Jodi Hills

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

Monthly Archives: September 2024


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Heart on the line.

She’ll be surprised when she sees her portrait. She’s doesn’t know it, but she’s wearing one of my mom’s blouses. I think she looks pretty in it — though she would back up a little, shrug her shoulders and shake her head at such a compliment. I remember the first time I told her she looked beautiful in her ensemble and she nearly backed herself into the garage door. It’s not really the culture here, to be so fast and loose with the compliments. And I don’t want to make people uncomfortable, but I do want them to know how good it feels, these words of admiration. My mother gave them to me, and they carry me still. How could I not pass them along? So I put her in my mom’s blouse on this canvas, hoping maybe she could feel it, maybe the words would gather in the slight ruffles around her face and heart. Surely the flow of such gentle fabric would cotton to her being, and she would know that it wasn’t just a compliment, it was the gift I have of greatest value — a welcome into my family, my heart. And if she felt that, my sister-in-law, within all of my ruffled and flawed attempts, she would have to feel good, and possibly even pretty, and the discomfort would fade the next time I saw her wearing a dress fresh from the line, and I told her “You look so lovely in that color.” And maybe we’ll all be smiling, just like my mother wanted.

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The beauty of her being.

My mother never bought cheap make-up. Watching her apply the creams, the foundation, all the colors carefully chosen just for her, products researched and saved for, discussed with Claudia at the make-up counter, make-up that enhanced, never camouflaged that beautiful light — watching her see herself in the mirror, I would imagine these were the times that maybe she caught a glimpse of what I always saw in her, and oh, how I wanted her to see it, to feel it, the beauty of her being. 

If you wipe that off in a stroke of vanity, then you’d be missing the entirety. There is nothing vain about doing everything you can to present yourself at your best, mostly to your own reflection. 

I had had a bit of a struggle the day before. I knew I needed extra care the next morning. Feeling the weight of the expensive lipstick in my hand, I had to smile. The cost of not realizing my own worth would be far greater. We were only going to the toll store on the side of the highway to replace our remote. We drove through the toll, then walked to the store. They didn’t have what we needed. We had to drive an extra 20 minutes to turn around and go back through the toll to get back home. We went nowhere, but I felt good. It wasn’t about being seen by others, but how I felt, how I saw myself. My mother taught me that.

It’s different for everyone. It may not be about the make-up for you. But find it — whatever it may be — whatever makes you stand a little taller, feel a little more confident. Find that thing, however big or small, that makes you smile back at the rouge of your heart’s reflection. The young girls are watching.

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The light of the stamp box.

As the receptionist of Independent School District 206, my mother was first voice, first impression to the learning institution of Alexandria, and one might say even the town. She knew everyone’s extensions on the switchboard. She knew their voices. Their quirks. Whether you were a new teacher fresh from university eagerly looking for housing, or an impatient parent angrily wondering why a little snow could possibly close the schools, or a student asking if the buses were going to be an hour late, what time would that be exactly — she was the first responder. Watching her, this, for years, of course I was impressed. And the fact that she did it with such style, made me admire her all the more. 

As I began to learn cursive writing, I knew my world would open. For me, it meant I could write letters. My mother told me that when I had conquered the curves, we could take some of that hard earned ISD 206 money and buy stationery and stamps. I took home the three-lined paper from Washington Elementary and practiced each night. It was during a conference day. Instead of staying home alone, I sat in the velvet chair next to her desk. She opened the drawer to get a pen. I knew it was a pen, because she had that confidence — no need for a pencil and an eraser. She told me to come around to her side of the desk. The drawer still open, she pointed to the small green tin. Open it, she said. It was filled with stamps and loose change. I didn’t care about the money of course. All I could see were those beautiful stamps. And she was in charge of them — of the world that awaited me.  The light shone a little brighter through the plate glass windows of the superintendent’s office, and rested over my mother’s head. 

Through the years we would share more secret drawers, mostly of the heart. I was always surprised when she told me that she wanted to be brave, to be strong. Of course my brain understood. But my heart never saw anything differently . For me she always shone in the light of the stamp box. She held the gentle power to open my world, and release me into it. I walk in that light still. Some days I am tripped and misled by the curves, but the light, the light never dims.

