Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: a movable feast


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One Terry.

It wasn’t long after I realized that everyone didn’t have them, these Tech-ers in the basement, that they were gone. It’s clear now that we needed the money more than the space. We went through at least three cycles of young men from the law enforcement class. I only remember one’s name – Terry Eilers. Maybe because he was also our bus driver, but mostly I think because he was nice to me. And wasn’t that everything? —when there was just one unlocked door at the bottom of the stairs that separated them from our laundry. 

Before lessons were learned, I race from upstairs to downstairs without a glance. It was one of the men from the first group of three. (Everyone over 17 seems like a man when you are six.) He was building a canoe in the driveway to our basement. Fascinated by anything being built, I was probably annoying. Watchful. Eager to know the bend of wood. And what was that green stuff? What was he putting on the shell? Certainly he must have my best interests at heart, I thought, he lived with us after all.  He was going to enforce the law. He told me to touch the canoe. I poked one hesitant finger out of my sleeve and touched it as if it were a hot pan on the stove. No, really get in there, he said. Rub your arm across it. I don’t why I did. Just like the heat from a hot pan, it took a minute for the tiny shards of glass, the insulation, to reach my brain. And it took longer, I suppose, wondering not why the pain, but more, why did he want to inflict it? 

I wasn’t going to let him see me cry. I ran up the browning hill of fall grass. Through the garage door. Down the stairs to the laundry room in the basement. Took off the painful sweater and placed it in a basket. It was the first time I noticed there was no lock on that door. It was the first time I needed one. 

I stayed upstairs for the rest of their time. The next group came. They called one “Buzz” I think because of his hair, but I remained at a distance. 

When Terry Eilers came the next year, slightly overweight in his tan shirt and brown pants, the new uniform of the students, he smiled at me from behind the big bus wheel. I don’t know how many rides it took before I trusted him, but I did.

It’s no longer a technical school, but a college. They have their own housing now, I guess. Call it whatever you want, I hope we’ve all learned along the way. Kindness is memorable. 

Some will try to take it away. Innocence. Curiosity. Joy. Others still will pick you up when you need it most. It only takes one Terry.

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First I was a cowboy.

It’s one of my favorites in Paris, the Musée d’Orsay. Maybe because it feels most like me. 

It didn’t start out as a museum. At one point it was a train station, 

even a parking lot, long before it housed the most beautiful impressionists in the world. I suppose I’ve always known it — that I would have to become, and keep becoming.

When I was a kid, I thought I would just figure stuff out, you know, and be something, and that would be it…that would be my life. Because didn’t they always ask, “What are you going to be?” And especially at this time of year, as we prepared to dress up and go from door to door asking for our treat behind the question, “What are you supposed to be?” 

At first I was a cowboy, (was this my train station?). Then I was a hobo, (my parking lot?) It took a long time to become an artist. This was me. Who I was supposed to be. 

I think that I, we, just have to keep becoming. We change and grow. We are molded by love and trips around the sun. It takes a long time to build a soul. We get older, maybe wiser, (even better, we gain a little grace) but we don’t finish – we don’t have to – we begin, and be, and begin again. I think that’s the gift of living…the joy of being alive!

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Something to give.

The current book I’m reading, is delightfully entitled, “How to read a book,” by Monica Wood. It is set around a book club in prison. Harriet, the leader, gives the women a mantra, “I am a reader. I am intelligent. I have something worthy to contribute.”

I’m not yet finished, but already I’ve learned, or perhaps relearned this important lesson. (I don’t suppose we can ever stop learning this). 

To those who think it silly to have a mantra, I say good for you — good for you because you probably had someone who told you of your worth. Good for you that those words must be so engrained inside of you, that you don’t need to bounce them off the mirror. I am one of the lucky ones. I had a mother who served as that mantra. That voice. That reassurance, no matter what the situation, win or loss, I was still worthy. Never to be mixed with entitled, that is not what her worthy meant. Not what our mirrors revealed. No, worthy was never about receiving, but about having something to give. 

What would your world, our world, look like with this in mind? We are imprisoned by hate. By judgement. By fear. Which is really so ridiculous to be shouting from behind bars, while holding the key. So when I tell you, tell myself, that I, we, have something to contribute, something worthy, I mean it not only as a mantra, an incentive, but also a responsibility. We owe our mothers this. Ourselves. All.  

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A moment.

