Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: coming of age


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Keep playing.

The clothes pins we used were wooden. I wasn’t tall enough to hang anything on the line, nor old enough to wash clothes, but I did use them for a birthday party game. 

My mom said I could use the whole basement for my party. I taped the donkey on the side of the wall. Put dice on the table. And placed the glass jar beneath the chair, beside the bucket of clothes pins. I was kneeling on the chair with pin in hand when she walked in. She paused with a look that said I thought we talked about this. And we had. I wasn’t going to play in any of the games. Or if I played, I wasn’t going to win, because the winner got a prize — their own present. And it being my birthday, I was guaranteed to get enough. “I’m not practicing,” I assured her, “I’m happy to let someone else win.”  And I was. Truly. “I just like the sound it makes, when the wooden pin falls inside the glass.” She smiled at me. “The little clink, clunk…it’s like the glass is happy. It’s not empty anymore.” I didn’t really have to plead my case, my mother knew me. “Keep playing, forever,” she said. 

It’s funny how long I thought forever would be back then. 

I never had a clothesline until I moved to France. Our clothes dry in the breezes of Provence. Our clothes pins are plastic, and not really even pins anymore, but I still can hear the sound. Each memory of my mom bounces against the glass of my heart, clink, clank…and my heart is never empty.

Today is my birthday. I mention it only because I know that I have already won — so much. So I stand beside the chair and offer you to play. I want you to win on my birthday. I want you to hear the sounds of joy. The only way we outrun forever is to keep playing.  

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Dress up.

I asked my grandpa, “Where do they keep their coats?” He looked confused. “The cows,” I said. 

On the way to my grandpa’s place, we passed many other farms. Some of the cows were black. Some black and white. Some brown. Maybe it was because I watched my mother in a constant state of wardrobe change. Maybe because we played dress up. And fashion show. I assumed the cows were putting on their outfit of choice before they went to the field. Wasn’t that what the barn was for? The stalls? To hang their coats at night?

I’m not sure how long I believed it. But I remember he didn’t correct me the first time. Some magic should remain for as long as possible. I think he knew that. 

I love that I have no recollection of the truth being revealed. Not for this. Nor Santa Claus. Or the Easter Bunny. None of that magic was jerked from my heart. It was allowed to wander at a cow’s pace in the changing fields of color. 

It was my mother who always wanted to be a fashion designer. Some might say that never happened. I disagree. She taught me well. And just ask any Herberger’s shopper. She was always more than willing to lend her hand in design. She taught me that dreams don’t necessarily have to “come true,” to be valuable. The mere act of dreaming — believing in the sometimes unbelievable — saved us repeatedly.  It still does. 

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Reattaching apples.

I have no memory of the apples growing. Each year, they were just there. The branches seemed to go from bare to weighed in just the blink of an eye. And as quickly as the green apples appeared in my grandparents’ trees, we were tripping over them in the grass, loading sack after brown paper sack to give away. 

Maybe it’s the way of all living. It goes so quickly. We move from grand point to grand point, missing all the little things along the way. The how we got heres. The growths. 

I keep trying to think of her as a young woman — the journey of how Elsie became Grandma Elsie. She wasn’t always in that kitchen. In that yard with an upturned apron full of apples. She once had to have giggled with the girls behind the school. Cursed her parents and dreamed of boys. Imagined a life. A future. 

To know the exact details, I suppose, would be like trying to reattach the apples to the tree. But I think it’s enough to know there was more. There is more. So much more to all of us. There are reasons and seasons of how we got here. And maybe we’ll never know all of it, but I think there is empathy in the attempt. Compassion in trying to imagine the whole picture. None of us are just one thing. Maybe in learning that, we come to see some growth after all.

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The telephone game. 

Not out of obligation, but there must be strings.

It’s still a lovely piece of work, but without strings, this violin plays no music. The sweet sounds lay silent in the wood. I suppose it’s the same for the heart. It needs to connect. 

I understand the meaning of the familiar saying — to give without expectation. And that’s a lovely sentiment, but then I think of the beautiful, melodic strings.

It was Grandma Elsie who first taught us the telephone game. When we asked what it was she simply said, “You know, telegram, telephone, tell-a-hvezda.” We laughed and began to string together the two empty tin cans she supplied. We spent the afternoon, through windows and doors, telling our secrets on our home made phones, Hvezda to Hvezda. Even when the sounds weren’t clear, when we got it all mixed up, we were still connected. 

