Jodi Hills

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


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A little lift.

It won’t hold any more because of it. Be more secure. Even lighten the load. I suppose it wasn’t at all necessary to add the French scarf to my French bag, but it is beautiful! It feels like a compliment — and we all know (I hope we all know) how good those feel!

My mother was probably the best at it. Giving compliments. She threw them out like Halloween candy through a screen door, never asking, “Who are you supposed to be?” She simply filled my open heart with all the sugar it craved. 

I’ve mentioned it before, but it’s worth repeating (which I guess is the point of all of this — the joyful repeat). She often taught me three things with just four simple words. When getting ready together for a special event, she would walk into my room and say first, “You look good too!”  We had to control our giggles as not to smear our make-up. And in that simple phrase she managed to compliment me, compliment herself (which is vital — you can’t give away what you don’t have), and give us both a reason to laugh.

So I put a scarf on my purse. I tell my friend she looks beautiful. That she smells good! The stranger in line that I like her coat. And I’m not afraid to tell the woman in the next dressing room, “You look good too!”  Because the laughter must be shared. The compliments given freely!  And maybe, just maybe, unlike my purse, it DOES lighten the load, just a little.

On your way up today, don’t forget to give someone a lift. 


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No membership required.

It wasn’t everyone, but one could say more than plenty, to make you feel unwelcome. And that’s a strange thing to feel in your hometown. I loved to golf. I got a starter set of clubs from my mom for my birthday. The two drivers had heads of turquoise blue. When I practiced driving from our back yard into Hugo’s field, using the sliced and abandoned balls my mom found in the rough of the local golf club, I felt powerful. A streak of blue seemed to follow the damaged ball, the damaged ball that was still able to fly after a crack from the sweet spot of my inexpensive, but priceless, golf clubs.

Under a certain age in the summertime, you didn’t have to be a member to play. My mom would drop me off and I would golf all day. I didn’t know it until I was grouped with the vacationing members, but I was in the wrong shoes. The wrong clothes. I only knew it because they told me. I had a choice to cry, or swing harder. I often did both.

We all tanned quickly under the summer sun. We hadn’t been taught about sunscreen. There were so many things we hadn’t been taught — like how to get along with others who weren’t in your group. Like how to welcome members who weren’t really members at all. But don’t feel sorry for me. That’s not the point. I outdrove every one of those girls because I could go home to a mother who loved me — a mother who “teed me up” behind the garage, and whooped and hollered, arms raised to the sky, as I cracked the imperfect balls into the field. No membership required.

I suppose you could think that I was so afraid of belonging that I never joined anything. That’s not true at all. I don’t have membership cards or passes. But I do join in every day. I step outside the door and I am a part of it all. Here and everywhere. With an open heart, an open field. I belong. I keep swinging!


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Beyond all loft and luxury.

I had actually never thought about where she lived. For me, she lived in the gym, like most of my friends. Playing one sport or another. But while we all worried about things, like living in a trailer, or parents splitting up, what kind of cars we rode in, (would eventually drive), if we had the right jeans, the right tennis shoes… while all these worries were going on in our own heads, hearts, most of us were really thinking, that’s my friend from band, from choir, the one I sit behind in social studies, the girl I trust to know my secret crush, my period schedule, my first choice to sit with on long bus rides —- because this is where people live, where your real friends live, right beside you — it’s never about the trailer. 

I suppose everything takes a long time to learn. And I’m still learning. And sometimes learning means forgetting. Forgetting about all the trivial things. I don’t care what cars my friends drive. The only reason I know one, is because I had to follow her to another friend’s house. A house that was beautiful, surely because of its view of Lake Latoka, but more so because it gathered us in. Gathered us in beyond all loft and luxury, and lifted us with laughter — a laughter that is still bouncing my feet, springing my step, joying my heart. This is the real measure of friendship. And lives beside me. Within me. Us. Forever.


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Room for clovers.

But for the scheduled softball games twice a week, in the summertime in Alexandria, Minnesota, no one was ever waiting for me. But it never stopped me from going. I had no destination. Certainly no plan. And yet, the basket on my banana seat bike was packed high with hopes, a thermos of water, a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup which I would have no way of opening, two quarters — in case I stopped in at Rexall Drug for a frozen Milky Way bar, a Golden Book, and one stuffed animal. 

