Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: beauty


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A Schwan’s delivery.

It was hard to believe that something so delicious could make me ill. But it was evident after only a few tries, I couldn’t eat ice cream. Somehow still, I found it very exciting when the pale yellow blur of the Schwan’s ice cream delivery truck drove toward my grandma’s house. I began running up the gravel, hands waving in air, directing him into the driveway. I knew full well that my grandma’s love of root beer floats would never allow her to miss a delivery. I hopped and skipped and ran with the truck to the house. Uniformed and certain, he jumped the steps and went to the back of the truck. “You’re Elsie’s granddaughter?” “Oh, yes!” I said proudly. I could tell by the smiling way he said her name that he liked her. He unloaded two of the giant tubs as my grandma came out the screen door. Her hands ever floured or wet, or both, she wiped them on her apron before signing for our haul of vanilla. 

How wonderful, I thought, to deliver ice cream. Everyone must be so happy to see you. I was, and I didn’t even eat it. The only other delivery person that I knew was my Uncle Mike, who drove a beer truck in the Twin Cities. I asked him if people jumped up and down when he arrived. He looked confused. Like I do with the Schwan’s truck, I explained. Not so much, he said. Maybe you should paint your truck yellow, I said. He smiled. 

Surely it has to be taught. There must have been a million things my grandma delighted over with me. Things she had no interest in. How else would I have known, known this joy of feeling good for others. I loved art and clothes and drawing and crayons and “Look, look what I made! It’s flowers glued to a scrap of bark! Look!” And my grandma showed all of her teeth in love. An ear to ear joy. This is the only explanation I have for being happy, truly happy, to celebrate a Schwan’s delivery, not for me, but for her!

Joy is not owned. It is passed and given away freely. It is run along beside. A yellow blur of others. The day is pulling toward the driveway. I raise my hands in the air and skip to whatever joy it may bring. 

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Packet to packet.

I have carried the remaining one or two tissues left in the pocket pack for over a year now. That means passing through three allergy seasons, yet I can’t bring myself to use them.

She followed me around for two hours, this woman from Anderson Funeral home. During the visitation before my mother’s funeral, I wept and hugged and bent and wept some more. And she was there, this small, gray haired woman, hired, certainly, but it felt sincere. It felt like she was truly there to follow my trail of tears. And she did her job well. I was never without a tissue. She began handing them one by one, and then switched from packet to packet. 

I could have picked her out of a lineup that first day, but her image is fading. I don’t remember if she had glasses. I think she had glasses. She was wearing a dress. Maybe a blazer. A dress with a blazer? Lipstick for sure. She wasn’t tall. Perhaps at my shoulders. But it felt like she was lifting me. 

As with all grief, supporters move on. They have to. It is natural. It is necessary. We all know it. We all know it, that is, until it’s you that is grieving. And the grief changes shape. It doesn’t require the same kind of attention. I don’t need her to follow my trail, but I need to not forget. As I watch the fading image of the gray haired woman, I bring to life the stories of my mother. And tears of pain turn to tears of tenderness, tears of joy, never to be wiped away. No, these tracks of love and laughter must remain. 

I reach into my purse for my lipstick, or my signature fragrance, and I smile. I touch the tattered plastic and know that I am ok. So grateful for those who walked with me, for those who walk with me still. I mention it in hopes that these words will follow those who need it. That the stories will catch your tears, will lift your smile. And the face that follows will change from mine to yours to theirs, and we will all be there, for each other. Heart to heart. Packet to packet.

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There is motion at your front door.

Maybe it’s because I want to hear it. Maybe it’s because Mr. Iverson told us in the first grade that they could be about anything, the poems that he wanted us to write — the poems that he would inscribe neatly on the black board and our hearts, measured out note by note. And they were special. Lyrical. The ordinary things, our houses and shoes. Our games and basements and cars and trees. They all became magical because we called them poetry. 

