Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: books


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Word and promise.

Long before I could read them, I carried them. I knew the words of the books, my mother having read them to me night after night. Not being able to read yet myself, I was under the assumption, (or I was probably just of the age to hope) that if I kept the words nearby, cradled in hand and tucked against hip, that they would stay with me. They did. Now, I can’t say for sure that it was because I held them close, pressed them dear…but I can’t say that it wasn’t. 

I have done the same with love. Kept a library in my heart.

I walked a new path yesterday. My feet plodded up the unexplored hill. My head peaking above as I neared the top. A school. A soccer field. And then, not the promised land, but a box filled with promise, a community library. And the biggest surprise, two books in English. The collected works of Mark Twain was as thick as my open hand. I clutched it to my heart and put the paperback in my back pocket. The proportion of books to body was nearly the same as when I carried them in youth’s palm. My steps, as light as they were then. Carried in the word. 

I had been right. It stays with me. Coddled close, this love for word and promise. Did I walk home a little faster? Probably. Did I smile the whole way? Indeed.

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Checking yes.

I’ve always loved paper. Even before the freedoms of learning to ride a bicycle and then a car, there was something so liberating about the writing of words. The clarity of question, thought, and answer, right there at the end of a #2. We all knew it. I suppose that’s why we passed the notes in class. All feelings could be declared or denied, with the simple checking of a box. Do you like him?  Check yes or no. Where are you going after school? Check practice or Hardees. 

Maybe it’s why I continue to write — a simple checking of yes to the day. It’s still so powerful and clear. A way to remember. A way to forget. A letting in and a letting go. Simply with words. 

My #2 is often replaced electronically. But it will never replace the feeling of holding it in my hands. The questions. The hopes. Dreams. The story. 

When I tell you mine, and then you share yours, it is the pedaling of banana seat bikes and wind in our hair. It is the release of laughter ridden into. It is an open car window on a summer’s road, releasing music from an AM radio – KDWB 63. It is the exclamation point of a giant X that goes beyond the edges of the yes box. 

Humans were made to connect. I ask myself daily — Can we do this? Can we do this together? Can we feel the freedoms of connection? I know my answer. Are you checking yes or no? 

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Becoming lion.

I remember the first time I signed out a book at the Alexandria Public Library. Who could forget such a moment? Because with each letter, I was formed into the stone lion that should have been guarding the front entrance. Just with the signing of my name on that yellowing card, (beneath all the other lions), I not only became part of each word, each sentence, each book that lined the shelves, I became the welcome to the next reader, the stairs themselves, to this sacred place. 

I think it’s the very reason we put things in books. Images and words. To tell the stories of our lives. To share the sacred places we have been to, we have gone through. Because don’t we look to them, the other lions, those who have made it beyond the places we are struggling. They are the strength that lift the feet. Up each stair. Until we can proudly write our names, claim our positions in each story, and become the lions for those still looking up. 

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Fundamental.

The thing was, you had to be a reader to even understand the advertisement. A book was always within arms reach, so when it aired in between Saturday morning cartoons, promoting books, I rose up from my “head in elbowed arms” position and got a little closer to the television. “Reading is fundamental,” they said. I didn’t bother to ask my mother. I had been trained by Mrs. Bergstrom at Washington Elementary, and my mother repeated it daily, so I raced to the bookshelf to pull out the giant red dictionary to “Look it up.” I put my index finger in the section marking the “f”s. My finger traced through the pages as I sounded out the words. Fe, Fo, fun, funda, fundamental! Important, necessary, I was in agreement with it all. I ran to the laundry room. Saturday meant cartoons for me, and laundry for my mother. Her head bent over pulling clothes out of the dryer, I eagerly tapped her shoulder. “Reading is fundamental,” I said proudly. “It is,” she smiled, still filling her basket. I asked her about her next load, working fundamental into the conversation, remembering that to make a word your own, you had to use it three times. I often went to four or five, just to make sure. Satisfied that I had gained ownership, I went back to the tv. I saw my library book there. I turned off the set. Grabbed my book and went back to the laundry room. Nothing was more necessary, nor more important than she was. “I better read to you,” I said. She smiled and listened. We both leaned against the rumble of the washer, gathered in the greatest importance. Together. 

