Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Monthly Archives: September 2022


by Leave a comment

Still.

I thought I would feel the movement — going 200 mph on the train to Paris. I could see the landscape racing by, but it all felt so still.

When I was a child I thought that people aged at the same speed of their vehicles. My grandfather was old. And his truck was old. It seemed the only logical reason. It was rare to be alone with either one of my grandparents. There were so many children. So many grandchildren.

It was summer, late summer. The kind of day you really started noticing because you knew that the time was fleeting. My mother dropped me off to spend the day. No one else was there. It seemed delightfully strange. Almost magical. Grandma was in the kitchen. The sink was full. If Grandpa was aging along with his pick-up, Grandma was doing the same with her dishes. He put his pipe in the top pocket of his overalls, stood up from the kitchen table, and started for the door. Had it not been at my eye level, I might have missed it, but there it was, his hand, reaching back for me. He didn’t say a lot. He didn’t need to. I grabbed on.

We spent the day in his truck. Just checking things. Something in the field. Something at the neighbor’s barn. The sheds. The tools. The floor was scattered with soy beans. Greens and golds lined the fields as we drove through. I put my hand out the open window. I held my palm in line with the passing crops. The wind raced through my fingers and I felt like I held it all – held it all within me. The radio muttered something about the price of grain. I couldn’t hear it over the sweet sound of my Grandfather smiling at me. The sweet sound that said without words, “Everything is going to be ok. This is all for you. You know that. You know that I love you.” I smiled because I did. I did know that. The grains flew by the windows, but my heart felt still.

I was so excited. I had wanted to see Paris forever. And to arrive by train! Next to the one I loved. The romance of it all… None of it felt fast. Not in the moment. Maybe that’s time’s greatest gift – not letting us feel the speed. Watching the French landscape, I could hear that familiar smile. I felt love. I felt still.

Look out your window. This is the kind of day to start noticing. This is all for you.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

You are part of my story, and it is beautiful.

I turned onto Jefferson Street by Washington School. It occurred to me for the first time that Washington School was on Jefferson Street. I don’t know why, but I had always assumed that Jefferson Street was named after our high school, Jefferson Senior High. Ridiculous, I know. But stranger still to me is that the street remains, while Washington Elementary is now a building of condos, and Jefferson Senior HIgh is an empty lot with a pile of dirt. A big pile of dirt. 

It was at Washington Elementary, in the first grade, with Mrs. Bergstrom that I first learned the value of money. She surprised us one day with a piece of paper that would change my life. It was the Weekly Reader — a small newsletter for children. Inside this Weekly Reader, if you had permission from a parent, and the money, you could order books. Small paperbacks usually. But to me, they seemed like gold. My mother never hesitated. Of course you can order one she said. Of course — I had never loved her more. I ordered The Big Pile of Dirt by Eleanor Clymer. (I still have it.) The story is about the hopes and imaginations of a group of children living in the city. They have to make do with the limited circumstances of their childhood, but they don’t see it as a limitation – they have a big pile of dirt in their neighborhood and they love it. I never knew that we were poor. I never saw it that way. We had enough money to buy books. And within those books, there were no limitations. When the first order of books came, to the door of our classroom, I held my breath. Mrs. Bergstrom put the cardboard box on her desk. Opened her locked drawer and pulled out letter opener. Slid it along the taped edged. My heart raced. Other kids were talking. Didn’t they see what was about to happen??? Why weren’t they paying attention? The cardboard creaked as she unfolded the top. She pulled out the paper that was used for packing. She removed the stack of books. Mine was in there. Mine! In there! Not everyone ordered. I felt badly for them. Even those in their designer shoes, didn’t see how rich we really were. When she handed me The Big Pile of Dirt I held it with both hands. Felt the smooth gloss of the cover. Smelled the ink, still alive on each page. Clutched it to my heart. I had everything.
I wasn’t sad, passing the big pile of dirt yesterday. In my youth, I never saw the limitations, so why should I start now? Maybe it’s appropriate that it comes back to this — this beautiful pile of dirt. All things were possible before. And they will be again. I clutch the memories close to my heart, and drive into the new day. I have everything.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Making heirlooms.

I looked it up, to see the exact definition —. Heirloom: a valuable object that has belonged to a family for several generations.


I don’t suppose we’ve ever been a family of objects, but I’don’t feel badly about that. Because we do have valuables. My grandparents, being farmers, grew something every year. Not for display. But for the growth. The life. And the stories that remain, even after every truck and tractor, every tool, had been auctioned off, the stories remain. And I hear them. I write them. And I pass them on – these heirlooms.

Since I can remember, I have only seen my brother in overalls. He is not a farmer. I’m sure if you asked him, he would say for the comfort, the pockets, easier to work in… and those reasons are probably all true. But it occurred to me that maybe he is creating his own heirlooms. Just as I write the stories, he puts on my grandfather’s wardrobe, and gives his own grandchildren an image of the past. An image that they certainly will carry with them forever. Their Grandpa Tom wore overalls.


