Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: July 2024


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Band of mothers.

Certainly mothers continue to live on VanDyke Road, but not the ones that mothered me. Maybe that’s why I feel so protective of Phyllis Norton — our own “Private Ryan” of these original gravel road mothers. These women that shooed us gently home as we tried to hold up the summer sun. These women that called us in for dinners. Drove us to practice — to practice things that we would never excel at — things that they applauded nevertheless. These women that wiped the blood from our knees and elbows – blood that we did not share, but for the drops around the heart. These women that wiped our tears. Gave us cookies and baby aspirin. Unfolded card tables for selling lemonade — lemonade that they were the only ones to buy — the ingredients they already paid for. These women that came home from work and put the chains back on our bicycles before changing their clothes. These women that read to us. That brushed anyone’s hair that woke in their bathroom. This band of mothers that saved us daily. 

When I saw her picture yesterday on Facebook, riding a bus to Lake Latoka, it all came rushing back to me, like dust on a gravel road. Dust from a car that I can barely see now. Dust that rambles in my soul. Dust that begs the question, “Were we ever that young?” Yes. “Did we have such a neighborhood?” We did. These mothers that save me still, I give thanks for them, every day. 

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With flowers and gratitude.

When it comes to love, thankfully there doesn’t seem to be any “had I known at the time…”

I fell in love with my yellow bedroom almost immediately. It was the first time I got to pick out my own decor. Yellow! Everything was yellow. Carpeting and bedspread. Van Dyke Road shone a little brighter as the reflection jumped from youthful bed to the gravel. I could read at night without a light. It was so bright, but for the stairs, you never would have known I was in the basement. 

Was it even a year? I don’t know how long it was before my father sold the house and my mom and I moved to an apartment. I guess it’s true that perfection knows no time constraints, because even in giving it up, I went on loving it. I still do. And the heart, as broken as it seems, isn’t. It fumbles, yes. Stumbles, sure. But it keeps on loving. 

It’s not even the bathroom really. We have separate little rooms for our toilets. I give them flowers and paintings. Maybe a candle. Why? Because I love them. I wrote once, “this year, let’s love like no lessons have been learned…” — that’s how I decorate the bathrooms, the bedrooms, the kitchen, with flowers and gratitude, and a love that stays as bright and hopeful as a child’s bedroom. 

There are burners that I will no longer touch. And roads that I won’t take. But my heart climbs the stairs, and beats forever yellow. 

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Traveler’s Inn.

It seems like about 100 years since I last sat at this restaurant, so I wasn’t surprised to learn that they did in fact celebrate their centennial. 

We used to say it so casually, usually accompanied with an eye roll, “Oh, that’s so 100 years ago…” It could have meant last summer, or last week, this thing we were describing that we were so “over.”  I didn’t hear my mother say the words to my grandma, but I felt the sigh, when she suggested that we go to Traveler’s Inn for coffee. Maybe it was the weight of the “church basement” coffee cups, or simply the weight of time that passed. Hadn’t we actually gone there after church together as a family? Hadn’t we sat there in the certainty of all that weight? Between death and divorce, and rejection from the very church that led us there, perhaps it seemed almost an insult to my mom that these cups remained intact, while everything else was shattering. Still, we went.

I hate to admit it, but while the cups were clanking against saucers. While still uniformed waitresses brought out pastry rolls on big trays, I thought my grandma was old. Out of touch. I loved her so much, but couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she see this was all so yesterday? Couldn’t she see that no one was traveling to get here? We were the only travelers, and we had gone beyond. We had packed our emotional bags and were making our way to mall coffee. To lightweight mobile paper cups. To the freedom of tomorrow. 

My foot shook under the table, as if to pump the giant clock’s second hand. I was sandwiched between the past and future. My mother and my grandmother. “How’s your shitsky?” I asked my grandma, praying she’d eat faster. Both of them tried not to spit the coffee out of their mouths. What? What did I say? “It’s schiske,” my grandma said. (Though I still don’t know if that’s the right way to spell it. It’s not even google-able.) My grandma made these pastries for years in her farm kitchen. They laughed at how wrong I was. I laughed at how wrong I was. And we sat there, in the laughter, without time.

Traveler’s Inn is 100 years old, and I’m not over it. I love my grandma and my mom, like no time has actually passed. 