We recently got a new doorbell for our gate. It is connected to our phones. It gives us the alert whenever motion is detected, even when it’s us. When I go for my morning walk, just past the gate, she pings in my ear and says, “There is motion at your front door.” And every day it is the poem that starts my journey. There IS motion at my front door – and isn’t it a good reminder! I always smile. Because isn’t it what we’ve been told in movies and books. By philosophers and teachers. “When you stop learning you die.” “It’s over when you stop dreaming.” “Sharks never stop swimming. You gotta keep moving.” The list goes on. It’s all about motivation. And could there be a better place to start than your front door? So I hear it. I feel it. There IS motion! I AM alive! And so I begin with my doorbell’s poem, off in search of another. Because we get to decide. We hold the chalk that turns the cursive words into prayers and sets the path of our journey. 

I have to go now. Begin. Create something. There is motion at my heart’s door. 

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On Walking.

I was in the fifth grade when I did my first Walk for Humanity. I’m not certain I knew what it meant, but I took the pledge sheet and walked around our neighborhood to get signatures and promises. Maybe it was a nickel a mile. Ten cents. A quarter. Maybe this was the most “human” part of it all. This neighborhood knew me. Knew the strength of my legs. Had watched me run the field, ride the bike, and so they said things like, “Of course you’ll make it, I know you’re going to do it.” And if I’m honest, it was the only humanity I was thinking of when I walked the miles that Saturday morning. These were my people. They knew my bedtime. The call of my mother. My wave from the bottom of the hill to the top. How my blonde hair whipped in the wind. And I didn’t want to let them down. 

It was a rainy morning. I was fueled with Captain Crunch, and no knowledge of how far ten miles actually was. I had flat bumper tennis shoes and jeans purchased from Herberger’s basement. I was soaked from rain, puddles, and possibly a few tears at about mile eight. I had no idea where we were, but for the marked signs and groups of teenagers that I followed. I had to go to the bathroom so badly, but I was too shy to enter any house that offered those services for the day. I didn’t know them. This wasn’t Van Dyke Road. I had no idea how to even get back to Van Dyke Road. All I wanted was an open screen door that I recognized — like our resident neighborhood Grandma Dynda — a grandma that no one was related to, but who’s door was always open to kitchen and bathroom. What would she think of me if I quit? I couldn’t quit. I kept walking. Even Mrs. Muzik pledged for me. We couldn’t walk on her lawn, but she was paying me to walk across this new humanity. I kept walking. 

I wet my pants around mile nine. But no one noticed because I was already soaked. I never told anyone. People were so proud of me when I went to collect the money on Sunday that I forgot about it. They tousled my hair and filled my pockets with change and a few dollar bills. I don’t know if the tiny bit of money I raised made any difference at all to the cause, but for me, it was a fortune. I was rich in my neighborhood. This sea of humanity. 

My pledges are different now. Along with my neighborhood. But I keep walking. Hopes remaining ever high. 

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While the purse swells with youth.

I would have never dreamed of rummaging through my grandma’s purse. But I did admire it, sitting between us on the front bench seat of the car. It weighed nearly as much as I did. We never used our seatbelts then. The two safety measures were the outstretched straight arm of my grandma, (which could surprisingly secure me, along with the purse) and the rule that I wasn’t allowed to stick my body out of the window beyond my shoulders. I had the idea that if I wrapped my foot in the purse handles it would hold me as the wind blew open my pinkening cheeks. 

The AM radio, permanently tuned into the farm report, was also blocked by her massive purse. There was a station I had heard of, out of the Twin Cities, KDWB 63. “It won’t come in,” she said, cruising down the country road. “Maybe if I held the antenna,” I pleaded. “I could just bend it through the window.” I knocked off the orange styrofoam ball that was attached to the antenna top before she pulled at my leg and secured my sweaty thighs against the leather seat. “Paul Harvey’s coming on..listen.” 