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The weight of a letter.

I bought it at an antique store in Hopkins, Minnesota and carried it back to France with me. You know it’s valuable when I allow it space in my ever overpacked suitcase. 

It’s from a time when people still wrote letters. When desk objects were given beauty along with function. On the right is a tiny scale for the weight of the words, and the left a circular housing for the precious stamps that carry them. Of course I don’t need the scale. I have a pretty good idea of the weight of the words. At least I hope the receiver knows — knows that I could have just sent a text, an email, but instead thumbed through all of my cards, along with the thoughts of this person, picked out the one that fit the situation, borrowed my husband’s best pen, wrote in cursive (like nobody’s taught anymore), signed it, meant it, sealed it with wax, and walked it to the post office. And isn’t it just as important that I know? 

My little antique scale can’t weigh all that, but it does remind me to keep doing it. Yes, I have an Apple Pencil, an iPad. I love modern technology. It is connecting us today. But I keep reminders around me — that there is more. The more of photographs printed. Books with spines. Jams without preservatives. Art with actual signatures. And I make the connections with heart and hand. And the joy that it brings, that I carry so easily, daily, makes me smile, because it actually weighs nothing at all. 

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Learning.

Getting dropped off was always a production. To be separated from my mother seemed unthinkable to me. Even across Van Dyke Road in the gentle peach of Weiss’s house was just too far. The first visits to my grandparents were excruciating (and you know I loved them dearly). I wrapped myself in the telephone cord line, hoping to get the call of return. Even play dates began with tears. As if the little salty pockets of water would form a stream and carry me back to my mother’s arms. I mention it only to put the following in context — I never cried when being dropped off at school. Even in the uncertainty of my first kindergarten day at Washington Elementary, in my polyester dress, white knee high socks and patent leather shoes, I walked up the entry stairs without looking back. Even before it was proven to be true, school always saved me. 

Through the years, I have had the privilege of going across the country, school district to school district, with my books. From coast to coast, we have stood up against bullying with “I am Amazed.” Promoted self-esteem with “Believe.” Encouraged creativity with “Astonish.” Two days ago I got the message that a school in Canada ordered 100 books of “I’m not too busy.” And once again, I am saved.

The answer for me has been the same since I was five years old — keep learning. Through every trial, every heartache, every wave of uncertainty. Today, once again, I pull up my knee highs, straighten my skirt and climb the stairs. No day is ever the same, but everything is going to be ok. I pull open the heavy doors, without turning back. Step onto the terrazzo floors. And begin again.

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Fresh.

I was picking out an avocado when I saw her. Maybe eight or nine years old. Standing in the middle of the grocery aisle. Completely engrossed in her book. It was probably one of her first non-picture books. I remember that thrill. (It’s not lost on me that the name of the store is Fresh.)

I was so proud the day she, our librarian at Washington Elementary, introduced us to the grown-up books. All barriers were down. All worlds open. Books with spines and plots and nothing but words. Books that were entrusted to our care for seven full days. A responsibility I did not take lightly.

Even though library time was just after lunch, I did not put my chosen book into my locker, nor in my desk, but kept it nestled in my corduroy lap. I kept it open on the bus. Devouring each word. Only pulling it to my chest when the teenage boys threw balls or papers or sometimes fits.

Our driveway on VanDyke road was maybe only four car-lengths, but I read my way to the door. Then to the chair by the picture window. Lighting each words with the reverence it deserved.

