Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: family


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May Day.

May Day in France is all about two things: muguet, pronounced “moo-gay” (lily of the valley in English) and Labor Day. On the 1st of May friends and family offer each other little sprigs, bouquets or whole plants of lily of the valley for good luck. The more little bell-like flowers the plant has, the better the luck.

We used to make May Day baskets in school. Gifts for our mothers. Construction paper. Scissors. Glue. Making them was not that hard. We had cut and pasted so many times before, and in the security of our desks and under the watchful eye of our teacher, we easily constructed baskets of pink and blue and green. The most difficult part came after the bell rang. Releasing us into the wild. It was a small miracle if your fragile basket of May could survive the bus ride home. 

I would cup the basket like a baby bird in one hand, and straight- arm my other to protect it.  Bus fumes. The wind through the windows. Wild boys. Sick girls. Anything could destroy my tiny little basket. With my sweaty, nervous legs stuck to the fake green leather bus seat, I guarded my mother’s gift with my whole heart. I suppose I’m still doing that. I always will.

Today we will bring flowers to Dominique’s mother. Tiny little bells of luck. Fragile symbols of hope and care. Giving this to each other, probably our most important work of all. Happy Labor day!

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She’s here!

I was at the New York library last night (in my dream). It is so rare that I have a good dream, I must tell you about it. To put it in perspective, if I don’t wake up screaming, it’s a good night. And those bad dreams, they can linger, not just through the morning, but for days. So this dream — this rare and glorious good dream — I put it to words, with hopes that it will linger.

I could smell the wood. And the paper. For me, libraries have always carried the scent of permanence and possibility. In the library was the perfect place for this dream to occur, amid the realm of all things possible. Dominique and I were donating our old books to the librarian. She was kind and grateful and wanted to visit. I told her of my love for books, and that, humbly, I too, was an author. She smiled and said she knew, and pulled out my most recent book, Pulling Nails. I beamed. She asked if I would mind signing a copy for the library. Of course! And maybe one for a fan, she asked. A fan? And then she stepped into the room — this beautiful woman — my grandma! My Grandma Elsie. And she was holding my book. (Tears of tenderness roll down my face as I type.) I was so happy to see her! Dominique look! It’s my Grandma! She held out my book and said, It’s gorgeous! (It’s gorgeous — you have no idea what those words will forever do to my heart!) And in my dream, I knew it was a dream, and I said out loud, …But she’s here! And she was. I can still feel her smiling.

I don’t know what dreams really are. I’m not sure that anyone does. The so-called experts say it means “this”, or “that”, but perhaps they are only as accurate as our local weather reporters making educated guesses. All I know for sure is that this morning the sun is shining and my heart is full — and it is as real as anything could be. I choose to call that love. Love that fills the air with the scent of permanence and possibility — and it IS gorgeous!

Good morning!

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Full bloom.

I know we could have purchased tulips, but they brought these to us, from Amsterdam. Native tulip bulbs. Spectacular. We dug little rows in the ground with the tiny rake and shovel from our greenhouse. Of course I was smiling, not just because of the gifted tulips, but because I had been here before, in the spring of kindness.

I was five when I saw it wrapped in the garage. Easter morning. Not chocolate, or a bunny of any kind, but a tiny set of garden tools, just my size. In the brightest of colors. A green shovel. A red hoe and a yellow rake. Colors so shiny, they were spring itself. They were bright and simple. 

Not all the days to follow would be like this. Something in my heart told me to hang on. Something in my heart told me that this is what would carry me — moments of kindness. The shiny moments of people who care, and dare to show it.

We placed the bulbs in the ground. Four to five weeks it said on the box from Holland – that’s how long it would take. I laughed to myself, knowing, in my heart, they were already in full bloom — the spring of kindness.

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Something to give.

It’s no accident, I suppose, that in the morning I wrote about what a gift it was to be introduced to the world of art at Washington Elementary — and then spent the afternoon passing it on to Margaux. 

She absorbs the information as quickly as the tile she is painting on. Eager to learn of texture and mixing and brushes. Knowledge that I’m so eager to share. Because this I understand. This becomes our language. Our connection. And when she completes the painting she is proud of herself. As she should be. And this is the gift that she can continue to give to herself, and some day to others.

They say it’s not enough to just survive something. Once you do, make it out of the depths of hell, you have to go back and help the others. Or if you reach the glorious summit, you have to go back down and help the others climb. Our best days and our worst days, all gifts to pass on. And that’s something! To be given! To have something to give.


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Cherished.

My mom had a doll when she was a little girl. It was to be her last doll. She knew that. Time to be a big girl and stop playing, after all, there were so many real babies, her other 8 siblings. But even as children, I think we know, we can see the lines we are crossing, and it was special, she was so special, this beautiful baby doll.

One of the smiling faces pictured above was the culprit. Left it outside, up a tree, in the rain. Her poor little painted face was running down into her dress. That wasn’t the way she was supposed to go. She was beautiful, and meant to be cherished. But as I think of her, I suppose she still is, cherished, I mean. I’m still telling her story.

These two aunts, my mother’s sisters, have recently passed away. So I write the stories. The stories of little girls that still play in the rain and annoy their sisters. The stories to show how fragile life is, how precious. In hopes that the words can climb the tree and stop the rain, and hold them all close, all together.

Each line. Each day. So special. So beautiful. Cherished.