Calmed by his melodic voice and the feel of the golden metal clasp of her purse beneath my fingers, I imagined a day when I would carry the weight of the world beneath white leather straps. I would have make-up and breath mints, I thought, and quarters for the parking meters. And candy and pencils and paper. And perfume and underpants. Yes, and Kleenex. And a checkbook with pictures. The tv guide for planning, of course. And grocery lists and photographs of everyone I loved. A book for reading. Rubber bands for my hair. Band-aids, because something would always happen. And Bazooka Joe gum, for the cartoons. Before I filled my imaginary purse, Paul Harvey was saying, “Good day!” “Wasn’t that good!” my grandma said, not asking. I smiled and shook my head. It was good. I had an open window. My grandma’s attention. An endless summer ahead. Youth’s purse was filled. I had everything I needed, and just enough to wish for. I slipped my hand through the loops and touched her floral dress. It was a good day indeed. 

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What we call home.

We took it on good faith that these were actual words, what Grandma Elsie named her desserts and baked and fried treats. Through the years, I suppose, I brushed them off as perhaps Bohemian. Maybe they came from the “old country,” as some called it. Maybe I’d just been saying it wrong — after all, I was in my pre-teens before I realized that Aunt Mavis was not in fact Aunt Navis as I had been mumbling. In my defense, there were just so many of us, and when the treats were being made, even more gathered around, claiming relations that no more existed than the names we had apparently made up for the passing of said treats. 

After moving to France, I had both the time and inclination to bake. I became curious about some of these desserts of our youth. Google seemed just as baffled as I was. I asked a few relatives. All remembered eating, but the names varied, each still ungoogleable.  

I hadn’t realized it until I looked at yesterday’s painting for the blog and compared it with today’s image. I have been thinking that I’m painting in the colors of Provence, while it looks exactly like the colors of Hugo’s field next to my childhood home. 

Memories are malleable. They appear at our table without knowledge or invite, like a farm neighbor riding the scent of misnamed desserts — welcomed, and finding comfort in the ever changing knowledge of what we call home. 

Come in, you and heart sit down. 

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Unobvious bird.

My husband saw a bright yellow parakeet in our yard. I was out walking and I missed it. I wonder what our gaggle of regulars thought. They had to have seen it — the pigeons who waddle in the driveway, almost too heavy for flight; the magpies in constant search of the “other”; the doves in between cooing… Surely the woodpeckers perked their heads with the flash of yellow. Even the little bush hoppers that flit in and out so quickly must have caught a glimpse. Because a yellow would pop! In these spring greens and pinks that cover our yard, yellow will always shine. And if they did see it, this bright yellow bird, it hasn’t stopped them from singing. From flying. From hopping around our driveway. From dancing in the water that collects on the freshly sprinkled grass. They seem just fine. Joyful even. 

As humans, it can be hard to follow “the nature of things…”  I’m trying to get better. To celebrate those around me. To know their yellow doesn’t take anything away from my beige. To understand there is room for all, hopping, flying, stumbling even. 

People often ask, “Do you paint self-portraits?” Daily, I think. Never parakeet- pronounced, but I’m there, in each painting. In each tiny, joyful, unobvious bird, I’m there — waiting, grateful for every glimpse of color that hovers by.

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Hand held possibilities.

I don’t know that I was necessarily being so “good,” but that’s how it was interpreted. My grandma used to marvel — “I could just put you down, and that’s where you’d stay until I told you that you could move again — such a good kid!” 

I remember her roll-top desk. She plopped me in the chair. I could just reach the handle. It made a little thwapping sound as I pushed it up and then back down. I thought it was the greatest thing, riding this wave, the greatest thing that is until I caught a glimpse of what was inside. Pens and paper and my favorite, the pencil. I loved pencils from the moment I discovered them. The smell of the lead. The feel between my chubby fingers. The newness. Everything was just waiting to be created. I don’t know how long I held the pencil before she noticed me, rubbing it between my fingers as if to will the genie from the bottle, but she wiped her dish soaked hands against her apron and reached the scrap paper from the top shelf.

