Category: Sharon Duckman

Bromeliad Imperialis, Dead

Lost a favored plant yesterday, a Bromeliad Imperialis. Very sad. It graced our simple, humble garden, providing class and style. No post mortem, yet, could have been water or insects. Doesn’t matter why; just too bad we lost it.

So, these bromeliads just sit where we place them.  They are from the air plant family, too big for household entertainment. Some of their beauty lies hidden within, protected by layers of leaves. The flower once. In the end, bromeliads sometimes kill themselves trying to multiply, leaving a legacy, but no history. They are indigenous to Florida, withstanding the changes in weather and temperature, while lending exotic flavors to outdoor spaces.

Our gardner, Richard King who designed our simple plot with Sharon, lost one too, recently. We both will be finding replacements.

We remain positive that the booster will provide me with some protection from Covid 19 or whatever it’s called. Cannot understand why someone wouldn’t be vaccinated or wear a mask. I know how close my immunochallenged system could be to death if I get sick. So, shoot up and wear a mask.

Woman ahead of us in line at Publix was also immunocompromised. She had tears in her eyes. One person showed up for his first dose, pulled in by his mother. He wasn’t wearing a mask. Maskless woman called me a Douche, as she coughed while picking up a prescription. She said she would never put anything in her arm and would not wear a mask, because she wanted to breathe. Guy waiting for a booster sitting next to us said that unvaccinated should die in the parking lot.

My advice – vaccine, mask, and social distance.

Sharon Duckman, 72

When people ask how long we have been married, I always say, “not long enough.” Without her, I would be a homeless person. Ageless. I cannot live without her, adoring even the difficult moments.

When I was suspended from the bench, preceding my removal and the end of my judicial career, I tried to go back to work after spending 7 months with her, full time. People asked how I felt, not really caring, but out of politeness. I said, “…, frankly I miss the time I got to spend with my wife.”

We moved and stayed together. We have moved a few more times and stayed together. Now we have sickness and injury. We live in a place we don’t like and doesn’t like us, and we are still together.

Morikami Reopens

Morikami Museum and Gardens reopened today. It is like we were reconnected to our lives. We see new things every time we go and never seem to stop loving being there.

Summer colors on the way. Plants haven’t really awakened, but will as the rain and sun return. The reds aren’t that red and the yellows are a little green, but who cares.

Not that I know what the symbolism of all the sculpture or the shapes of the gardens, but I feel it.

Boca Museum Reopens

 

We went to the early opening for members, but the power was out due to a thunder storm. Felt normal being able to visit a cultural institution in the midst of Corona and Black Lives Matter. We even dressed for the date.


We returned the next day. Only a few people present. Museum show featured Self-Portraits from the National Gallery and prints by Steichen. We dressed again.

I got to see a Chuck Close, one of my favorites and pose with him. Too complicated to explain here.

But Steichen will always be the start, the greatest portraitist of the 20th Century. He invented it. Here is a self-portrait where he photographs himself as a painter. He preferred photography and destroyed many of his paintings.

 

 

 

 

Lorin Duckman, 72

I turned 72, which was a good thing and a not so good thing. As to the former, I am alive; as to the latter I have CLL, a blood disorder that isn’t lymphoma or leukemia, but what it is requires me to take pills everyday and be fearful of falling or catching a cold.

I have a marriage that thrives, even though I didn’t support us as planned or become the man we both wanted me to be. I cannot shake the past and don’t have much of a productive future planned. My photography comes second to my wife, so for those two things, I don’t want for attention, assignments or affection.

I read, shoot pictures, travel and volunteer. The images I make at the Soup Kitchen of Boynton Beach are printed and handed out. I have been given a wall that needs to be filled. People leave stuff at our door which I deliver and I beg for diapers (4s and 5s), along with donations of money, clothes and household goods.

Nothing can be done to ease my pain or fix the story. No one knows what happened to me, except a select few and I am not important enough to find out the truth. Not saying I was perfect, just not so imperfect to have been the subject of judicial and political torture. Few friends, none close, and few relatives, none close. Not so bad as long as I  live.