So, my friend Marc Madarazzo lost his job at IBM. He has “rocket scientist” smarts, an MIT degree and and ability to see the future. No jobs here for him, yet. How much talent sits on the sidelines?
Category: personal
Larkin Forney Lived a Life
Ten years ago I worked as a Public Defender in Middlebury. People in custody were kept in a basement holding area that allowed for safe transfers from cars to the jail, but unhealthy and borderline unconstitutionally improper cells. There was plenty of room for counsel visits, with no privacy, no windows and claustrophobic pens. When a prisoner arrived financially unable to afford counsel, a lawyer would be assigned to the case. Almost no one, except for the DUI, out-of-towners, had retained lawyers, most of whom could plead out a drunk but not try a case. The Deputy Sheriff would find the on-duty PD or call out the name of the defendant. One day, I heard, “whose got Larkin Forney?” Frankly, I thought it was a sandwich or a condition. I said, “what’s a Larkin Forney?” “You’re client, you idiot. He’s downstairs, with a pile of papers and he wants to talk with you.”
Larkin had papers, all right. He had motions he had written which he wanted to file and he had a full statement of facts, his version, and he had pages of a book he was writing. And he was pissed that I hadn’t familiarized myself with all the nuances of the case before we met. I had to excuse his vituperativeness, given the fact I would leave the cell and he would stay. He may not have known I only just got the papers and barely had looked at them as I walked down the stairs. And, poor communication between offices of the Public Defender and the general malaise of some of the attorneys prevented me from knowing he had fired his previous PD after writing a complaint to the disciplinary committee accusing the lawyer who is now a judge or magistrate or something or all sorts of unethical conduct, asserting that the representation was less than adequate and unconstitutionally defective.
[MORE To Come]
Landino Fights Cancer For All of Us
“But sometimes there’s a man, sometimes, there’s a man. Aw. I lost my train of thought here. But… aw, hell. I’ve done introduced him enough.” Stole this line from Lebowski, but John deserves it.
So, he’s putting together a group to do art during his healing. He has esophageal cancer and needs to start treatment. He’s looking upwards, to the sky, for support. I’ll send him some landscapes and sky shots. I don’t do sunrises or sunsets. Too beginning and ending for me. The colors shine too brightly. Life’s a slog; mostly gray, not always black and white.
John finds music in everything. He sees art in everything. Melodies, not really recognizable ones, roll around in his head and then out his mouth. He’s more Beat, than neat. Not a hippie or hip, just different. I relate to different. Not many do. Now he has to turn his body over to the men with the white coats. Seems like he used to work with the guys in the white coats, only they treated heads not bodies. All those skills will be needed.
We will all root for him, those who know him and those whose lives would benefit if they did. We know he will go through the process with the same degree of joy that he used in life. He’ll be a good patient and we will be good friends.
Cheryl’s On ChurchStreet
I have been taking pictures of Cheryl for a while. Funny how when a photographer knows the subject, the images improve. You can feel the trust and see the honesty, despite the desultory plight.
She has nothing, right now, she says. The evil step-mother took her money, leaving her homeless, a condition which caused her to have to return to jail to max out for lack of a residence. No one has given her any supplies, which she included in her requests just in case anyone would think she had a drug or alcohol problem which needed to be fed.
She delivered a message from a woman in jail who I have photographed. With no family or friends, the woman asked if I would write her. The woman faces the same prospect of maxing out due to a lack of a place to live. Not many supportive environments out here for people who have paid their debt. Dismas House heads a short list. But they kick you out if you don’t have a job, a problem for people with mixed substance abuse and mental problems.
Ryan looks out for her.
Four months ago, she looked like this. What did society gain by keeping her in jail.
Sy Rettinger, lives at 77
So, my friend, Sy visited yesterday from California. He stopped in VT after a pre-Rosh Hashanah cemetery visit. Charlotte died seven months ago. Palpable grief exudes, for how long who knows. 46 years of devoted marriage can do that to a man who lived with a witty, artistic and smart woman.
Sy practiced dentistry, left handed until a muscle injury forced his retirement. You can see the eyes that patients in the chair found reassuring as he improved their dental health.
He’s socializing while here with friends and family. Has kids and grandkids in the Western part of the country. Finding a creative self in stained glass. Carries a big and heavy heart. Helping to contribute to a new understanding of aging and living life to it’s fullest.
Lorin Duckman at 66
Every new year has to be a better year or else why live them. Someone asked how I was doing this moring at Shul: “Healthy, happy and I have a wonderful wife. What could be bad?”
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.
Leonard Duckman, Dead June 16, 1963
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”.
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.
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.
Ramy Still Grieves
You had a life to live forward to and then the guy dies. Wasn’t tough enough before him; now you got to move on alone. People keep records and tell stories. You got dignity and pain. Sometimes they cancel out, leaving you who knows where. But everyday you got to take your beauty into the street with your head hung high and smile.
And, sometimes, you have to maintain the mystery!