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Sometimes lemons.

I wasn’t planning to do it all yesterday. I thought I would just start with the jam. I made the first batch in the morning, and by early afternoon the remaining apricots said, “It’s time.” 

It being a Sunday afternoon, in France, my options were limited. I only had enough sucre spécial confiture (sugar for making jam) to create another small batch. I decided that I would make a tart as well. It became clear very quickly that I was going to have to Elsie my way through this. Within each recipe there was something that I didn’t have. Almond flour. Nope. Next. Whipping cream. No. Next. And this went on and on as the stores remained closed. I finally stumbled upon one where I had almost everything but the corn starch. Google recommended Arrowroot or Psyllium husk. If my pantry didn’t contain corn starch, how likely was it to contain Psyllium husk? My inner Elsie took over. More flour here, mixed with a dash more sugar. Vanilla, why not. And some of the jam I made that morning — of course I added it atop the fresh apricots and my homemade crust. 

While the tart was in the oven, I made another batch of the apricot jam. No apricots lost, and the house smelled of sweet victory. The thing is, we don’t always get to be ready. Possibly never. Yet, life ripens before us at a blistering pace, handing us a bowl of apricots, (sometimes lemons), and we get to decide whether we’re going to make something of it, or not. 


I’ve always been a bit of a worrier. It was my Grandma Elsie who showed me how to tweak that recipe and change it from worrier to warrior. With 9 children, “open or closed on a Sunday” would have been the least of her battles. And yet she conquered them all, ever so sweetly. 


It turns out the most important ingredients in a French tart are Swedish hands and a creative heart. Bon Appétit!

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Merrily.

Open windows on yellow buses made every team sound like a choir. 

Before we were even allowed to ride team buses, or had the need to, they taught us how to sing in a round — a song where everyone sings the same part at different times. We were only 5 years old when Mr. Iverson came into our classroom and introduced us with this gift. It wasn’t long before together we were rowing boats gently down the stream, running after mice that couldn’t see, even welcoming our sleeping French brother Jacques.

As with so many things, it seemed as if they knew how much we would need this commonality. As we grew, we were given the freedom to make choices. Join groups. Follow ideas. And with this, perhaps without our knowledge or permission, we began to see all of our differences. And begin to make judgements. Maybe that’s inevitable. But maybe that’s why they gave us the songs. The collective music calmed our nerves as we traveled to the event. It also helped us in the commiseration or celebration afterwards. Because in the song, as it made its way around the bus, we were one.

Perhaps more than ever, we need to row our boats merrily, together. Because isn’t it true that we are all on the same team? Aren’t we all asked to go through the same things, only at different times? Fear, anger, confusion, joy, even love — it all makes the rounds. If we could only see that we were all in this together, maybe we’d hear the music once again. 

Maybe it’s just a dream, but isn’t that what the song said life was supposed to be? We once sang it so loudly, so hopefully, “Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily…” Perhaps we could sing it again. 

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The 6th of July!!!!

I never slept the night before library day at Washington Elementary. I read again and again last week’s choice. And when sleep wouldn’t come, my mom read it to me repeatedly. By the time we had memorized the latest Cowboy Sam book, or even the longer Henry Huggins, I simply closed my eyes and waited. 

I wasn’t afraid of the library. Quite the contrary. I loved it more than my heart could let go. I suppose that’s why my mother never lost patience on those Wednesday evenings. “It’s good to love this much,” she said, lying wide awake beside me. I shook my head yes against her shoulder, and I was saved.

I didn’t sleep last night. But that’s probably not a surprise. Today is too important. This 6th of July — this Christmas morning, this library day, this birthday of my mother — way too much for my heart to let go. I read my book. I rested quietly in the truth that it is indeed good to love this much!  And I do! I love my mom. I always will. 

Wake up, everyone!  Celebrate with me!  It’s my mom’s birthday!  

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A branch of fools.


