She, who carries

Saigon, 1998

She, who carries the heat and the sea,
is handed to me in a heart beat proud
and strong.Where tiny lungs labor through
time’s phlegmy chest. Rattled breath sacrificing
ying, ying of the ancients,for the comfort
that ah, da da brings. She sings,past the
clutter and our ancestral emphysema.She brings
the heat and the sea, and the promise of continuance.

“Sit up child! Soon you will be a Barbie.”
They prop her up, wipe her nose.

“She, Vietnam?” they ask us.
“Yes,” we submit.
“She’s lucky!”
“We’re lucky!” It’s plain to see.
In our first unbridled cyclo ride,
grappling iron fingers grappling with new life.

Ardmore 2008

She, who carries the heat and the sea,
slender tween sings and sways to a beat proud
and strong. No trace of labor or sense of lack,
as she casts a line toward adolescence.
Deep within her form, like so many flecks of rice,
polished by the ages, her first unbridled cycle
speaks the promise of continuance.

She, who carries the heat and the sea,
seasons her language with salty shards of youth,
melts chocolate hearts in her palm.
Her blood remembers
the heat and the sea,
where generations of fish spawned
generations of family under thatched roofs,
saluting the heat of dawn,
swaying with the tide at dusk.
She carries their blood,
but her memory is free.

She, who carries the heat and the sea,
beholden to no one, breathes
confidence, speaks her mind,
grapples with new emotions.
She will be, what she will be.
But the blood that flows from her
heart to the sea, carries me.
Lucky. Lucky.

White Noise (for Tony)

Oh,
sleeping son
of faded stars, blue
blood rhythms seething.
Ensconced in layers of dusty
sheets, blankets of camphor and
must. Generations of gentiles carefully
coiffed screech to a muted
halt in this black room
with white noise.
When
you shrug, I am
Atlas, robust and red.
When dreams are accessed,
dust must fall. Daily our rhythms
meter, teetering on the brink.
Oh,
who will release
the shudder, the ancient
worry, exposing our pastures
for green. Future is written in
sepia-toned captures of dreams.

Merrie's Threads

Merrie’s Threads


I know a gal named Merrie
with a spirit like... Christmas.
Well, a secular christmas,
big, bawdy, unbound.

She is merry,
living on a thread of hope.
Give her an inch,
she’ll take a yard
and wrap it ‘round those she loves,
tight, and hang on for dear life.

She bargains...
“Dear Life,
I love you, I want you
I have a simple dream for more life-
A house in the country for me and my kids,
to watch them grow and flower.
I love to work, making pictures and money,
so I shouldn’t have to ask any more.
That’s all I ask.”

She tugs for more thread,
and rushes toward the cure.
“You got it, I’ll take it. I’m there!”
She wraps the thread around all that is left of
her four-foot-ten-inch body,
becoming invincible, living on hope,
devouring doubt.

She grows big, bawdy, unbound.
“I’m still here!” she shouts. “I am life itself!
How can this stop me? Can we party now?
I’ll take some more of that!”
She takes till she’s full of hope and nothing less.
Unstoppable!

She’s a girl on a thread so long,
it must be extended from heaven-

Ancestors hard at work,
trimming hours, days, weeks, months,
years off of lives already lived.
They don’t need them any more.
They want her to have them.

She gathers up her hand-me-downs from heaven.

“Schmates,” her grandmothers whisper.
“Zie Gezunt. Wear them in good health!”

Proudly she wears their hugs and kisses,
till they’re worn out.
Then, yanks for more thread
and gets it!

Only heaven knows how long the thread is,
but when there is no more,
there will still be hope-
the worn, warm, comfortable clothing of the soul.

