Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: August 2024


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This table is strong.

Maybe it’s because of the cell phone. With a click of a button we can find out all the when and wheres. Photos. Google Maps.  I guess my grandparents had a similar device, they called it the kitchen table. Prompted not by clicks, but conversation, they could pull out the dates of every snowstorm, every wedding, death, birth, and pass it around the table faster than any screen. Do we have conversations like this any more? 

I’m all for progress. I use my phone daily. My computer to communicate with you. But I hope as you read this, you can slide your chair a little closer to the table. Lean into the conversation. Not just calculate the facts, but feel the words. Trace the palms on tables. The half empty coffee cups. Cookie crumbs. Lean on elbows (because there’s no formality here). Bury your head on shoulders. Catch the laughter. Wipe the tears. Dare the repeats and the “remember when”s.  

One of the greatest gifts I receive is when you tell me the story you remember while reading mine. And a new story begins. The conversation continues. Along with the love. Never a need to worry, this table is strong. 

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Paperwork.

I suppose it had seat belts, the back of our Chevy Impala, but I don’t remember ever using them. I liked sitting on the floor and spreading out my school papers on the big bench seating. Maybe it was because I had heard my mother say it so many times — at her work desk, after getting the mail, at the kitchen table — when I asked what she was doing, it was always “paperwork.” I thought it sounded so important, so grown-up. That’s why on a Sunday afternoon, going to my grandparent’s farm, long after all of my homework was done and double checked, I brought it with on the drive. The road rumbled beneath me, as I arranged the times tables and book reports on the maroon pleather seat, waiting for my mother to ask me, knowing she would, “What are you doing?” — so joyfully, so insync, so proud to be just like her, I would answer, “paperwork.” 

Long after going nearly paperless, in front of our computers, ipads and smartphones, the feeling remained. The years turned it into more of a private joke, but still a connection, and our answer to almost every “what are you doing?” was paperwork. 

It still makes me smile, even as I ask the question silently in my head, I ride the slight rumble of a gravel road beneath me, the wave of papers flying about my head, and I can feel the long-armed reach of my mother’s hand slide between the two front seats and touch my shoulder, and all is at it should be — I am loved. 

Unbelted at my desk, my paperwork done for the morning, I joyfully step into the day.

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Between two adorations.

I have the nose of a canine police dog when it comes to sniffing out the fresh melancholy of an approaching autumn. It started early. Nearing my return to Washington Elementary, I felt it. Not really sick, nor worried. I tried to describe the feeling to my mother. She checked the usual spots. Forehead. No fever. She rubbed my stomach. “Not in my belly really, closer to my heart,” I directed, “kind of jimbly.” She smiled, not in the “something was funny” kind of way, but in the “I know exactly what you’re feeling.” I sat on her lap. “Summer is ending,” she said, “we’ll miss it, won’t we?” “Yes,” I said. “But school is starting, and you love school.” “Yes,” I said, and really meant it. “You’re just fluttering in between. We call it melancholy.” “Melancholy?” It sounded dangerous. “It’s not bad. It’s good actually. A gentle easing into something new. Between the letting go and the moving on. You get to feel the love of both. I think that’s why it feels so full.” I liked that explanation. And I began to like the feeling. Embracing it with the change of each season. 

It came this morning. Filling me from head to toe. Jimbling around my heart. And I am not afraid. I am lapped in my mother’s love, between two adorations —  summer’s fun and autumn’s lessons — and I am saved. 

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One hundred percent.

They can’t all be “bombshells,” but do they really need to be? 

One of my first jobs out of college was doing advertising for a nationwide window treatment company. The first thing I noticed was that the starting price point seemed to be 70%off. Where do you go from there, I thought. I asked my boss. She didn’t have an answer. That’s just the way it is. Her boss had no answer either. I was told not to question it further. It was my job to figure out how to make it sound special. Short of giving it away, I had no idea. It seemed so complicated, not to mention the math. What if we all just agreed to start at the actual price? I proposed at a staff meeting. They all laughed. Was I young? Sure. Was I naive? Probably. Wrong? Maybe not. Yet, we started at the impossible beginning and worked our way into the unbelievable. 

I think of them when I see my daily newsfeed. Everything starts with a “Bombshell” this, and a “Bombshell” that. It only takes a few clicks through the array of underwhelming to know that here too, we are starting at 70% off. 

When did the truth become so insignificant? When did the very blinds we look through have to become part of the story? 