Nothing has changed for me. Neither time nor country can diminish my love for books. I still let out an audible gasp when the newest release from a favorite author arrives in our local bookstore, or when gifted such a treasure by a friend. I saw that love in this little girl’s eyes as she bumped her way through the aisles to meet her father in the cash line. Never closing the book. Never averting her eyes, ripened with desire. She was one of us now, I thought, and smiled — smiled for her journey, mine, and the future.

The sun is coming through the windows now. Brightening the words I type. A daily responsibility that I never take lightly. My heart tumbles and bumps its way fresh onto the screen, and I smile, for this page ever open.

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My way to the bench.

It was on the deacon’s bench, under the picture window, where she liked to read the most. The words tucked safely between arm rests and the light reflected all meaning. She bookmarked, never dog eared, these library books. When she reached a line that sat beside her, she walked it to the note pad underneath the land line, grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and wrote it down with quote marks. She Scotch taped it next to the phone and read it to me on the next call.

We were always connected with words. My mom was the first person to read to me, and so far, the last. What an intimate act, this reading of words. Because I knew them. I knew where they sat. To read them now is to be right beside them, her. Beside her. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders that melts gently into my heart. Word by word, my soul remains filled.

I began writing when I was five. Maybe it was because the words were placed within me. Maybe it was a love shared from birth. Maybe it was because it was a part of the tucking in at bedtime. Maybe I knew it was my way to the deacon’s bench.

We all travel different paths. We have different interests and likes. I can’t tell you which ones to take, but I will tell you this — be intimate in your journey. Daily. Tell your best friend, “You’re my best friend.” Tell your loved ones that they are indeed loved! Give your heart freely. Those that are deserving, have already saved a place for you. Don’t be afraid to take the seat beside them.

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Carried.

It was the heaviest book I bought in college — The Riverside Shakespeare. Weighing in at about 6 pounds, it would have been a lot to carry across campus for any English major, but for me, who spent the majority of my college years slinged and on crutches, it was extraordinary. Yet, I loaded it, joyfully, in my backpack, and hopped on one foot from M5, our fifth floor walk-up dorm apartment, across the quad to the humanities building, sometimes over ice and snow. I never fell. You could argue that the weight of the 2000 pages kept me stable, glued to the ground, but I will tell you it was most probably the strength of the words that held me. Still do. 

When moving to France, I let go of most possessions. And it wasn’t that hard. Furniture and shoes. Clothing and decorations. Dishes and beds. Table and tv. Trading it all in for love was an easy decision. I kept personal items. Paintings mostly, and a few books. It might surprise you, that this heaviest of books made the trip. Shakespeare rests on my shelf. Do I love the book? Yes. Do I love the words, the poems, the plays? Of course. But maybe most of all, I know that you can’t let go of what got you here — what held you, carried you, gave you strength. I suppose that’s why I have this heaviest of books beside me still. It’s why I write of my mother, my grandparents, my teachers and friends. I know what brought me here. What keeps me upright to this very day. 

Walking yesterday, I was listening to a podcast of Dame Judi Dench. She rattled off the words written by Shakespeare, and they lifted me over rock and trail. The announcer was so surprised that she still had all of these words at the ready. I wasn’t. The heart takes on the carry, and allows the journey, still. 

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Tucked in familiar.

The only possible way for me to let go was to connect to something. I still can’t go to sleep without reading.

My mother read to me. Tucked and nestled. Arms by my side. Hair still a little damp. I was ready for my word bath. Maybe it was because I had just gotten out of the tub, but I think probably more so because the words washed me clean of the day. Released from the worries that can plague a heart and mind in the shade of night. But not left adrift. No. Each word was like a buoy I clung to — a buoy that separated the shallow from the deep, roped off, letter by letter. And I was saved. 

Looking back, it was more than just the story. It was time with my mom. She gave to me, not only the gift of reading, the joy of reading, but something to hang on to when she left my bedside curb. Secure in her love, I braved the night.

I suppose I’m still doing that. Each night before letting go, I gather in the words. I gather in the love. Tucked in familiar and new, I let go. Forever connected. 

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