Lights will guide you home.
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With all that raggedy trust.

When I was five I began drawing. Six, writing. Every paper in my tiny bedroom was filled. I sat on my twin bed and poured out my heart to the Raggedy Ann and Andy sheets. Emboldened with their always smiling and gentle approval, I held the paper in my plattered, chubby hands, and presented it to my mother. She knew the gift that it was, and welcomed it with a caring so safe, so loving, that I knew I could do it again and again. 

I did it daily. When my mother passed, it was that little girl that looked directly at me, that looks at me every day, hands and heart extended, she asks me where she is to go. And she’s so small. And I don’t want to hurt her. She’s still so filled with ideas and belief, and I can’t turn her away. When she comes to me, with all that raggedy trust, I smile, and do the best that I can with what she is offering. I tell her what she has made, what we have made, is something special, and I clutch it to my beating chest before setting it free. 

If you’re reading this, I, we, stand before you, so small, but still believing it matters. And I will do it, again, and again.

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Run Through!

We weren’t related, but they were older and nice, so it seemed natural to call them Grandma and Grandpa Dynda. And even though we didn’t share the same blood, there was an intimacy with these elders that anchored Van Dyke Road. Once you’ve run like the wind through your neighbor’s laundry on the line, I suppose there’s no turning back. You become a part of each other’s world. 

Laundry day at the Dyndas was my version of the Douglas County Fair. I never liked carnival rides. All that spinning made me dizzy — lose my lunch kind of dizzy. But the wind I could ride. The white of sheets and t-shirts, house-dresses and towels, that flapped on Monday’s line in Dynda’s side yard waved to me. And my ticket was Grandma Dynda nodding from the open screen door. Her smiling hand wave said “go ahead, run through.” Arms above my head, I raced through the cleanest breezes in Alexandria, Minnesota. I thought if a hug could fly, this is what it would feel like. I danced and tumbled. It was all so fresh. This neighborhood. This laundry. This summer. This youth. 

I walk past our neighbor’s laundry each day. Rain or shine, they have something on the line. I can’t get close enough to touch, for more reasons than just the gate. Time will take away many things. That’s just life. But I, we, can decide what remains. I stay connected to the world around me. I still believe that hope and possibility, even love, flaps fresh on the line — and permission signals from the screen door, “Go on! Run through!”

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A spool of thread.

Look at her! I thought. She must be some sort of genius. Rattling off words like bias, baste and bobbin. I hadn’t been spelling that long, but I sounded out the new words and wrote them down in the Big Chief notebook that I carried with me everywhere for occassions such as this. 

My grandma wasn’t tall, but she stood toe to toe with the man in charge at the Husqvarna sewing machine store on Broadway. I could see his shoulders relax when she began talking about her serger. I didn’t know what it was, but he seemed impressed with her knowledge, and enjoyed the exchange of a worthy seamstress. I was always happy to be with Grandma Elsie, but this was maybe the first time I felt something different. I pulled on her polyester pants to get her attention. She put her hand on mine to let me know she needed to finish her order. A part she needed for the perfect stich. The tiny bell rang again on the door as walked through to go to the car. “What’s the word for when you feel really good about someone, like when they are really good at what they do and you are happy to be with them, like when your heart feels full for them?”  I asked her, sliding closer on the leather bench front seat of the car. “You mean proud?” “Yes!” I said, and wrote it down in my notebook. 

I hope she saw that it was her name beside it, but I’m not sure she did. She opened the bag of toasted marshmallows that she got at Jerry’s Jack and Jill and handed one to me. I smiled at her, longer than usual for a marshmallow, and I think she knew. 

Maybe I’m still doing that. Trying to find the words to tell about all the people in my life who have made a difference. Tell of the extraordinary things they have given to me and to this world. I can’t be sure that they see it, but my heart smiles long, and for some reason, I think they know. 

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Wide open.