I didn’t have the word for it then, nor did I have the need for one, but I was wandering. Never thinking of the limitations of my travel. A mile from home was new in every direction. And who even knew if it was a mile or not. I didn’t measure my journey in distance, but flowers and four leaf clovers. Screen doors and unrelated grandmas welcoming me in. Rocks in shoes and grass stains on knees were better than souvenirs, they were proof of a day well spent. 

As we travel now, of course we have to think of things like gas mileage and flight times, but the best moments really have very little movement at all. Mostly at the waist, when we are laughing we friends, struggling to catch our breath within the waves of joy. You can’t plan that, only experience. Stumble into it. Wander about.

So if you ask what is our plan, I will tell you, I’m filling the basket, leaving room for four leaf clovers. 


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The long “o” of Jodi.

Grandma Elsie would have known the word. She was all Swedish. But I didn’t learn it until yesterday. Oh, I knew the act, but now I know how to call it by name — Fika — “A moment to slow down and appreciate the good things in life, like coffee or something to eat with friends.”

And isn’t it something to be called by name!

When I think of it, when I hear it, and of course I still do, there was a bit of a gravel and a giggle to the way my Grandma said my name. There was joy in the long “o” (almost oh!) of Jodi. That has remained in my heart’s ear all of these years. Maybe we never get to repay the gifts we are given in their time. But that’s no reason to stop trying. When I hear my friends talk about her now, even friends who never physically met her, it’s clear that they know her from the stories told. They don’t say “your grandma,” — they say “Grandma Elsie.” We have conversations about her. They use her name. They see her image. And the gravel and giggle remain strong. Nearly on Swede. 

I hope she can hear the love in that. I think she can. I think she can taste the lefsa that my friend made for me. She can see the book on Scandinavian Gatherings that they gave to me. She sits in the not so empty chair at the table we share, and she feels full. She feels the love.  I know that I do.

I have been given so much. I could shy away and say that I’m not worthy. I could be embarrassed. Uncomfortable even. That doesn’t sound like any fun. That doesn’t sound like an Elsie thing to do. So I will just be grateful. Be happy. Enjoy it!!!!  This joy, I will call it by name.


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Disregarding pebbles.

I wasn’t sure that I could go back there — the last place that I saw my mother. I hadn’t even been on the road since she had passed. But I had made a promise to Phyllis Norton. Phyllis Norton, the anchor of our childhood home on Van Dyke Road. The road I write so often of now. But the same road I couldn’t revisit for more than 20 years. Because gravel has a memory, I suppose. And it releases into you when you travel upon it. Pebble by pebble. But what took me twenty years to learn the first time – that the heart has a filter – only took two, and I found myself on the way to Windmill Ponds to visit Phyllis Norton. 

It was only moments in…when her smile was too big to even turn up at the corners, that I forgot the place, and I only remembered her. It could have easily been Van Dyke Road. And I could have been five. Kneeling next to her with a skinned knee. Hovering secure between these mothers of our Van Dyke Road. These women that kept me safe, whether on top of the hill or at the bottom. 

The roads that we travel are not always easy. But always worth the journey. The heart knows this. My heart knows this. Disregarding pebbles. Knocking them off one by one. Eager to get to the joy. To get to the love. Always more willing, and ever telling my feet to go, to get there. 

Nortons always had the good band-aids. The pink baby aspirin that tasted like candy. A smiling Phyllis to distribute both. Any hurt was always diminished, overtaken by safety, surpassed by joy. Kneeling beside her yesterday, it was the same. 

A road by any other name…


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The messages we send.

She took the time to shovel a path. A driveway that wasn’t hers. A long one. Just so we would have an easy time with our luggage. But I suppose that’s the way with some people — they not only welcome you, they make it so easy to be their friend. They don’t just allow you in, but they clear a path.

And that’s not everyone. Not in this world of walls and division. So how do we get over? Get through? Maybe it’s just one message at a time. And the echoing of.

I have new cards coming out soon. I’ve made them for decades now. I don’t run out of words. Maybe I just write the ones I’d like to hear myself. (Sometimes we shovel alone.) They are just tiny greetings. Small words of hope. Encouragement. Joy. And they won’t clear a path for everyone, but if you’re reading this, I hope you can feel it. Maybe walk the path of this day a little easier, by walking in the echo of the gifts I have been given.