Tiny squares of white. Some blank. Some with abandoned grocery lists. I covered them all. Scribbles and drawings and near words. I was in heaven. I could have stayed forever. Was I being good? I was being me. 

It should come as no surprise, whenever visiting a museum or landmark, my go-to souvenir is the pencil. I have a favorite — from the Pierre Soulages museum. The weight. The feel. Perfection. I use it in my sketchbooks. But truth be told, I often just hold it in my hand for a moment. And on those days when the world, the day, decides to plop me in an unfamiliar place, I hold on. I take comfort in all of these hand-held possibilities, and I smile, because I find myself saying, “I’m good.”  

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Proper nouns.

We learned pretty early on the power of words. We began writing letters to each other during our summer vacations from grade school. Living in the same town, armed with banana seat bikes and endless sunny days, we easily rode to each other’s houses, to the beach, to main street in downtown Alexandria, but still we felt the need to connect. 

This gift that we had been given in the first grade strengthened with each letter written. Straight from the playbook, I wrote thank yous for birthday parties. Recaps of “events” attended and unattended. Who did what, said what, to whom. Wrote in solidarity of mutual enemies — never capitalizing their names because as Mrs. Bergstrom had stated, we capitalize the proper nouns to show their importance. We capitalized our friends’ names. 

It would be easy to say that we had more time then. And as hard as it is for me to admit, we have the same amount of time. Always have. Always will. It’s just how we choose to fill it. I want to get better in my choices. Capitalize on the goodness. Forget the things that aren’t really all that important — the things that don’t deserve my, our, full attention. Focus on the “thank-you”s. The “it’s great to be your friend”s. Knowing that it is worth the repeat. The writing down. The chronicling. How spectacular it is to have support. To have encouragement. To have combined laughter. To have shared experience. To have friends!  

I’m writing to you this morning. Every morning. It’s great to be your Friend! 

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My best Elsie.

We learned pretty quickly on the power of the wave. I thought my Grandma Elsie knew everyone. And on her country road, she probably did know most. Any car that passed got the Elsie wave. I didn’t know of Queens or parades, but she had one that lingered a bit longer than most, accompanied with a slight head bob and smile. Then I saw my grandpa do the same. The smile was a bit tighter, but it was there. I started to mimic them. My favorite time was when summer car windows could be open. It was then you could really make it clear. Arm extended in the breeze with a little more of a shake. I asked my grandma at first if she knew them…she glanced in the rear view mirror…No, she said, but I saw them. I shook my head yes. I saw them too. And I got it.

I suppose it was at school where it became even more clear — the power of this hand extended, sometimes even waving. To be called on when what you had to say felt so important that you had to use your other hand to keep that wave from flying off of your shoulder — this was something to be seen.

We do not live in a waving culture. When I first moved to France and went out for walks, I would give the passersby my best Elsie almost to no response. And if it got any attention at all, it was to stop to see if I was in distress. I suppose a lesser Minnesotan might have abandoned the wave altogether, but I have kept it through the years. And every once in a while I get the return. It was on yesterday’s path, descending down a large hill, I saw her, a woman going up the gravel just inside the trees. I have passed her a few times this spring. We have exchanged smiles and bonjours, but it was yesterday, from afar, knowing our paths wouldn’t cross she waved. And not only with a healthy Elsie open shake, but first! I waved back! I’m still smiling.

I mention it because I guess we all want to be seen. And we can do that for each other. So easily. It takes so little to change someone’s day.

Some mornings these posts come very quickly to the page. The idea shoots from my hand in the air, squealing “ooooooh, oooooh!” Today it feels important to tell you that I see you! I hope you can feel the wave, and pass it on. Share your best “Elsie.”

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