January Post to Remember Merrie

I am dedicating my January post to my cousin Merrie Renee Choder Johnson, who passed away in January of 2007. Merrie left behind her three beautiful children, her devoted parents, family and friends. Our lives are forever changed for having known her.
Her courageous battle to stay alive gave me an appreciation for the gift of life, and for the heroic person she became because of her illness. I have posted my poem, ‘Merrie’s Threads’, written when it occurred to me early in her illness, despite a world of love and prayers, that Merrie would not triumph over breast cancer. I thought ahead to her funeral, and what comfort I might bring. I’m grateful I was able to share this with Merrie on her thirty-sixth birthday, and was able to perform this, receiving a direct infusion from the ancestors, later that year at her funeral.
I am posting her obituary, as well as a brief visual biography. Merrie was a visual person, a photographer by trade, and this would be her favorite part. Photo credits go to the family collection, Tracy Kauffman Wood, Merrie Renee Johnson, and Anthony B. Wood.
Thank you for allowing me to share this with you. I ask if you are able and so inclined, to please make a contribution toward curing breast cancer, whether it be through the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, 125 S. 9th St., Suite 202, Phila. PA 19107, or by
learning about the work of the Center for Advancement in Cancer Education 300 E. Lancaster Avenue - Suite 100 Wynnewood, Pennsylvania 19096 , or any other way you’d wish. Let’s re-enliven, and fulfill the hope that fueled Merrie.

Merrie Renee Choder Johnson 4/7/70 - 1/4/07

Merrie Renee Choder Johnson
4/07/70-1/4/07

Merrie Renee Johnson (Choder), 36, died of breast cancer on Thursday January 4, 2007. She is survived by her three children, Megan, 15, Zachery, 14 and Casey, 9. Also, she is survived by her three devoted parents, Sybil Weinstein, Alan Choder and Dennis Weinstein. She leaves her brothers, Greg (Rae) Choder and Daniel (Alyson) Weinstein and her nephew Joshua.
Merrie fought a courageous and unforgettably determined battle against cancer. She was diagnosed in September 2001, with Stage Three breast cancer. The seriousness of this diagnosis never diminished her positive, hopeful attitude. She was determined to be a survivor. And she did survive with gusto and a boisterous spirit for almost six years. She never gave up hope as the disease ravaged her body. She simply adapted to the changes in her body resulting from constant treatments. She wore her bald head and flat chest proudly to tell the world, “If I can get through this, so can you!” She focused on what could never be taken from her-her love for her family and love for life itself. She became well known to the clients and staff at the Oncology Unit at Abington Hospital because when she wasn’t being treated, she was there to chat, joke and bring treats to the other patients. She was proactive in her treatment and her doctors and nurses appreciated the strength, energy and optimism she brought to their collective fight. In December, the hospital awarded Merrie a grant, so that she could be home with her family for Christmas with the necessary help she needed.
Merrie was an artist and comedian. She and her brother Daniel, would turn family dinners into slapstick farce. Everyone remembers Merrie smearing her young daughter Casey’s face into a plate of food before the toddler could start eating and do it herself. With her tremendous regard for family and art, and her whimsical spirit, it made so much sense that she became a wedding photographer. Her clients and colleagues will remember Merrie Renee as a high spirited, hard working perfectionist who obviously loved her job. She began her career working for Lindelle Studios, and grew her own business for ten years well into her battle with breast cancer. She only stopped working recently when it became physically impossible for her. She was supportive to her colleagues and competitors always giving them referrals when she was not available. Her wedding clients usually ended up as friends. Merrie gathered a community of friends and family around her like water droplets gathering strength and merging on a window pane. She leaves us all with her tremendous spirit full of joy, hope and love.

One Beat Home

One Beat Home
c. 2005

I was back in our house last night, in a dream.

I thought I was done with that.

You asked, “What shade should we use in the front?”

We will make things fresh with paint.

Yes, we, the three of us need this house now.

I can see the steps from down the block,

and the rail which we will paint white.

What would my mom and dad think of this

new shade we pull on their dream?

Their dream house where the kids played in the shade

of the tree whose fruit would be plucked by birds in June.

And Dad would watch and scream at those birds

through the glass, from his chair, with his tea.

From a glass he drank tea, with a bowl of fruit

he left out for me, fruits of blue and green and red.

Which squish when you bite and turn your tongue dark in June.

And Mom on the porch in her suit for the sun

with a snack, and a book and her smile.

I thought I was all done with this,

but who can stop a dream?

