Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: February 2024


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Words and toes.

Before there was ever a television series, nestled in the winter corner of my bedroom, book resting on my knees perched to my chest, I looked like every character in the Little House on the Prairie book. I lived in each word. I knew the steps to the house. The barn. I was the girl nestled to a loving Pa. I was the strong and worried Ma. Laura, running, always running. Mary studying. I knew each character in and out. The mean girl at the mercantile. The neighbors a horse ride away. There was no need to mark the page. I read it through. And read it again. 

The Washington Elementary School library made it possible for me to read the series a week at a time. The many years captured in these books lasted one winter of mine on Van Dyke Road. My little toes dug deeper into the carpeting as I traveled through each page. Because it wasn’t just my mind wandering. I knew I was there. That, I suppose, is the moment I learned the power, the magic of reading. 

Yesterday we visited the  three historic structures, including the Surveyor’s House, the Ingalls’ home that Pa built, and the First School of De Smet where Laura and Carrie were students. Maybe it was because of the snow, but I don’t think so…I felt it in my toes — they curled like I was seven again, as I ran to her statue. If you have a moment today, read — to a child in your house, at your library, or the one whose toes still curl beneath you. 

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Gentled in.

Perhaps it was because she was “giving us the keys to it,” but when Mrs. Bergstrom wrote the word ‘cast’ on the chalk board and called out to my hand that shot in the air, I yelled proudly, “Castle!” Her hair was pulled back so tightly, her smile was almost permanent, but this was more than that, almost gentle was her grin, “No,” she said softly, “but almost, and it’s a great word.” She let me come to the board and write out my word. Showed me the difference. It was an error in spelling, yes, but it never felt like a mistake. It felt like learning. I suppose that’s the greatest gift she gave to me.

Some of my paintings sell very quickly. Others don’t. They are all my castles. Each has taught me something. All have led me to my current palette. The place that fills my soul, comforts my heart and stretches my creativity. The place I live. It’s a process. I’m not always this gentle with myself. I can be short. Discouraged. Impatient. But I’m learning. And when I remember this, I see her face, smiling beside me, and I feel gentled into the lesson at hand. Some last a lifetime.

What’s taught is what’s known.

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Constant journey home.

I have seen them fenced in. Countless times. But it’s different in the wild. In their house. These bison. My heart beat quickly as we drove through the national park reserved for them, not out of fear — I wasn’t going to open a window or try to pet them — but out of excitement, reverence. This was seeing them, really seeing them. Powerful. Graceful. Perhaps even vulnerable, the kind one allows one’s self in the comfort of your own space. And it was beautiful.

Perhaps we could do that with all living beings. Like humans for example.

As I struggled to find my place in the ninth grade, I wandered from group to group. Sports. Creatives. Nerds. Even loners. Looking back I suppose we all thought we were the only ones without a map. I knew I loved reading. Writing. All things English. I did well in my other subjects. I got A’s in everything, but it was only based in work, not in adoration. So it came as a surprise to me when the math teacher asked if I wanted to join the after school group of Mathletes. I laughed at the proposal. I hope he saw it was out of nervousness and not disrespect. It never occurred to me that doing more math would be fun. “Just come. One time,” he said. “See if you like it.” I didn’t tell any of my other friends. Not the girls from the volleyball team. I wasn’t blind. I saw how they were picked on, made fun of, these Mathletes vs. the Athletes. But I went. I was uncertain which room they met in after school. I walked down the long hallway. I could hear laughter. I could see a light from the open door. Certainly it wasn’t them though, I thought. It was loud. Silly sounding. I was shocked to see it was them. High-fiving each other. Joking. So this is what they looked like, in their environment. No one knocking books from their arms. No one cuffing the backs of their heads. Calling them names. They were completely free to be themselves. I stayed the two hours. And I was happy for them. I didn’t join. It wasn’t for me, all that math, but I was so glad I saw it, saw them.

As we travel the country, there are a million places that I would never want to live. So many people I’m sure I don’t agree with in so many ways, but each town, each city, each place is a lesson in humanity. And what a privilege it is to see it. To see people. I hope I’m learning. I want to learn. I want to be respectful, even when I don’t agree. Kind, when I don’t understand.

Not that much has changed since junior high. We’re all still trying to find our way. It’s a journey. We would do well to see that we’re all on one.

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We Elsied right in.


Grandma Elsie phone-sat at the funeral home next to Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store. Within that one sentence, lay a wealth of adventure. 