It’s true today. We continue to get the messages wrong. Misunderstand. But we’re still connected. Always. Even with the tiniest of strings. This family. And when I remember, when I believe it, when I let my heart whisper the truth, I hear the sweetest music, still. 

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Before we’re asked to grow.

He was a few years younger than us. Not that many if you counted them now, but  in high school a couple of years made a big difference. And it was those few years that made us call him Pauly, not Paul. Just one little letter, a y, to differentiate.

He was my best friend’s brother. I had already learned that bad things could happen. Not just little things like a poor grade or a sack lunch you didn’t like, but gut-wrenching things, life altering things. But they hadn’t yet. So it was not only the news that shook them, but the surprise of it all. 

And Hemingway had warned us in our English prep class. Told us how we expected to be sad in the fall, but not in summer. I could hear the change in her voice. How this brilliant sun-filled day had broken them, along with Pauly’s spine. He chose to dive and not fall off the shallow dock. And with that one impulse changed the course of everything. Changed the “y” to “why?”…and just like that Pauly became Paul.

We don’t always get to be ready before we’re asked to grow. Rarely, I suppose. But we will be asked. All. And we won’t be given the answers to the questions. But we will be given the chance. The spring.

I saw the blooming trees on my walk yesterday. And I thought of him. How far he had come from the endless days at the hospital. And I smiled because the why had returned to a y, and he was Pauly again. I touched the pink surprise of the bloom, and kept walking.

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One more twirl.

Just before leaving the Mall of America, I tried on one last dress. I twirled a little in front of the three way. I put my hands in the pockets. Looked to the side. Over my shoulder. Floated out to the main area of the store. Dominique said it was pretty. I smiled. Saw myself in summer’s south of France, and gave one last spin. Put it back on the hanger. And we went back to our final night by the airport. 

We used to do it all the time. Just try things on. My mom and I. We had everything when we were together, but for extra money to spend. But that didn’t stop us. Standing waist high, the tag of her dress dangling in my face, I looked up at her at her three reflections, and knew she was a princess. A queen. She tucked the tag in and gave a twirl. Dancing with all four of her, I was sure she was going to buy it. She took it off and gave a smile of “maybe next time,” to the clerk. 

We went on to another store. She was swinging her hand in mine, like she was really happy. I was confused. “But you didn’t even buy it…” She bent down. “It’s better to look pretty in it, than to own it. Anyone with a few extra dollars can do that.” I nodded. “I want to try,” I said. And we never stopped. 

Of course she bought things. Of course I do. But the real treasure was, and still is, the experience. With anything. Everything. How we feel, will never be surpassed by what we have. I, we, cannot own this day, but we would do well to swing it by the hand, and enjoy it for all it is! 

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My heart’s pastels.

Long before I knew the months and numbers of the year, I could tell the changing of time by color. At the arrival of pastels, I knew my birthday was soon to follow. With each wink of pink and pop of yellow, I got more excited. Sure, I knew about Easter. I knew it was for everyone. But there was a little part of me, with each jellybean siting, each baby chick and colored egg that graced the storefronts, that took it as a sign, just for me. 

I didn’t have the words for it then, but I was learning there is a grand difference between selfishness and self care. 

Whether my birthday came before or after Easter, my mom always gave me a little plush duck. I named the first one Selma, and each one after. With baskets of candy all around, I held her yellow in my chubby hands and asked, “Is she just for me?” Yes, my mother said. And every year, I always asked, and I even when I had come to know the answer, believe the answer, it was still nice to hear the yes.

We are not alone. We have the privilege and the responsibility to care for others. But there is nothing wrong, with each sun that rises, to reach up your hands and hold a little bit of the day’s yellow, just for you. I carry the pocket of pastels in my heart, and it always answers yes. 

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Only here.

It was the first poem I ever wrote. I was six years old. In Mr. Iverson’s music class. 

Houses, houses, houses red.

In it is a pretty bed.

Houses, houses, houses green.

In it is a pretty scene.