Don’t get me wrong, I love to make everything special. But that doesn’t have to mean extravagant. Sometimes the most simple things are beautiful because they are indeed simple. We start each morning, not with a “Grand Slam Breakfast,” but toast and jam. I made that bread, not with a bang, but a smile. And it is 100% delicious.

And I’ll admit that it is exciting on the days when I get 100 likes. Thirty is good. But my bombshells come in the creating. Look what I get to do!!! Put paint on canvas! Words on paper. I suppose because it is my truth, my 100%. My heart. Maybe we could all begin from that point. Is that a bombshell? Probably not. But it feels like a pretty good place to start. 

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Heart easel.

My working easel shows the signs of every painting I have made here in France. Through the years it’s hard to know if that blue came from a seascape or a pair of denim overalls. Were those fleshtones or sanded beaches? Sunrises or sets? And maybe that’s the real beauty — they aren’t just one thing, these splashes of color — they are everything. 

Each painting is so different. Some come in a flash, others I have to really work for. I heard once that to find the image, sometimes in the middle you have to lose it. I have found that to be so true with portraits. A millimeter in the slanting of a nose, or opening of an eye can take the image from someone you love to a stranger. It’s then you have to decide, do I abandon this piece, or do I work through it? 

So far, I have never let a painting go. Can I say that for real life? I’m not sure. It’s too easy now, with one click of a button, a friendship can be deleted — for what? — that “millimeter”? That “slanting of a nose” may have been a vote cast, a value shared, a flaw revealed… and click, gone. 

I want to be more like my easel. Celebrating the victories large and small. Recognizing the difficulties and blending them all into the experience. Because soon it all just becomes a mixture of hues. A life. A beautiful life. 

I’m eager to start the next project. My easel is open. May my heart be the same. 

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The translators. 

I suppose every baby sister looks to her older brother. Forgetting all the complicated gender roles, I don’t think it has to be defined as support, or leadership, nor guidance…maybe sometimes it feels that way, but really, for me, I just want to be loved. And speaking of complications…it has taken me a long time to understand that people don’t, or can’t always love you in the way that you want. 

Learning the French language, it becomes more clear every day — “that doesn’t translate,” “we don’t have a word for that,” “we have six words for that,” “we use the same word, but for different context.” What??? It seems to be the same for love. My brother and I have always struggled to get the language right. When I’m looking for a hug, he will bring me a sack of fish. Me thinking, “why can’t you just do it,” — while he’s probably thinking, “look what I did for you…” I’m trying to get better. I want to get better. If I can put forth the effort to learn French, I must try to learn the language of Tom. 

It was at my mother’s funeral when I felt it. The minister told us to stand, while grief told my knees to buckle. It was Micah, my nephew, Tom’s youngest grandson, who switched places and stood beside me. He put his small arms around my waist and just held me. I can still feel it. Love.

When I began this painting of Tom’s arm wrapped around Brody, (his oldest grandson), and Brody’s arm wrapped around Micah, and Micah’s arm simply reaching out, I got it. The hug, the love, was being passed down through all of them, somehow finding its way to me. What I had been longing for, I already had. Love.

It was Brody and Micah who became the translators. I don’t know how to fish, but I do know how to paint. I hope they can feel the love in this. I do. 

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The Strand.

It was the first gift given to us by Washington Elementary, and one of the most lasting. Plopped randomly on our mats behind her big wooden desk, Mrs. Strand stood before us. We all accessed this new situation. Some through tears. Others laughter. I looked around. Of all the boys and girls, David Holte was the only one from Van Dyke Road — surely an ally if I needed one. One eye remained on him, the other scanned the room. Everything was unfamiliar. Even this way of sitting, cross legged. For the past 90 days or so, I don’t remember even sitting. When the sun came up my legs began to move rapidly, only to come to a screeching halt as it set in the evening. Hands on my bent knees I marveled at how quick they were to obey. So ready to relinquish their bronze color. To give in to the lavender-white just around winter’s corner. My toes still jiggled, perhaps all hope was not lost. They kept time with my fluttering heart. What could she possibly give us, I thought, that was worth letting go of August. Then she asked the question — “What did you do over your summer vacation?”  Thoughts were now audible. There was an excitement in the room. Sweaty thighs lifted above mats. Arms shot in the air. All of it danced above our heads — every lake splash, every bike ridden, baseballs soaring, car windows open, dogs barking, wagons pulled, Dairy Queens and Crazy Dayz on main street — all alive! How did she do it? Even with the windows closed and the door shut, everything got in. We still had everything. And when we shared, we had even more. 

