duckshots – Page 56 – Lorin Duckman Today

Ken and Virginia

Virginia live at Birchwood, an assisted living and more facility in Burlington. Ken lives in town on his own, for how long nobody knows. They have been a couple for ten years. Without each other, they don’t have anyone.

They met at Bill’s Diner in Winooski. She waited tables; her husband table hopped. Had kids, none of whom have anything to do with her. Lost one in a car accident. Then she bartended. They lost contact for a lifetime and then found one another. She has social skills, not yet lost in her pressing dementia, and a powerful look and smile. Doesn’t keep time or space like the rest of us. Has trouble walking and talking. Only complaints revolved around the diet at the facility and that she cannot do what she used to do, like drive or live in a nice place by herself.

Not sure she felt the cameras presence, but her head turned and her expressions changed in tune to my directions. She expressed her love for her man over and over, in kind and loving tones. When shown his pictures in the back of the camera, the few I thought worthy, she said “that’s the man I love.”

He and I have discussed this shoot for three years. Just didn’t work out. He takes her from the facility for a few days, caring for her at his place. The people there call him when she has some problems. He worked for years carrying stuff, shaping up, inserting at the Free Press. Has a sweet disposition that covers up a ton of pain. His back disintegrated, resulting in major spinal surgery. He lost his ability to walk and talk, which he struggles to recover. Walks with a walker; has trouble lifting his arm; cannot stand for long periods or walk quickly.

He found her after a long hiatus. Not sure why they didn’t marry; probably some SS reason. Spiritually, they seem as one. When he finishes her sentences, it’s to keep her connected, not to show how he has taken over her mind, but to stay in contact. His love for her gives him reason to live.

Camp Gan at Chabad Burlington VT

Photo shoot and workshop at Camp Gan, Chabad Burlington VT. Two point and shoots, two counsellors/three campers with a list of items hidden around the Chabad. Some call it a scavenger hunt. Two groups. They took pictures. Then we shot portaits. Everone got to be a model, photographer and assistant. We tried to teach a lesson about our symbols, our people and the light.

The future of World Judaism.

Burlington Rains Again

Out early. Not much movement. The sun didn’t appear. No peek through for the breakwater. Overrun with water, the birds barely have a place to sit, at least from where I stand. Too humid for comfort, air also has some sediment from a fire which burns in my eyes. Cannot drink my coffee. Out of here.

Kids at Camp Gan cannot figure out what to do. Supposed to go on a boat ride. No way to challenge the lightning or rain. What to do?

Kelly sits on Cherry St, moved from Main. People complain she has a place to live and doesn’t need to beg. Its her job. But she sits in the sun, dressed well, courteous to a fault. Not many who don’t know her or can pass her by. Misses Paul.

Richard stays sober until he doesn’t. Hasn’t had to go back to treatment. Hangs out near Lowe’s and Hannafords. Ramp out of order for him. Ruggededly handsome. Lives nearby in the woods, somewhere.

Don’t have his name. He has mine. Struggling. Living in the woods. Hasn’t smoked in a while. Sweet and kind. Has friends.

A musician. Used to play a horn. Lost his teeth. Never saw him before. James Harvey, he calls himself. Been around here longer than I have. Has a brown dog. Looking to pick himself up and play again in the fall.

Ed Larrabee. Met him at the beach. He ventured to North Beach to escape the craziness on Church Street. Has a heritage he can be proud of. No place to live but he knew where he was going to crash tonight. Has a book about the Middle East which he wants to read, but he fears he doesn’t know enough to make it worthwhile. Understands people, but not injustice. Exudes self-confidence and personal strength.

Don’t ask me how any of them arrived in a place where I can picture them. And, they don’t ask me why I am in their midst.

Stacey and Robert, Married

The skies emptied. We searched for the JP. Bride and groom soaked. All assembled. Vows and a kiss.

Rained like hell. Moved inside the train station. Helped by Melinda Moulton’s support.

Not planned, but a cool place.

Not ones to step up to the bar, anymore, but ones who have accepted the responsibility of marriage.

Will you please show me that you are about to be married and in love. Cannot force these faces. They just happen!