And so began my search. My fascination. With home.  I would go on to paint images of houses and doors. Windows and shutters. I wrote the stories as if they were maps. Each word opening. Letting in a little more light. A welcome breeze. Until one day, one moment, one heart beat, in the warmth of that sun whisking through cracks, it became so clear that there was no “there,” only “here.”

We have been traveling for several months. I have been asked handfuls of times, “Are you excited to go home?” I always smile, in the slight breeze of my answer. 

Sitting at the breakfast table, in a friend’s house, a country away, my husband is drinking coffee from one of my cups that reads, “Come in, you and your heart sit down…” I’m already here. I’m always home. 

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Constant journey home.

I have seen them fenced in. Countless times. But it’s different in the wild. In their house. These bison. My heart beat quickly as we drove through the national park reserved for them, not out of fear — I wasn’t going to open a window or try to pet them — but out of excitement, reverence. This was seeing them, really seeing them. Powerful. Graceful. Perhaps even vulnerable, the kind one allows one’s self in the comfort of your own space. And it was beautiful.

Perhaps we could do that with all living beings. Like humans for example.

As I struggled to find my place in the ninth grade, I wandered from group to group. Sports. Creatives. Nerds. Even loners. Looking back I suppose we all thought we were the only ones without a map. I knew I loved reading. Writing. All things English. I did well in my other subjects. I got A’s in everything, but it was only based in work, not in adoration. So it came as a surprise to me when the math teacher asked if I wanted to join the after school group of Mathletes. I laughed at the proposal. I hope he saw it was out of nervousness and not disrespect. It never occurred to me that doing more math would be fun. “Just come. One time,” he said. “See if you like it.” I didn’t tell any of my other friends. Not the girls from the volleyball team. I wasn’t blind. I saw how they were picked on, made fun of, these Mathletes vs. the Athletes. But I went. I was uncertain which room they met in after school. I walked down the long hallway. I could hear laughter. I could see a light from the open door. Certainly it wasn’t them though, I thought. It was loud. Silly sounding. I was shocked to see it was them. High-fiving each other. Joking. So this is what they looked like, in their environment. No one knocking books from their arms. No one cuffing the backs of their heads. Calling them names. They were completely free to be themselves. I stayed the two hours. And I was happy for them. I didn’t join. It wasn’t for me, all that math, but I was so glad I saw it, saw them.

As we travel the country, there are a million places that I would never want to live. So many people I’m sure I don’t agree with in so many ways, but each town, each city, each place is a lesson in humanity. And what a privilege it is to see it. To see people. I hope I’m learning. I want to learn. I want to be respectful, even when I don’t agree. Kind, when I don’t understand.

Not that much has changed since junior high. We’re all still trying to find our way. It’s a journey. We would do well to see that we’re all on one.

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I stop chasing.

I don’t imagine I thought so at the time, but one of the best gifts my hometown gave me was one channel. Channel 7. No time was wasted chasing the choice. I didn’t even have to turn on the television to know the programming. The schedule was memorized. The options were clear — this lucky number seven, or outside. Most of the time I chose the latter. 

We have special names for it now. People make vision boards. Read The Secret. Fill their planners. I smile, because I think we knew it all along. These laws of attraction. On Van Dyke Road there was an empty lot next to Dynda’s. To start of game of softball, or kickball…any kind of ball… one didn’t run from house to house slamming on screen doors, or calling out names. All you had to do was go to the field. Bring your ball. One by one, (or faster if the Norton girls came all at once), the ditch would be filled with abandoned bikes and the grass with players. We were well advanced of the “if you build it, they will come.” 

I mention it only to remind myself, and maybe you. What is I want? How do I want to spend my time? And with whom? 

I met my cousins for the first time at my grandparent’s farm. I wanted them to like me, so I ran after them. Nipped at their heels. They screamed. Cried. I didn’t understand. I sat alone on the front stoop. My grandfather, who saw and knew everything, but said little, handed me a rubber ball. “Bounce it,” he said and walked away. I was sure he didn’t understand, but I did it anyway. Thump. Thump. Thump. They came from around the corner of the house. First Shawn. Then Kalee. Even little Patrick. We played for the rest of the afternoon. Sometimes even with the ball. 

There are so many options out there. Often too many. When it gets too much for my brain and heart, I remember the things I love. The people I love. I stop chasing, and attract. 

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