm about to tell will seem silly, but nothing's going ...to stop me from sharing it. I just got off the phone with a woman named Ginger -- a woman who crossed paths with me back in 1965. She had been in California visiting her grandmother who lived in the same apartment building we lived in. I was 16. She was about 18. And she touched my life. We sat at a round patio table in the common area in the middle of the complex. We just talked. Nothing more. In fact, I think we sat at that table for two nights -- way into the night. You see, she was the first girl (if I may) that had ever taken the time to talk to me about life -- about things that young guys would never talk about with a girl, especially a stranger. She asked about my life plans, of which I had none. Her life plan was to enter a convent and dedicate herself to the church. On the second evening, she showed me a small book, "The Prophet," by Kahlil Gibran. I didn't tell her, but I had absolutely zero interest in reading any kind of religious book. You see, six years earlier, my father (or so I thought), who was divorced from my mother, had been in a coma for at least four months after taking a spill at the Hollywood Roller Rink. While he was unconscious, I still said my prayers every night, and I prayed for him to wake up. I was already pissed at God for allowing my beloved grandfather in Iowa to take his own life just a month earlier. 1959 had been a bad year. On the fourth of July, my father (or so I believed), died without ever awakening. That's when I gave up on God and religion. However, being a manipulative, smitten 16-year-old, I wasn't going to say anything that would discourage Ginger from talking with me. She asked me if I'd take the book and look at it -- I could return it to her the next day before she would leave for her home back east somewhere. Of course, I told her I would. The next morning, I put on my manipulative 16-year-old outfit and took the book out onto our balcony and sat in just the right spot. I knew that she walked each morning to buy a newspaper, and that, when she returned, she would see me -- and, of course, she would see me reading her little book. I watched her walk away from our building, but I knew that she would have to look over her shoulder to see me "reading" the book -- it wouldn't be cool, however to try to get her attention at that time. While I waited, I remained in the "reading" position so that, at very first glimpse when she returned, she would believe I was actually reading the darned thing. My plan failed, however -- I never saw her return. Somehow, I had gotten wrapped up in reading the first chapter of the book -- a chapter about an old man seeing the ship he had waited a lifetime to return for him and take him home. Obviously, it grabbed me -- especially because it didn't mention God or anything like that. Not only was it not the least bit preachy, it was delightfully easy to read. The writing was absolutely beautiful -- even for a kid who was a poor reader. Later that day, when she was leaving, she gave me a card or a note upon which she had quoted from "The Prophet." "When you part from your friend, you grieve not; For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain." I was sobbing when she got in her grandmother's car and rode away. I bought my own copy of "The Prophet." Three short years later, I packed it with me when I left to go to Vietnam. I would read different chapters of the little book when I was down, perplexed, excited or anxious. When I read the chapters about love and marriage and children and work, I dreamed of being a great friend, husband and father. I'm still not religious, but I treasure what I learn from that wonderful book of wisdom. Imprinted in my mind is the image of the old man finally boarding the ship that will take him back to his homeland. It's not difficult to understand that the whole book is a metaphor about life. I warned you about reading this long post. The book ends with the old man addressing those who loved him for so many years: If in the twilight of memory we should meet once more, we shall speak again together and you shall sing to me a deeper song. And if our hands should meet in another dream, we shall build another tower in the sky. So saying he made a signal to the seamen, and straightaway they weighed anchor and cast the ship loose from its moorings, and they moved eastward. And a cry came from the people as from a single heart, and it rose the dusk and was carried out over the sea like a great trumpeting. Only Almitra was silent, gazing after the ship until it had vanished into the mist. And when all the people were dispersed she still stood alone upon the sea-wall, remembering in her heart his saying: "A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me." I was able to thank Ginger today, for the gift she gave me. Oh, she didn't enter any convent -- today she and her husband raise cattle.

An even bigger life-changing moment!!! You may recall that, last year, I was surprised and elated to discover, through DNA, who my biological father was -- and ...I learned that four of my six half-siblings are still living. I have two half brothers and two half sisters. I've connected with one of them so far. I could not imagine anything that could compare to this wonderful discovery. Until last month. Out of the blue, I heard from a wonderful gentleman in another state -- he nervously wrote that his DNA testing led him to the discovery of his biological father. I am his father. There ain't no doubt about it. His two daughters are my granddaughters. Now, the book I'm writing, "Hey Dad, where were you when I needed you," will have a surprise ending. . . And my life has a new beginning. I'll reveal all of the details in the book. My son, J.R., was born in 1971. My granddaughters are in their 20s. I've obfuscated the photo for now. My head is still spinning. I was convinced I would never be a grandfather.