A Trip to the Avenooo

A Trip to the Avenooo
Tracy Kauffman Wood Copyright 1997

The trek to Bustleton Avenue is the earliest excursion I can remember. There was the bank where voices called out from above: “Can I help you?” The marble counters were so high I could never track their source. There were slips of paper within my reach and pens on chains dangling from the sky. I scribbled my heart’s desire and waited. It worked. My mother and I left the bank padding our wallets and ready to shop.
Ben’s Fish Market was next door. It smelled like the ocean. Most of the time we just went there to gawk. Fat men in white aprons armed with nets and clubs patrolled the aisles like policemen between tanks of live carp. “I want that one.” The bony finger of a serious housewife crossed in front of my eyes as I leaned over the sides of the tank. This verbal cue set off the deft motions of the fat man. His arcing net would drop, catch and throw a three footer onto the counter and with two quick conks of the club, knock the life out of it. I’d watch for the final shudder of a dying fish. It reminded me of falling asleep, how my legs would jerk before dreaming.
They would clean the corpses in front of us, and worse in front of the live ones. My eyes would wander back to them. Did they know what I knew? I’d be shaking pretty hard too if I were to be laid out on fancy china, an ugly, colorless, spongy mound garnished with an overcooked carrot slice and a dab of garish horse radish. It all seemed too great a sacrifice. But I’d make it up to them. I’d never eat gefilte fish. I’d rush outside, nose struck by a hardball. A man, stomach tied together with apron strings shoved a block of what looked like wood into the top of a grinder. Out came horse radish, the source of my aching nose. I wasn’t fooled by its neutral color. Later it would be dyed blood red with beet juice.
We escaped the carnage, ducking into Martin’s Wholesale City. This place could cure all ills of the mind and spirit. A blond woman with a raspy voice sat perched on a high stool behind the counter and a thick cloud of smoke. She knew the exact location of every item in the store. “Rubber bands, right side, aisle four, half-way down,” she’d bark from her throne. I wondered if she had legs. I never saw them. She never moved except to light up another cigarette. If you came back to her exasperated, she’d become more specific. “Red, white and blue box, next to the paper clips, underneath the reinforcements, above the scotch tape...” Her eyes kicked into place like lemons in a slot machine as she keyed out an office supply. “Bingo!” she’d say when you arrived at her counter with your rubber bands. I couldn’t wait to shop there for my school supplies. Black-and-white bound hardback books with lined paper called out to me. Only when I owned these would I know what it was like to be a schoolgirl in the world. When that day came, I wouldn’t have to ask where to find them.
We went to Lou’s Deli next because in front of the display cases, they had pickle barrels. Prongs were tied to the barrels for snagging pickles in the brine. There were plastic bags on either side to plop your pickle in, as if it were a goldfish. I never remembered to roll up my sleeve before I leaned in to pluck a fat one. The others would slither up beside my arm. For the rest of the morning, I’d have to endure the acrid smell on my wet sleeve and dripping arm. If I’d wet my pants, I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable. But they sold penny candy next to the cashier to absorb my mother’s change. She preferred Hershey Almonds, I liked Tootsie Rolls. She taught me at a young age, the power of chocolate to chase down sour pickles.
We’d window shop our way home. Images from an adult world filled my mind.
“Will I have bosoms like ice cream cones? The nude mannequins at the ‘Jean Kleven Shoppe’ do.” My mother and aunts didn’t.
“Can I have one of those crystal balls?” Silver balls threw light around the window displays. I wanted to hold one between my hands and look inside for Auntie Em and the wicked witch. But my mother was already in front of Spirt’s Shoe Store.
“What will you choose for your first day of school?” my mother quizzed me. “My sisters and I all got bunions from hand-me-down shoes. Bubbe bought them off a pushcart. They ruined our toes. I always swore, if nothing else, my kids would have new shoes!”
This story was already familiar to me, lingering over the purple velvet MaryJanes. The black suede with sensible strap might be better. What about tap shoes? With each pair, a new image of running, skipping, dancing down winding streets in far off lands enveloped me. Pressed against Spirt’s window, Mom and I dreamed of the day when my perfect toes in brand new shoes would step into line in the world beyond the avenooo.