Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: birthday


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The 6th of July!!!!!!

I suppose it was delightfully confusing as a child — all the excitement of having a birthday. So much attention in the air. And sugar. And presents. Or maybe it was because my mother was so inclusive — every compliment returned, every celebration gathered in. When I was wished a happy birthday, the first thing that always bubbled out was “Happy Birthday to you too!”  Bubbling joy is meant to be shared!

She loved lemon boats. And yellow tulips. And extra-hot skim vanilla lattes. More frosting than cake. And no-salt margaritas during happy hour. She loved dressing for all of it. Oh, the getting ready! Maybe that was the most joyful part of all. Nobody did it better. And she knew it. So when it came to the big reveal — what she was wearing for her birthday celebration — she entered the room that I was getting ready in (we each had to have our own room, with our own mirror) — and before I could get any words out, she would say, “You look nice too!” Oh how we would laugh!  

That’s how I want to carry myself. With that playful confidence. That inclusive spirit of beauty and grace and laughter. Especially today. On her birthday. My mother’s birthday. So, I ask you today, on this 6th of July, to drink the coffee and buy the flowers. Frost the cake. Light the candles. Smile in the mirror. Enter the room with confidence and joy. Be the compliment you need to hear, then give it away, freely!  Be bigger than the 4th!  Be the 6th!  

Happy Birthday, Mom! I smile at her picture, and say, “You look nice too!”


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A joyful ease.

“Hi, Jod…” I can’t play it for you. The only recording of it is in my head. You’ll have to trust me. The sound of it is so beautiful. Like the first bird you hear in spring. The lilt of song that tells you all is well, just as it should be. A joyful ease, with just a glint of what could be. That is what I heard when my mother called my name.

I knew when she said it, “Hi, Jod,” that there was no news to tell. Just a sharing of gathered interests. Gathered hearts. Maybe a new outfit from Sundance. Something that made her laugh. Something she still hoped for — those were my favorites – to hear her still hope for something, like a Spring coat, or a gentle kiss. 

People memorize stanzas of songs, of poems, to feel something, with far less meaning. How lucky am I? To have it all in just two words. So easy to carry in my heart’s pocket. 

I started a new book yesterday. “Trajectory,” — collection of short stories by Richard Russo. In the first story, a group of intellectuals are discussing the “greatest lyric poem ever written.” They made the ruling that to nominate a poem you had to be able to recite the whole thing from memory, and then make your case for its greatness. One person recited “Kubla Khan” in its entirety. All the greats. But when it came to this one man’s turn, he recited a children’s poem. Everyone knew it. With its “childish iambic downbeat.” Everyone laughed and enjoyed it, but then insisted he explain why this was the greatest poem ever in the English language. “Because,” he said, suddenly serious, his eyes full, “when I speak those words aloud, my father’s alive again.”

Tears of joyful tenderness fell down my face. And I heard the words, “Hi, Jod.” These two words, for me, the greatest poem ever written.

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…if I went with you

Today is Napoleon’s birthday. I’m not proud to say that I didn’t know this before coming to France. I suppose it is important to me now, because I can see that it is important to them. Empathy. 

The thing is, we think we know. I’m smiling as I type this. There is so much that I, we, don’t know. And that’s the first step to learning, I guess. Admitting it. And then doing something about it. 

I have told you how important the library was to me. So important that I used to worry about it. The night before library day at Washington Elementary, my mother would have to comfort me. Ease me into sleep. “But what will I pick out?” “What if there isn’t enough time to choose the right book?” “There are so many.” She didn’t laugh at me. She gave me a solution. “Find a series you like,” she explained. “Then each week you can pick another one from that series.” I did that. My first series was Cowboy Sam. I loved the linen covers. The drawings of cowboys. The adventures. The stories. So it’s not surprising that cowboys were in my heart from the age of six. There were so many books. I devoured them. So full, I didn’t know what I was missing.

What’s taught is what’s known. But at some point you have to take on the responsibility of learning. Teach yourself. I recently finished the book, “The Sentence,” by Louise Erdrich. It is a beautiful book. Filled with the heart and soul and voice of Native Americans. There is so much to learn. But each word lays a rock, creating the path of empathy. People always say, “I hope our paths cross some day.” When they do, and I hope they do, I pray it on this path — this path of empathy.

The epigraph to this book reads as such, “From the time of birth to the time of death, every word you utter is part of one long sentence.” — Sun Yung Shin, Unbearable Splendor.

It is within this bearable and unbearable splendor that I write each day. Continuing the sentence. Searching for the beauty. The understanding. The peace. Empathy. Hoping to look up from the dust on my own shoes, to see you, looking up, seeing me. Splendor.

Happy Birthday, Napoleon. Let’s take that walk.

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The birthday gift.

It was my 7th birthday. Barb Duray was there. Wendy Schoeneck. And about 10 other girls. I remember Wendy because she gave me a set of paper dolls – Buffy and Jody paper dolls, from the television show Family Affair. We didn’t have cable television, so I had never seen the show. I was devastated to learn that Jody not only spelled the name wrong, but that he was the boy. I still thanked her for the present.

I remember Barb because of a game that we played. (Let me preface this by saying all of our games were made-up. We didn’t have the means to hire clowns, or play music. Cakes were homemade and so were the games. I don’t say this regretfully. No. This was beautiful. And I give thanks for it!) We kneeled on the seat of the chair. A mason jar sat on the floor. We had a sack of my mother’s clothespins. The goal was to drop as many clothespins into the jar. The girl with the most got a prize. The game was close. I was winning. Barb was right behind me. Before it was my turn again, my mom whispered in my ear – “Let her win. Let her get the prize.” She knew that I was already getting presents, and that my friend would be so happy. She was a giver. Graceful. She was lovely. I wanted to be just like her. I missed the next clothespin, and Barb won the prize, but I received a gift that has lasted to this day — the joy of giving – my mother gave me that.

It is my mother’s birthday today. Just as she taught me, I ask you to be kind to one another. Be gracious. Be giving. Celebrate. Bake the cake. Lick the bowl. Light the candles. Play the games. Create memories. These are the gifts of a lifetime!

Happy Birthday, Mom! Thank you!