Not a big weeding. But everyone who attended, cared. No ring. No reception. They had to leave quickly to sign up for a place to spend the night. Still homeless and hopeful.

Leonard Duckman, Dead June 16, 1963

Lenny

My father died fifty years ago today, making this occasion not one of my favorite holidays. I miss him terribly; always have. Would gladly have given him some of years I have been blessed with having.

Only a man in his mid 50’s when he died, as much a victim of World War II as if he had been killed in the field, he lived ten years less than I have, never having the opportunity to lead or command as he should have. A graduate of Brooklyn Poly, U of Michigan and its law school (where he met my Mother), he was on the verge of professional success when his illness made advancement impossible. Two years in the jungles of New Guinea had taken his hair, teeth and who knows what else. Never talked about it. Earning the rank of Major, the Government gave him a bronze star, for what I don’t know. Constantly sick – colds, lumps, digestion,etc. – acute lymphocitic leukemia finally claimed him. In retrospect, he died for at least 8 years. The barbaric treatments of the day left his body scarred from x-rays, his muscles weakened from untested drugs and his lungs seared by mustard gas treatment. I spent days, weeks, months going back and forth from the hospital, caring for him with my Mother as he slipped slowly to death, without me knowing about how sick he was. In those days, people didn’t talk about the big “C”.

father's_self-1

So, they said I looked like him and acted like him. Never one to suffer fools or those who didn’t make the most of their talents, everything he did worked. Quick to anger and quicker to forgive, he had a thirst for knowing, doing, thinking and playing. What a joy walking around town with him or going to shul. He talked with many people about a diverse range of topics. I learned all the time with him. He taught me to read and to listen to jazz.

In my youth, he no longer could blow his horn, run after me or throw or catch. He taught my older brother how to do all those things. Hank excelled. Me. Just ordinary. We worked in the darkroom together, shooting a lot of photos and then printing them. Must be where I got my love for cameras and the craft of photography. Mother thought his condition became exacerbated by developers. She also did yoga into her 80’s and believed in Edgar Casey. I wonder what I’d have become if hadn’t died. A real estate lawyer who worked in a bank and lectured on titles and closings, I’d probably be rich. May not have screwed up my career, either. And he most certainly would have loved my wife, Sharon. I can hear them laughing.

Eric’s Coming Out

He looks fines, somedays. Sits or hangs out around the same places. Watches the street, for what we don’t know. Sees somethings we cannot imagine. Not ready yet to be put back together. Decided he needed to take a bath or a swim. Dived into Lake Champlain. Muck and mire on the surface. Left clothes in sumac or poison ivy. Covered with blisters. Chad lent him a razor. Hadn’t seen his face in twelve years.

Old Young Men

Aging requires courage, stamina and emotional self-control. So many myths exist from the past when people stopped living in their 40’s, errr 50’s, errrr 60’s. Now, healthier and smarter, we live longer, not just exist longer. And we look better.

Brien makes art, smart art. He draws, sculpts and creates where nothing has been and nothing will remain.

Pastor Crocker saves souls, or at least makes having one more understandable. He’s a budding photographer.

And, Wight Manning. Re-enactor, historian, antiquarian. He collects paraphernalia, wears it and sells it.

Kevin and Vermont Special Olympics

So, I go down to the beach or the waterfront or Church Street with my camera and a lighting kit. Need to keep up my skills, looking, seeing, shooting. Oh, how I cannot deal with people telling me they have cameras or relatives with cameras or cell phones. They don’t understand portraits, posing or the importance of having a photograph, taken in ernest.

These two people walk by where I sit with my friend Jim and we start to talk. Kevin wants to take a walk. They will talk about whether to accept my offer to shoot his photo.

Kevin returns. Agrees to the shoot. And we talk. Seems he is a world class Bocce player who will be competing in the Special Olympics in Vermont this weekend. So, I sign up, volunteering to photograph whatever they need shot, knowing they have lots of shooters ahead of me, including the press.

Now, I have to sort through 1,500 images, shots one more beautiful than the next. What a wonderful experience Kevin shared with me and I don’t even know his last name, where he lives or much about him.