Being allowed to use the can opener was almost as freeing as learning to ride my bicycle. I went to great lengths to enjoy my five minute lunch alone in Hugo’s summer field behind our house on VanDyke Road. Perhaps it was the responsibility I displayed with my two-wheeler that gave my mother the assurance I could handle the responsibility of staying home alone. She taught me to tear off the label from the Campbell’s can of chicken noodle soup before I brought it anywhere near the burner. I poured the noodles into the pan. Then turned it on — I was only allowed to use the lowest temperature (You have more time than money she would tell me. No need to burn the house down.) I warmed it to luke, then poured it into the styrofoam thermos I had painted in stripes. I Tupperwared a stack of crackers. Filled another thermos of ice water. Put them all in my corduroy book bag that my mother had sewn for me. Placed that into the wicker basket of my bike. Kissed good-bye my dolls and stuffed animals as if going off to war. Then rode the five minute trail along Hugo’s field. Sat down in the smallest clearing just off the edge. Emptied the book bag. Made it into a tablecloth. Drank my soup. Drank my water. Relished in being my summer self. It was only a moment, but it was beautiful. 

Here in France, I learned to bake the worshiped bread. Normally I do it in the afternoon. Freeze it for our toast each morning. But once in a while, I have the desire to start the day with fresh break. That means making the special recipe before bed. Getting up early. Then finishing the kneed, the roll and the baking. Washing the dishes while it bakes. Our house becomes a boulangerie. My fingers dance on the crust, as I cut the pieces. The butter melts without urging. Even the honey and jam feel special. It is only for this breakfast. There will be additional bread, but only this one moment, eating in the waft of this happy morning. 

Some might say it wouldn’t be worth it. But then they wouldn’t have can-openered their way to magic. I guess that’s for all of us to decide. Me, I hope I will try to make the most of each moment. What else do we have? 

Here comes another, what will you choose?

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Shouldering hope. 

It was always so surprising to me — how much people loved picnics or potlucks. In my head, I called them the “p” words, as cursed as any of the other bad names we cut down to one letter in hopes of diffusing. But they remained, and my “p” word turned to panic. 

My mother, knowing me, having talked me through all of the other significant choices in my life — books on library day, candy from Ben Franklin — knew how to calm me as I stood dripping of lake water, shouldered in a colorful towel, hair clinging to my face, knees shaking, wishing the “hour after swimming, before eating,” could be extended just a little further. “Focus on what you like,” she said. I had heard it before, so many times, but standing in the warmth of her hands on my shoulders, I could see it more clearly. In this sea of tabled panic, there were good things, still, and I focused on them.

I was struggling on what to say for America’s birthday. Near panic I stand before this spread. So much hatred and fear and unkindness tabled before us, it’s hard to see anything at all.  But even still, I am steadied by the hands of love on my shoulders, as she tells me to focus on the good. Be it tear or lake water that drips from my face, I still see the ones I love. The people who sparkle without noise. Who shine a light beyond table and holiday. Who keep gathering in with steady hands and hearts. Who still find a way to giggle and scoot, barefooted in the hour before the feast. Is it the American dream, or the dream inside youth of every age and place, wobbling in knees, not at the expense of choice or of others, but among them, beside them, still waiting, in the dampened hope — toweled on sun burned shoulders… I hear the waves lap against the shore, in time with my heart, and the whispered sounds of someone singing Happy Birthday.

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Like a French girl.

At first glance, this sketchbook probably doesn’t seem like a surprise. But when I tell you that I bought it in Iowa, suddenly it takes on a whole new meaning, and we’re all smiling.

And that’s the thing isn’t it? Context. I learned it pretty early on. But I have to keep learning it. I suppose we all do. 

It was something, the way my mother looked. Shopping with her, I could see the other women wondering what they were missing. It was the same Herberger’s. The same racks. How was she doing it? And didn’t they stand behind her in the same line for the Clinique promotion? But it was even more than all that. What they didn’t see, is for years she did it on no sleep. No money. Eating only Heath ice cream bars to keep the weight on, the weight that slipped with worry. As surprising as a French girl in Iowa. And just as beautiful.

And in watching her story change, evolve, get moisturized and dressed to the nines, it, she, taught me to look for all the stories. All the joyful surprises. To capture them in words and paintings, so everyone could see the beauty in what was far and near, and maybe most importantly, even in themselves. So if you want to give thanks for this, do it by taking a look, in every face, in every mirror. May you ever be joyfully surprised. 

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Saving Provence.

I always rationed out my Halloween Candy. Counting each day. Indulging in a piece or two. Doing the math. The goal was to make it last until Thanksgiving. I imagined that each piece was a link in the joy chain. Even on the days when I limped along with my least favorite candy, like a circus peanut or a Jolly Rancher, I was keeping the sweetness alive. 