I would have never thought to use the phrase, even if I was aware of it — “Up to code” — all I knew was that everything I loved at Central Junior High was deep in the basement. Were there even windows in the art room? I can’t be sure. Because truth be told, it all felt like a window, a magic doorway to travel. It was, in my teenage vocabulary, wide open!  

The time we spent on each medium was merely to get a taste. Before the wheels stopped spinning, or the clay dried on our eager fingers, we were off to the dark room. We drew grids on cartoons from the Sunday papers and duplicated panels from the Wizard of Id. Was it good? We didn’t even wonder, because our thin, long haired teacher, said things like no other junior high teacher from the upper levels. He said, “that’s cool,” and shook his head slowly. Short of snapping fingers, for one hour a week, we were the beatniks of Central Junior High.  

It was ironic, I suppose, to feel so free in this darkened basement, but I did. And it was easy to be brave below, where no one else was watching. I pocketed the dreams, hoping, willing even, that one day I would take them out of the basement, into the light of day. Stuffed deeply, it took many years, but here I am. Out in the open. The wide open! And I look at the walls covered in portraits and travels. I thumb through my sketchbook. I share with you. The world. 

I see the paint on my thigh as I type the words this morning.  I shake my head slowly, my heart up to the only code it knows, and I think, that really IS cool. 

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Green of plenty

I remember the look. I never wanted to see it again. I picked one green apple from my grandmother’s tree, took a bite, through it to the cows, then picked another. It could have stopped time, that gaze. I looked around. Apples everywhere. On the trees. On the ground. In her basket. I shrugged my shoulders. She raised her eyebrows. With no words, I knew, simply having did not give me permission to waste it. 

With some things it’s easy to remember. Like my paint. Using a glass palette, I can see what I’m using. Less gets abandoned in the clutter. It’s not as easy with everything. And I often have to remind myself. Like with the days for example. With the minutes of each hour. When I think of the time I’ve wasted in worry, or complaint, I can see myself standing in a sea of green, and I race to bushel all the wasted moments. What a gift it is to have another day. Promises of youth remain. I am filled with possibilities. 

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A lot of special.

Yesterday we drove to a little seaside village for lunch. The restaurants were still filled with the breakfast crowd, so we strolled the streets. Within steps of the first store, a delicious waft cartooned its way toward us, hooking and reeling us into Monsieur Praline. The roasting of the nuts was simply too much for our wallets to bear, and we purchased a container before finishing the samples in hand. I loved the packaging. The logo. The sack. The taste. Never had a nut been so delicious! With one foot out the door, I broke the seal on the container. Holding and reading the sack, Dominique said, “Oh, we have one of these in Aix.” 

I suppose it’s often harder to see what’s right in front of us. Maybe it’s why I paint. Why I write. To try and capture all things so gloriously special. It forces me to keep my eyes and heart open. 

Many years ago, (and I haven’t missed a day) when I first started writing this blog, my mom and I were talking about one of these special days. It was what some might label ordinary, but it meant so much to us. Delighting in this one day, she said, “And just think how many days we’ve been alive — that’s a lot of special!” 

A lot of special indeed! And it keeps happening. Oh, I get distracted at times for sure. Blinded by minor problems. But then life, with all of its roasting, shakes me up and gives me a “Look at this! Right here!” And it becomes so clear, never has a day been so delicious!

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Under the birdsong.

I have a friend who loves feathers. Until I learned this about her, I didn’t see them. Now, in our yard, on the trail, in a different country, I see them everywhere. And what’s most surprising, I suppose, is that I am a bird lover. I listen for them. Look for them. Study them. Paint them. How did I not see the random feathers? Now, I not only see them, I begin to think of how the feather came to be in our pool. On our back stairs. Was there a squabble? A falling out? (no pun intended) And I smile as the words come so rapidly for a new story. And this is the true gift she gives to me.

Empathy — Maybe if we saw it for what it truly is, we would give it more readily. It’s like we think we’re losing something if we take a minute to see the world through someone else’s eyes, but oh, we have so much to gain. 

My friend loves feathers and birds. Now I love birds and feathers. 

I ask myself today, what is it you see that I’m not seeing? Maybe we could all ask that of ourselves, as we make our way under the birdsong. 

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