We get to decide what is valuable in this life. What is important to us. For me, it has always come down to the human connection. Never to be displayed on shelves, but certainly displayed daily, in hands reaching out, arms pulling in, love grown, lives shared.


Some days, as I type, I wonder, is it really important, to write these words? And then you respond with memories of your own. Share your stories — your heirlooms — and grandparents are kept alive, traditions, schools, hometowns… and I smile and know it is valuable — making these daily heirlooms.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

The view from gratitude.

You were encouraged to sit out of the swim lesson at Central Junior High if you had your period. No one ever checked, so some girls sat out all the time. I was just the opposite. I never missed a lesson. We had swimming every seven days, so I just chalked it up to good luck. Even wearing the hideous green swimsuits, with the unmatching swim caps. The color of the suit revealed your size, and the color of your cap revealed your level. I thank God this was before the days of cellphones, because the swimming pool was surrounded with glass windows, overlooked by the lunch room. The lunch room that fed the upperclassmen during our lesson. Even with all this, I still wanted in that pool.

I’m sure there were bullies, but the education system itself was enough to keep you humble. I knew we would never have a pool at home, so I thought it was luxurious. During the school year. Even during Saturday lessons during the winter when our hair would freeze waiting for our moms to pick us up.

I will gloriously never get used to the fact that we have a pool in France. The minute we open the pool in Spring, with the temperatures way below comfortable, I go in. And every day after that until late autumn. What a gift Central Junior High gave to me. To take advantage of what was offered. To be grateful. I will never forget it.

The view from gratitude is pretty spectacular.


by 2 Comments

Healed.

As with so many lessons, this one has taken a long time to learn. I used to think that it was the town’s responsibility to make me feel at home. To claim me. (I know, I’m smiling sheepishly as I type it.) Not until moving away, far away, did I figure out that it was my responsibility, my joyful responsibility to claim it for myself. And I do.

It was the same with my art. Even as a child, I thought, there has to be more. Why aren’t people sharing themselves with me. I want to know feelings — all of them. I want to know love and pain and heartache and laughter, sweet sweet laughter that only comes from knowing the first of these. But people don’t rush to an unopened door, so I gave it fling with paint and words, and started sharing it all through my art.

Even the hardest of times. When I was kicked with boots. No, I said. This is mine. I claim it. I will make it beautiful. It was a choice. Just as the scars on my body — I could see them as pain, or a sign of healing. A beautiful sign that I could in fact heal. I did in fact heal.

So we wander through this beautiful town. And it is mine. Big Ole – that big beautiful lug is mine. And I love him. The lakes. The swamps even. The wide lanes of main. The sidewalks. The laughter. The greetings. The Minnesota accents, all in agreement – you betcha. The empty echos of Herbergers. The mowed lawns. Children on bikes. Teams in red and black. All beautiful. All mine. All ours. So we feel it. Celebrate it. Claim it as ours – and make it more beautiful, every day!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Buoyed.

I could feel our friendship slipping away at Le Homme Dieu beach. We had been best friends. Inseparable really, for the whole school year. Sleep overs every Friday night. A secret language whispered across the desks of the classroom. Navigating through all the changes together. Would it be time to start wearing a training bra? And what were we training for? It was all so exciting. So thrilling. A little terrifying, but we were doing it together.

That summer, she living in Victoria Heights, went swimming at Lake Le Homme Dieu beach. I was a Latoka girl – had been ever since I could ride a bike. It was mid summer when she invited me to a small party, probably birthday, at Le Homme Dieu. My mother dropped me off. There was splashing and high pitched squeals. Water flying. Sand kicked up from heels. The same thing was happing at Latoka, but it felt different. I felt different. They all seemed to be in step. They knew each other’s moves. They had their own water dance. I tried to feel my way into the crowd, timing it, like Double Dutch. I felt like I was tripping. My best friend was making new friends. She fit into a new crowd. I was happy for her, and a bit sad. I didn’t have the word for it then – this melancholy – , but I knew the feeling. I knew the school year would bring changes. We would go in different directions. It had already happened before. A couple of times. Each change survived, and thrived. The newness conquered. Then enjoyed.

Yesterday, I went swimming at that same Le Homme Dieu beach. Just a slight touch of autumn whispered in the air. I was a child again. Buoyed by the same waters of youth. I now live in the French language of this lake. Bigger changes than I ever could have imagined. But life gave me the tools. I suppose it always does.

There is a melancholy in air. I feel it every year. And it doesn’t scare me. I enjoy it actually. Change is going to come, going to be survived, enjoyed even, as we kick up the sand, splash in the water, and navigate life’s dance.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

For the birds.

I used to think they were so stupid. It’s funny that we jump to “stupid.” In actuality, I guess I was afraid of them – the Canadian geese. Sure, I had been chased a little walking past Lake Henry, but never harmed, only hurried. (That hurrying was really my own doing. My own enemy.)

We saw a flock yesterday, overhead. In their usual “V”, heading south. How beautiful, I thought. And smart. I guess it’s all about perspective.