Most of you celebrated your Thanksgiving yesterday. Here in France, of course, it is not a holiday. No days off. So the tradition that I dragged along with me won’t be celebrated until Saturday. As I read the posts of you already walking off your gratitude, I could let it get me down, but I choose to think of it as the luxury of keeping my chain alive. I give thanks again, and check the turkey parts thawing in the refrigerator.

I suppose it’s what I’m doing with everything, trying to keep the chain alive, with a painting of a niece, a grandma, a brother-in-law, a cousin. What if somehow we could all connect? In this most unlikely of scenarios, (and aren’t they all) we could come together and find the joy. 

Of course I have my days, my moments, limping through the “circus peanuts” of life. But even the worst days connect me to a chance of something better. So I give thanks. And wait. Today is going to be delicious.

Saving Provence.
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Coo-coo and hum.

I have know idea how they got them in the house. It never occurred to me to think of those things — the logistics of moving an organ, a clock. And just as I assumed this clock that coo-cooed on the hour was called a Grandfather clock because it was his, I thought it was a Grandma organ, because it was hers. 

But it must have been fairly spectacular – this finding of an organ mover, a clock mover, to a farm house just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota. And they must have come through the front door – a door we never used, never even considered. And even if they came through this front door, there would have been a stoop to be navigated. A tiny hall before reaching the living room. But as I said, I didn’t think of it, how they got there. But I did count on it, them being there. 

And that was the gift, I suppose. It was all an assurance. One I didn’t ask for, or prayed to keep, I just had it. I knew, without a doubt, what would be found in this house. Coats and overalls hanging in the entry. A kitchen table with uneven legs. Candy in the corner cupboard on the lazy-susan. Sugared cereal beneath the silverware drawer beside the kitchen sink, a kitchen sink that was forever filled with dishes. Something on the stove. Publisher’s Clearing house magazines on the dining room table. The hint of pipe tobacco and baked goods. Television on. A ticking clock. The hum of the organ at the ready. And a love, no matter how many doors or windows were left open, would never leave. 

So it continues to be spectacular — this never knowing how it all got in — mostly the love. I just remember always having it. I still have it. And what a thing to move! To carry throughout a lifetime! Enough to make a heart ever coo-coo and hum.

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Wander-welcomed.


Where your heart can rest, and your mind can wander, I guess that’s home.

We pulled into the town. I felt no connection. That feeling when you know you’re lonesome, but you just can’t pinpoint for what. We drove the Main Street. How could there be no parking spaces and yet nothing to park for? We turned on 10th per Google’s direction for coffee. It must have closed. Try ninth, she suggested. Driving slowly I saw the coffee shop, next to a bookstore. Yes!

The first sip was the familiar road. Entering the bookstore, well, that was home.Nestled in all those words, I was wander-welcomed. It’s a rare combination, this feeling of calm and excitement. This feeling that anything could be true, could be real, even the story of yourself.

I don’t have a physical place to go to, in the sense that some would call home. Not my grandparents’, nor my mother’s house. But I have something else. I have the stories they gave to me. I can take them anywhere. Everywhere.

Recently I found a note, a birthday card, tucked into one of my mom’s books. It was from her mother. I don’t know for which birthday. It would have been true any year. She wrote of what a lovely daughter she was and how she made the world a better place. These words are the open doors to my forever. My safe. My possible.

I’m the lucky one. I can walk into this unfamiliar bookstore, in this unfamiliar town, and be gathered in. Sensing the stories I carry, the words that rest on shelf and table say, “Come in, you and your heart sit down.” I do. We do. We all are home. Indeed, a better place.

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At any measure.

In the seventh grade at Central Junior High School, for approximately one week, it was decided that all students would learn the metric system. This foreign secret of measure, based in 10s and 100s, was brought out like a dirty, family secret on a Monday afternoon, and by bus time on Friday, we never spoke of it again. 

I’m not sure why we gave up, but as I struggle to convert grams to cups and kilos to pounds, I think it may have been useful. I never imagined that I would take pride in being able to weigh myself in another country, but here I am.

Through the years, the metric system became very low on the scale of “I wonder why we never talked about it.” There are so many things that got brushed under the rug. So many hurts. So many feelings. Confusions. As I stand here smiling before the scale, I imagine how many other things could have been so much easier had we only talked about them. I don’t say this in regret, but as a prompt, to keep things out in the open. Feel them as I feel them. A reminder to wear my heart on my sleeve and my face, giving it away at any measure.

Adding the flour to the bread dough this morning, I don’t use cups, nor grams. I have done it so often, I go by feel. A mixture of farine complète and farine de blé, my own special recipe. And it feels right. It feels like me. Heart wide open — this is where life becomes delicious!

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