If you were lucky enough to be included with the phone, (to be baby-sat at the funeral home), you were almost guaranteed a trip to Jerry’s Jack and Jill. My grandma was never one to deny her sweet-tooth, and Jerry’s Jack and Jill did have those toasted marshmallows she liked so much. But the trips had to be fast, she was phone-sitting after all. So we’d run next door. Wave to the cashier. Grab the treats. Stand in line. The bag always opened, if not finished by this point. Maybe it was the sugar rush, or the rush to get back to the phone that never seemed to ring, but she always forgot something. With no time to stand back in line, she’d hold up the forgotten item grabbed on the way to the door and tell them she’d pay next time. It was so unusual to me, I gave it a name. She “Jack and Jilled” it. My hero!

The list of things to visit on a snowy afternoon in Rapid City is very short. After taking photos with the presidents that line the Main Street, I only had one store I wanted to visit — Nerdy Nuts. They make their own peanut butter. Gourmet. It had a lure stronger than any toasted marshmallow. With excitement we pulled up to the building. Took our pictures in front of the sign. Went to open the door. Closed. My heart sank. But the lights were on. Someone was inside. Dominique knocked. And she came. Explained nicely that they weren’t open until the weekend. This was Wednesday. With Elsie hopping on my shoulder, I told the woman that we were from France. It was our only chance. Sure, she said. And we Elsied right in. She gave us a tour. A spoon. I have the jar of peanut butter beside me as I type. 

It’s a small thing, for sure, most delights are, I suppose…most acts of kindness. But they are not soon forgotten.

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Window dreams.

I have never been a go back to bed person. Even waiting for the winter school closings to be announced on the KXRA radio station, while all the neighborhood children were praying for anything — even two hours late — I prayed for fully closed or regular hours. I just didn’t understand the advantage of two hours late, I was already up. 

Full steam into that project, that emotion, even that brick wall. Maybe it’s my sign, my nature, my upbringing… I don’t know, but it is me. And I wouldn’t change it. But I have to keep reminding myself, that it’s not for everyone. And as natural as it is for me to want to get started, it is as natural for others to wish for a 10:00am bus. I smile, because I remember seeing the others, the Norton girls, still running out late with wet hair, even with the extra time. And for brief moments, I envied it, but I didn’t change.

So it comes as no surprise that I school myself each morning. Early. French lessons. Blog. Exercise. My “bus” arrives early. I only mention it because I can see the snow flurries out the window, and children’s prayers floating through the air. For some they will come true. For some they won’t. But one thing is sure, for both, for all, time will move faster than anyone can imagine. But the scent of wet clothes, and chilly toes, and wild hopes will remain. My dreams fog the glass of the window. I draw in a heart. And begin.

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Hope is mighty.

When I first learned of Mount Rushmore in Mrs. Bergstrom’s first grade class at Washington Elementary, I still believed that things lasted forever — carved in stone as it were. 

Several years later, when I stood before it, I suppose things had already begun to chip away. Life has a way of doing that. Or maybe it was the fumes from the school buses. The screams of all the other wild students, more thrilled about a day without study than the actual monument itself. I still liked it, but I’m not sure it felt all that reverential. Riding back on the bus, not to our house on VanDyke Road — a house that long gave away the promise that families stay together, that things last forever — but to a new apartment on Jefferson Street, I began to think maybe it was all a lie.

The summer before I left for college, I interned for the Recreation Department at Lincoln School. Working my way through the presidents, I suppose. In their laughter, the kids on the playground, I could hear it, they believed their summer would never end. Who was I to tell them any different. I joined in their play.

I don’t know if it was in college. At my first job. In my first apartment. Or all of them. But I began to build a new future. And it was never based on a forever, but a hopeful now, a hopeful next. And I moved further. And often. Carrying it with me. Hope will never weigh you down. 

Standing in front of Mount Rushmore yesterday, I felt it, the pure joy of it all. It seemed so clear. It was never about life’s permanence, but hope’s. Things will change. Even end. But through it all, we can be strong when wounded, joyful when discouraged. This is ever so light, and oh so mighty. I carry it with me. Ever. 

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Becoming.

There is a moment in the painting when I see it. It’s no longer just colors. Shapes. It becomes a person, in this case, she. And then I feel it. The responsibility. A joyful one, but still. I’m involved. And I become, well, part of the becoming. And it is beautiful.

Whether we’d like to admit it or not, we shape each other. From one encounter to lifetimes. 

When you place a stroke on the canvas, you can’t take it back. Just as with the things we say and do. Oh, we tried in school, at Washington Elementary. “No take backs,” we’d say. We didn’t know how right we were. But I’ve learned not to abandon the canvas. I keep going. Some turn out glorious. Some are worked. Saved. Painted over even. But something always comes of it — even if it’s just another chance to make something beautiful.