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Mid-wobble

Maybe it’s the Noonan’s Park imbedded in me, but I’ve always loved watching ice skaters. Not the Dorothy Hammils, (that’s dating). Not her perfectly coiffed  hair bouncing into position as easily as she doubled axeled her way across the pristine ice. No, I liked watching my friends. The other fifth grade girls. No hair in sight — tucked up under a stocking cap. Perhaps a few frozen strands dangling against a pink cheek. Pink, like the woolen mittens stretched out as long as possible to each side for balance, trudging between glides upon the cracked and uneven frozen ponds. Girls like me didn’t know a “camel” or an “axel.” We merely jumped. And often, like me, broke our green little wrists, and proudly wore the casts for 5-6 weeks. 

There was nothing perfect about it — the skating I saw yesterday at Centennial Lakes Park. But what joy between the wobbling! It was as if nature itself was giggling. And so did I. 

I try to remember as I “lace up” for the day — it’s supposed to be fun. Not perfect. Of course I will always try to improve. Be better at making. At living. Loving. But that doesn’t have to take away from all the imperfectly wonderful times that I spend, mid-wobble.


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Socked and smiling.

If we gave them any thought, we didn’t think they were cool. And certainly we wouldn’t have worn them outside of our Junior High Gym class. So I’m not sure why I love them now. But I do! These retro gym socks. Both my friend and I bought two pairs. And it’s not like I feel younger, they aren’t magic socks. I don’t long for the days when the girls had their own pink gym in the basement while the boys used the beautiful gym with the shiny hardwoods and bleachers. (Oh, sure they brought us up once a year to join in the square dancing mini course for a couple of days, but that was not the nod we were looking for.) So why the love? I’m hoping the answer comes as I type. I suppose you could brush it off as nostalgia, but that’s an awfully wide net. Maybe all fashion (and I use the term loosely) comes ‘round again. Maybe everything deserves a second look. We have the choice now, and that could be the difference. We didn’t have the choice then. Cycle days three and five, you raced to the gym and put on your gym clothes for the allotted 45 minutes and then threw them, abandoned them, for the outfit you picked out frantically while the bus was wheeling up your gravel road, and you wore that outfit, however modest, to algebra or social studies, and smoothed down the goucho pants, or Levi’s, and sat proudly in your decision. 

I guess love of any kind can’t be forced. It comes in its time. And really needs no explanation, only joy. So I put on my socks and smile. I text my friend and she has them on too, and we’re giddy as school girls. We’re happy, and we don’t really need to know why.


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Armed with joy. (I love living so much.)

I was a little about halfway through my workout when she came in and got on the treadmill. For thirty nine minutes more, I climbed the imagined hill of the eliptical machine. I hopped off to grab the spray cleaner and a towel to wipe down the machine. In my mid step she said, “You know my brother lives in Dallas.”  

There it was! The nugget I wait for each trip. We always get at least one. People are delightful! I imagined her putting the words in her “holster”…just waiting for me to pass by. She was not going to miss her chance. I like to think of the words brewing as she took each step. 

And me, I wasn’t going to miss the chance either.  “Dallas, you say…” 

“And they have more snow than we do.” And we were off. Mid conversation. No warmups. Two humans. Let’s go! “We don’t have much here,” I said, as I cleaned up my station. “And his neighbor, only a few miles away doesn’t have any.” “The world is upside down,” I returned. I let her talk about that brother, those snow-full and snow-less neighbors, for 10 minutes. The only rush I felt was wanting to get back to the condo to tell Dominque of our new treasure — our new opening line — “You know my brother lives in Dallas.” I’m still smiling.

What are we here for, if not to engage with those around us? And why wouldn’t we begin mid conversation… with everyone. We are all humans on this planet. People will still vote for someone you don’t like. Fires will rage. Snow storms will never last beyond spring. And this moment will pass in a blink, so I encourage myself, you, to always jump in. It’s what we learned isn’t it? On the school playground? No matter who was swinging that rope, no matter what song they were singing along to the swing, we jumped in. I want to be that little girl, armed with joy, and ever jumping in.


There was her story– just right in front of her–
and this time, she wasn’t going to miss it.