Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: belonging


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As I come clean.

I suppose it was at my grandparent’s house that I first learned to come in clean. Winter snow or summer dirt was wiped from shoes in the entryway before climbing the couple of steps into the kitchen where grandma wiped her floured hands inside of her apron pockets and brought you in for a loving belly hug. After the apron imprinted your cheek, there was nothing to do but come directly with the truth. The truth of what you had been doing outside. What you touched that maybe you were told not to touch, like the electric fence, or a baby bird from a fallen nest. Maybe it felt safe, because it had been proven safe, time and time again, with wiped shoes and warmed cheeks…so we told all, and she loved us still. 

If I come to you with that same truth today, I will tell you that I have battled it throughout the years — love and trust. Maybe we all do. But it has yet to change. The only way any of it seems to work is when I come in clean. When I come clean. When I tell you my truth, and accept the same from you. It’s not as complicated as I, we, often like to make it. 

I grab the straw broom from the corner and smile. It has never needed instructions. Nor does my heart — its screen door swings open, and I dare it all again. Safe. Welcomed in the loving arms of home. 

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After the pétanque.

I can’t go back to when they played there, these sun-kissed French boys just out of ear-shot of their grandmother, (intentionally or unintentionally). Back to when they played with sticks and sometimes fists, like only brothers and cousins can. They wrestled below and within the smells of tobacco and cut grass and stove pots wafting through open shutters.

But when we gather each year on August 15th, Napoleon’s birthday, (and one young cousin Guillaume’s), if the wind is just right, and the wine has settled, the vine that hangs above and beside the old house whispers to me, “Listen…listen to them play.” And I hear the clinking of the Pétanque balls, and the spirited calls of who is closer, with arms pointing to the ground, pleading cases, just this side of youth’s wrestle. And these now men, very grown men, are still pinkened by the sun, and the thrill of a summer that just might not end. 

And for the moment, I belong. Because the language of family is universal. And laughter and hope and joy under summer’s whisper, after the pétanque, rings loud and clear, and needs no translation. 

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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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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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Knock, Knock, Jodi at the door.

It wasn’t just the jumping rope that I enjoyed, it was also the singing. On the playground of Washington Elementary each day before class we took turns twirling and jumping. The two twirlers would go around a few times. Set the pace, while the other girls stood in line behind the rope, matching the turns with hands raised like conductors. And the song would begin…”Vote vote vote for (insert name here)…” and she would jump in. “Knock knock (next girl in line) at the door…” and she would jump in. “She’s a better woman, she can do the wibble wobble, so we don’t need (first girl) anymore.” The first girl would jump out and the song began again. Whenever someone tripped or stopped the rope they had to become a twirler. I’m not going to say it was great theatre, but we thought it was quite a production!  So we sang! We laughed! We jumped! Together!

Of course I had jump ropes at home. Singles as I called them. The length for one person. And it was fun to jump solo. The smooth garage floor added speed. I timed myself. Jumps per minute. Lengths of the stall. But one Saturday, walking through Ben Franklin to get to our car parked in back by the library, I saw them. Full length playground jump ropes. “Oh, please! I need one!” I begged my mom. “You have jump ropes,” she said. “Not the long one. I promise I’ll use it. I promise.” They were only a dollar, so it wasn’t a big fight. 

My mom was about to pull in the garage. “No, wait!” I said, knowing I would need the full floor. She shrugged her shoulders and walked inside. I took off the tags. Tied one end to the garage door handle and walked it back. Making sure to clear the ceiling with each turn. I set the pace. The door complied. I began to sing. I “voted” myself in and kept jumping. Raced around when I, myself, “knocked at the door,” and became the better woman, never missing a beat. 

The dust flew up from the cement floor — the floor that went unswept because I could always find something more important to do, like the wibble wobble for instance. 

Of course I could have just jumped using the solo rope, but it felt good to be connected, even when I was alone. I feel like these words that I type each morning do the same thing. Sending out little songs. Little invites. For us to be connected. Even with those who have long stopped turning, but with whom we continue to sing and to jump and to laugh! Together!

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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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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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The golden blur.

In the springtime, when Hugo’s field began to turn golden behind our house on Van Dyke Road, and when the sun reflected off my winter white thighs, my eyes could barely adjust to the brightness of it all. For a few brief moments, blinded in the growth, I didn’t know where I was going, but I felt certain that I was on my way. 

He didn’t want us running through his field. To cut across would save only minutes in the short journey to town, and I can’t explain why we were in such a hurry, but it was so tempting. Maybe it was the promise of summer. The grain that brushed against our legs. The windowed storefronts that called to us. Come. Press against. See what’s inside. We’ve been waiting just for you. It was too much to resist, so we ran across his beautiful field toward the neverending promise.

I’d like to think we didn’t do any damage. And I apologize if we did. In this fever to outrun time — this time measured so clearly by the color of the changing field.  

It’s springtime in Provence. Purples and yellows bloom all around us, in a way that quickens the steps. My lavender legs still feel like running. But there is a moment when the morning sun comes through the window with a light that is so bright you can only feel it, and it tells me to stop. Stop chasing. Just be. Maybe it’s  nature Hugo-ing us to take the long way. I smile slowly. I’d like to tell you it lasts. But I cannot stop color, nor time. Or the need to travel through both. But I can tell you this, it’s in these brief moments, that I feel gratitude of peace, and the golden blur rests.

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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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