I hope I can see it with the people around me. And those around them. And beyond. I suppose we’re all just trying to become. Moment by moment. If we could see that, wouldn’t it be, couldn’t it be… isn’t it, just beautiful. 

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I stop chasing.

I don’t imagine I thought so at the time, but one of the best gifts my hometown gave me was one channel. Channel 7. No time was wasted chasing the choice. I didn’t even have to turn on the television to know the programming. The schedule was memorized. The options were clear — this lucky number seven, or outside. Most of the time I chose the latter. 

We have special names for it now. People make vision boards. Read The Secret. Fill their planners. I smile, because I think we knew it all along. These laws of attraction. On Van Dyke Road there was an empty lot next to Dynda’s. To start of game of softball, or kickball…any kind of ball… one didn’t run from house to house slamming on screen doors, or calling out names. All you had to do was go to the field. Bring your ball. One by one, (or faster if the Norton girls came all at once), the ditch would be filled with abandoned bikes and the grass with players. We were well advanced of the “if you build it, they will come.” 

I mention it only to remind myself, and maybe you. What is I want? How do I want to spend my time? And with whom? 

I met my cousins for the first time at my grandparent’s farm. I wanted them to like me, so I ran after them. Nipped at their heels. They screamed. Cried. I didn’t understand. I sat alone on the front stoop. My grandfather, who saw and knew everything, but said little, handed me a rubber ball. “Bounce it,” he said and walked away. I was sure he didn’t understand, but I did it anyway. Thump. Thump. Thump. They came from around the corner of the house. First Shawn. Then Kalee. Even little Patrick. We played for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes even with the ball. 

There are so many options out there. Often too many. When it gets too much for my brain and heart, I remember the things I love. The people I love. I stop chasing, and attract. 

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How hard is it?

The barista called out “Devony…” We looked around a little. No one else got up. I went to check the coffee. “And here’s the second one for Devony,” she smiled. Somehow Devony made much more sense to them than Dominique. But the coffee was delicious — a rose by any other name, I guess.

And we don’t fare a lot better when using my name. Jodi is always spelled incorrectly, if not made into Joni, or Josie, or Joey. But it doesn’t really bother me, as long as the coffee is good. 

It’s so easy to get hung up on the little details. And I’m not proud of it, but I can do it as well. Take the gym, for example. Each morning I go down to the hotel fitness center to use the tread mill. If you don’t pull the emergency stop button and put it back on, it doesn’t reset. Not a big deal, but then the time doesn’t reset and unless you checked the clock, you can’t measure your workout. I used to get very annoyed by this. One day I heard myself saying, “How hard is it to just reset the button when you’re done???” And then I heard it… “How hard is it???” Indeed. Now the first thing I do is reset it myself. It’s not hard at all. And then I don’t have to be upset. “Oh, Devony…” I say to myself and smile, “You’re learning. You deserve a coffee.”

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Vikings in Wyoming.



I heard her before I saw her. The greeting came from the back of the store. I scanned through the Wyoming t-shirts and could see nothing but cowboys. “Here I am,” she said. I followed the voice below the racks this time, and I saw her — the tiniest woman, her smile actually bigger than her shoulders. I could see she was still tethered to the oxygen tank at the back of the store, but that was not going to stop her. She seemed genuinely delighted that we were there. She started with the usual questions, what brings you to town, where are you from… After we said France, the gates were opened! She had been to France, even to our area. She and her husband had taken their children. She was so proud that – as it should be! Before she told us she was 90, she made sure of the important things — like she was educated, she loved learning, she was still curious, and she loved to read. I said I loved to read as well, and she was off to the back room again to get her latest book — a hard cover, at least three pounds, about Vikings. She handed it to me, and told me I just had to read it! After taking a picture for a reminder, I asked if I should bring the book back to her office. “Oh no, she said, I may be 90, but I’m healthy — we were all looking at the green tube that connected her to the back room… “Oh, I shrunk so much that my esophagus and stomach are in my lungs, but I’m still strong. I love life.” She told us how she follows the news. Follows politics. Wants to know what is happening in the world. I couldn’t stop smiling at her — this 4’ 10” Viking amid the cowboy t-shirts.

It’s funny what we romanticize. Who we call our heroes. Who we think of as strong and brave. It is so easy to get lost in the cowboys of it all, when the real people worthy of our admiration our walking right beside us, in the racks. I mention it only so you will look around. Or maybe so you will brave the tether and let others see you.

She marveled at how tall I was, but I knew that she was the real Viking. I told her what a pleasure it had been to speak with her. Her story may not make the brochures. Maybe there is more to see in Cheyenne, but certainly there is nothing better! She will not be tethered. I carry her story with me.

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