I won’t forget this gift she gave. (It’s not lost on me that it was indeed a “strand,” — one that connected us, and led us forward.) I use it every day. 

August 15th sounds its warning of summer’s end. I miss how easily I used to jump from a cross legged position. I miss my mom. But, joyfully, it still all gets in. All the splashes of laughter and comforts of love. There is still so much more to learn. Days to welcome with fluttering toes and hearts. I’m ready — ready for more. 

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It’s 3:15 somewhere.

I adored playing on the team. Any team. For all the usual reasons, of course. It was fun to hit a ball, spike a ball, shoot a ball. But there was so much more. Having a place to go at 3:15pm, instead of an empty apartment, this was something! The largest room in the school said, “welcome,” as my sneakers squeaked across a polished floor. Passion and practice swirled from gym to bus, as we sang our way to each competition. Wins and losses forgotten. Conversations turning to bedrooms postered with dreams, and unrequited loves. I wrote poems for seasons beginning. Seasons ending. Heart forever on my uniformed sleeve. And I was home.

If this sounds less like sport and more like therapy…maybe it was. I learned pretty early on, that you don’t have to blend to belong. I suppose we all had our reasons for coming together. The thing I appreciated the most was that we didn’t question it. Never said, “I wonder why she’s here???”  I wish we still did that — concentrated more on the welcome than the motivation. What if we said, “Well, it’s 3:15pm, why wouldn’t you be here?!” 

We all have a need to gather, but that doesn’t mean we all have to be purple. We can play together. Work together. Mix our passions and practice. We can unlock the gates and fling open the doors, smile and say, “Here comes Aubergine!”

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Priceless.

Some of my first lessons in choice were given at Olson’s Supermarket in Alexandria, Minnesota. Perhaps she knew the budgetary constraints that lay ahead that would force her hand in making the tough decisions, so my mom took her time when picking out the best cart — finding one that didn’t fight her every step of the way. “There’s no need to struggle,” she said. I nodded in agreement, both in cart choice and team solidarity. 

I held my breath as we passed the books and papers. I had learned from experience that begging didn’t work. I simply smiled as we moved into the first aisle of the store. Nothing she chose was at eye level — that’s where all the name brands were. Cereal boxes, while sporting the same bright colors, had names that were just a little off, and rested high upon the shelf. “That’s what these long arms are for,” she said as she reached the top box. I marveled at her wing span and stretched my own arms as we made our way through the aisles. 

Nearing the checkout lines, she gave me the nod. I didn’t have to ask what it meant. I ran to the book aisle. Beside the Golden books were the sketch pads. Notebooks. Big Chief was the brand du jour – it stood out, right in the middle, in the brightest of reds. I climbed on the tiny footstool nestled in the corner and reached for the generic padded paper, just above. She smiled at me as I placed it in the cart. “I have long arms too,” I beamed. 

I reach for my daily sketchbook. The choice to make it a good day, always in reach. I have everything.

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We’re Open!

The announcer said, “Today on the podcast, Beth Stelling…” Suddenly my French feet were on a Chicago sidewalk, entering the coffee shop on the corner. I called her Bethy then. She was so young. Fresh faced and hopeful, even after spending half the night at a comedy club. She made my vanilla latte extra-hot like I liked it, like the Chicago winter demanded. We were all going to be something. Comedians. Writers. Artists. Actors. We sat in front of laptops and sketchbooks and scripts.  I scratched out her portrait in charcoal. The men, uniformed in blue, on their fifteen minute break from the construction site across the street were plotting over their coffees. Just as it should have been, all dreams were being caffeinated. 

It has been years since I held one of her flyers in my hand. Since I walked into the coffee shop the morning after it had been vandalized, just a hole where the door used to be, with a sign on the broken window that read, “Well, we’re open…” We always found a way to laugh. And here she was, on one of the best podcasts in the nation. I was so happy! Happy for her! Happy that she is doing so well! Bravo, Bethy! Beth! 

I only mention it because it feels good to be happy for someone. To celebrate the joy of others. What if we all did that today? Whether we are talking about our candidates, our religion, our jobs, our families, towns, work…what if we found the joy, the pure joy in others, and in ourselves?!!! As the song says, “you may say I’m a dreamer…” and I am. Proudly. Still caffeinated with hope, with the possibility, that we all could be that something worth believing in! I tape the sign on my heart and mind, “Well, we’re open!”

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