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First, again.

When visiting Dominique’s mother, we relive everything with her, for the first time, every few minutes. Of course she knew me, but time has taken that away. Yesterday she asked Dominique, “Is that your fiance?” “My wife,” he answers. She claps her hands – “Marvelous!” I smile even as I type this. She apologizes for not getting us a gift, and in two minutes we go through the same conversation. And it’s still marvelous!

It’s ironic, I suppose, that her forgetting is a wonderful reminder.

Our first kiss is long gone, but not our first kiss of the day. We’ve had countless croissants, but today’s is fresh. This day is one we’ve never experienced. Words align themselves in different order. Paint grabs hold the canvas like never before. Trees bloom again in our yard, for the first time this spring. I look around. Clap my hands together! Marvelous!

Thank you, Lucie.


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My mom thinks I’m pretty.

I made a magnet of that years ago. It made me laugh. I used to say it, when I made a mistake, or did something stupid…”My mom thinks I’m pretty.”  (as if to say, well, sure I did this, but nevertheless…)

It still makes me laugh, but I suppose, there’s a lot of truth behind it. I knew, I know, always, even in my lowest moments, in her lowest moments, she loves me. And that tickles my heart in the most glorious way.

And to think she knew how to do it, when her mother (bless her heart) wasn’t fast and loose with the compliments (it just wasn’t the time, nor the way.) But if I think again, maybe that’s exactly why she knew how to do it. 

It isn’t because they’ve never been knocked down, these people who stand so tall — I think it’s probably because they have. Surround yourself with these people, these unexpected beauties! They will have a story to tell and a heart to share. They will make you laugh, and help you cry. Not much more beautiful than that!

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Before Fleet Farm was cool.


For this to work, one must agree that Fleet Farm is cool now, and I do. But that wasn’t always the case. In its early days, and mine, Fleet Farm was not the megastore that it is today. It was small. Crowded. Dark. Clothes, the few they had, were not displayed, but crammed closet style. They weren’t bought ironically. No hipsters sported Carhart – did we even have hipsters? Fleet Farm looked more like an enclosed garage sale, and people went as far as changing tags on items, as if it were.

Visiting from France, my husband loves Fleet Farm. We have spent hours walking through the aisles. Fishing rods and overalls. Candy. Space to browse. And people ARE browsing. It is a real store.

Perhaps everything looks different from a distance. Oh, things change for sure, but so do our perspectives. I hope they change.

When I was in high school, my mom bought a pair of painter’s pants for me from that very uncool Fleet Farm. Today, most of my pants are “painter’s pants” – in one way or another. I wish I could say I knew Fleet Farm was cool then, but I don’t think I did. I had to learn a lot of things. Still do – by trying to see them. With new eyes. I paint my grandfather, wearing overalls he no doubt bought at that very uncool Fleet Farm. I paint with respect, and an apology for not seeing it, him, sooner. I paint the cows that he raised, the cows that the unpopular kids in FFA (Future Farmers of America) too raised in their fields that no one visited.

I browse this world with new eyes. A new heart. Not to be cool, but to recognize that they are, and really, always were.

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Where’s Julian?


I have asked that question in English, and French, countless times. I would have never met him had I not married his father’s brother… but I did. Now I wonder where he is. He is a traveler. Not a tourist. He immerses himself into different cultures. Learns different languages. Wanders. You can see it in his face, his eyes. Always looking onward.
He once sent a video from a hole in a village, maybe Cambodia, I’m not sure, but it was, to be polite, remote, this community bathroom (this giant hole), and I thought, wait, they have internet? The world offers opportunities. Chances. And Julian takes them.


As Dominique and I travel, moving from hotel to hotel. I look at the walls. Where is the art? Certainly not on these walls. Safe squiggles. Safe words – “good vibes only.” Every instagram picture with a million likes. No chances here. So we look for the art, in the people, the places, the cultures, the land, and hope, by some glorious chance, it finds its way into my heart and hands and onto the canvas and page.


I know some might say Julian should stop. Settle down. Fall in love. But I think, isn’t he? In love I mean? I think he’s in love with his own life. And that’s beautiful. That’s more than a safe squiggle on a wall. That, my friends, is art.


I understand this is not for everyone — travel — but I’m talking about living. I encourage you to take a chance. On life. In love. On yourself. This will take you where? — farther, further, than you could ever imagine!


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Proof.



In our travels, the greatest common denominator (look, I’m finally using that high school math) is the “selfie.” People taking pictures, seemingly, not of the experience they are having, but creating some sort of proof that they were there. For example, the amount of selfie sticks in Venice almost obstructed the 360 degrees of beauty. What are they missing in trying to gain all this proof?

When I cook, I like to serve everything on a platter. I like a good presentation. I like a set table. In two weeks of making meals at my mother’s house, I have yet to take a picture of the food.

My niece took us out for a joyful lunch yesterday. Not one picture of the food. I can still feel the hug hello. I can feel the hug goodbye. I remember the conversations. I’m still laughing. I can still hear both nephews saying “I love you.” Proof.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a good story, a good photograph, a good memory. But I’m probably most pleased when I get home from a vacation, a lunch, an event, and think, “Oh, I was having so much fun, I forgot to take a picture.” My heart feels full. My brain races over the experience. My face opens in a continuous smile. And if those I’m with feel it too, then that’s all the proof I need – I was there – I am here!

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