I went for a walk. I stopped by a little swamp. How lovely, I thought. I should take a picture. I took different angles. Look at the moss. The wildflowers. That bird on a twig. All the colors of green – the mixture of blue sky and yellow sun. So calm. So alive.

Living here, I must admit that I didn’t see it. It was all so ordinary. And swamps like these – you couldn’t swim in them. And I loved to swim – so for me it was useless. But when you live a little more. See a little more, you can see the beauty in things that are not meant just for you. This swamp is for the birds (I laugh when I type it) – for the fish, and flowers. For the greens of every growth. Seeing it, I was happy, for all of them – which made me happy for me, just to see it.

I heard the familiar honk overhead. The geese already knew. They weren’t so stupid after all.

Today will bring beauty. If I have the curiosity to look around. The wisdom to look up.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

By name.

Maybe it was because of the pink nose. Maybe my name selection was limited to cartoons. I named him Bozo – the first cow that wasn’t afraid to come to the fence where I stood with fallen green apples.

No cow had come on his own before. I had stood by that electric fence so many times. Afraid one would never come. Afraid one would. And on this day, this beautiful clown came toward me. Lumbering. My heart beat so quickly. My eyes moved from my hand, to the fence, to his face. Then I started to call him by name. “Come, Bozo, come…” The pink of his nose came closer. My hand reached over the fence. I was terrified, or excited – sometimes I think they are the same. I may have closed my eyes when I felt it, the roughness of his tongue that slurped the apple from my hand. “Bozo!” I screamed in delight.

I have always named everything. And everyone. I still do. The trees in our yard. The plants in our house. If I feel the connection, I name it. To be named is to be seen. And we all want that. I can hear Mrs. Bergstrom, my first grade teacher, call out my name — perhaps the first non-family member to do so. I was seen in the world. From that day on, I suppose, I wanted to hear it – my name, again and again. I want to give that gift in return.

So I dare reach over today’s fence, and call to you. I am terrified and excited. It means something. To be vulnerable. Willing. To put ourselves out there. To call each other by name. To really see each other, and connect! To give each other this gift – again and again.

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Language of youth.

“That’s where I went to school,” I said as we drove past Washington Elementary. “Do you want me to tell you every time?” I smiled as asking. (It’s a small town. That could easily happen daily.) “Yes,” he said.

Washington Elementary is now a set of condos. Central Junior High – offices. Jefferson Senior High – gone. I still carry the evidence that it was there. In my heart. In my mind. I hope, in my actions.

There is a universal sound of children on a playground. In every country. It doesn’t matter the language, you understand it when you hear it. Let loose from the weight of the classroom, the laughter and excitement explodes into energy. Through unlocked doors into the open air, this collective sound of belonging, growing, building, LIVING. No burden of trying to understand — they just do — understand that this is their time, their joy, and they are free. It is the cartoon language of youth.

I hear it in France. I heard it yesterday in Alex, as we drove by the condos of my education. Maybe we all want to keep it alive. Hear the sound of possibility. So, I tell my husband every time, and we smile. We hear it. No burden of trying to understand, we just do.

I suppose that’s why I write each day. To keep the language of youth alive for all of us. Can you hear it? Oh, please hear it. If, you like, I’ll tell you again tomorrow — because, my friends, this is our time, our joy — and we must LIVE!

Shop Now!


by Leave a comment

Into the blue.

We’re seeing the blue of the lakes now, not the frozen white of our last visit. Both will take your breath away, but for completely different reasons.

I’m not sure that we ever heeded the warnings, or even saw them, but they were there – “No life guard on duty. Swim at your own risk.” But the lakes were always open. Maybe that’s what I loved most about them. The beaches were public. No discrimination. (Even though our diversity at the time ranged mostly from pale white to deep red.) There was no concern for money or status. The blue waves didn’t know if you belonged to the golf club. What church you went to, if at all. No question of status. The water was open. So warning or no warning, I, we, would go in. The only risk seemed not to participate. Every day was a gift. Perhaps because we new the impermanence. Those waves would soon be still. Frozen. So we raced in. Under the sun.

I didn’t know at the time how telling it was. Everything would always be “at your own risk.” There would be nothing to protect you as you went into the deep end, of love, of life. But I remember. First toes. Straight out of winter boots, feeling the cool sand. Then wet. Colder still. But my heart is saying, you’ll adapt, go further. White shins, almost lavender, walking forward. Thighs shivering. You could wait. No, I can’t wait. Up to the bottom of my suit now. No turning back. Belly button retreating out of fear, like a turtle. Arms raised to prolong it. Brain saying retreat. Heart saying Go! Feet – always following the heart. Hands coming down. Splashing. You’ll be fine. It will be great. Heart beating – go -go, go-go. Diving under. Everything slows. Free now. Am I a fish? A bird? Everything is wild and easy and light. I belong. I am free. Nothing wasted.

The sun is coming in from the window. Blue shimmers all around. There will be chance. Choice. Risk. Love. I smile. Toes wiggling, I listen to my heart as it speaks daily, “Go further. Deeper. Into the blue.”

Shop Now!