We used to see it all the time, my favorite tree, when we went to visit Dominique’s mother. I haven’t seen it since she passed. I suppose it would be a long way to drive just to see a tree. But I think of it occasionally. It had struggled with the drought of recent years. I painted it when it was full, hoping somehow it would be the hydration needed to keep it alive. 
Maybe I’m doing the same with all of my painting. Trying to keep the connections. Families branch out. Each limb gets thinner. That’s the nature of it, I suppose. But we can remain strong. 
Some say it takes work, but mostly I think it just takes care. You just have to keep caring. Even when it feels like love’s rain has abandoned us, we keep caring. Is that foolish? Probably. But for me that’s not disparaging. When I wrote of my grandmother and grandfather falling in love —
He said, “I’m such a stubborn man, Elsie. I’m stubborn as a mule.”She said, “I love you just the same.”He said, “Then I hear you love a fool.”And he fell for her as only fools can,and the story of Rueben and Elsie began.
 No one grew things like my grandfather. This mule. This farmer. I want to be this foolish. So I keep believing. I keep painting. I keep watering the branches. I don’t have to drive by to know it’s there. Love ever remains. Ever green. Ever growing.

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Giving proof.

I don’t think I owned a watch until I was in highschool, so it was impossible to judge the hour’s wait after eating and before entering the lake. I began turning my mother’s wrist every few minutes to view the Timex. She shook me off like the pest I was being. Ten minutes. 15 minutes. “Oh for heaven’s sake, you’re lit up like the Fourth of July!” She motioned me to go in already, knowing the risk of me imploding on land was greater than cramping in the water. 

I entered the water each time as if it were my first. Every splash released my “rocket’s red glare,” my “bombs bursting in air!” Of course it was never “through the night” but it was my proof, proof that everything was possible, exciting, uncontainable! 

I didn’t have the words for it then, but this unfettered joy was my America. I don’t ever want to lose that spirit. I don’t want us as a nation to ever lose it. The risk of us imploding perhaps is stronger than it has ever been. But we are still free. We are still young, and ever hopeful. 

I saw this young girl at City Park in Alexandria, Minnesota. I had to paint her. She lives on the canvas. She lives in my heart. This is who I am. Who we are!

Hope races me into the deep end of this Independence Day and I raise my hands in all the promise of the joy that can, should, and I pray, will ever remain. Happy Fourth of July! 

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Hotel breakfast.

Just because we didn’t leave the house doesn’t mean we didn’t go anywhere. 

It’s no secret that comfort can pack its bags and take off at any given moment. Knowing this to be true, I decided a long time ago that maybe I could open the suitcase for fear and anxiety — you know, nudge them off a little. 

So I invent things, like hotel breakfast. 

The night before last, I had terrible dreams. I don’t know that they were spurred on by the news, but I’m certain it didn’t help. So last night, getting ready for bed, I was determined not to watch anything political. The first video that came up in the rotation said “you can make bread at 8pm tonight.” I looked at the clock. 8:05. So I watched. And then mixed up the dough for the baguettes. I slept while the dough began to rise. I got up at 6am and finished the work. The house began to smell fantastic. I have made all kinds of bread, but never straight out of the oven for petit déjeuner. Topped with butter and honey — what a trip!!!! I’m still smiling from our mini vacation.

There are so many things we have to carry. We’re not given the option. But a lot of things we can let go. Even if just for the morning. And we can open our doors and windows to make room for the other things, like love, and fresh bread. We can open our hearts and tell joy, “Come in, you and your heart sit down.” 

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Lifted

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“I know you’re thinking, ‘anyone could have done it,’ and you’re right, everyone can, just not everyone does… But you did, you do…”

It’s a quote from my book about friendship. It’s something, to be lifted by someone. Sometimes it’s obvious, a full body wrap around the waist, holding you up. Or just as easily it could be a smile. A wave. A Wordle score sent daily. And the thing is, we get to decide, and then do it! 

And it’s easy to get stuck on, “Well someone should…” — and then you realize, I am someone. Someone who can. I suppose it’s as simple as, if you want to get an email, you need to send one. The same goes for a hug. A hand. A heart. Because the roles can and will be reversed, at any given moment. 

If you’re expecting someone to help lift your dreams, you have to be willing to dream them. Maybe it sounds risky to some, but I think the real risk is in doing nothing.  And so I painted this woman. Long before I knew she would be larger than life on The Great Wall of Honesdale. But she has been lifted. And so have I. I hope just seeing her, it does the same for you. We can all be dreamers. Givers. Friends. I don’t want to miss out on any of it. 

When you see her on that wall, or in the mirror, I want you to think, to know, “You did!  You do!”

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