Jodi Hills

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

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Permanent strokes

There was only one tree in my grandma’s yard with sour apples. They were my mom’s favorite. Little green apples, with a sour so big, it almost bit you back. A sour that squeezed through your squinted right eye, then into your clenched jaw bone. And rummaged down the back of your throat. 

What I loved most about them was that my grandma always had a brown paper sack filled to the top, with “Ivy” written in black permanent marker. I loved that she knew her daughter. 

It was with that same care that my mother packed my school lunch. A little brown paper bag. Every day, since the second day of first grade. On my first day that year, the lunch lady made me eat a pickle. A pickle!!!! Worse than any green sour… Both of my eyes squeezed shut. In horror. In prayer. That this horrible thing would be forced down my throat. 

As silly as it sounds, for me it was traumatic. And what I loved most about it, was the fact my mom never made fun of me. She knew me. She always let me eat grandma’s sweet apples. She packed my lunch every day. I saw my name. In black permanent marker. And I was loved. I was saved.

You just can’t pencil it in. This life. You have to really see people. Know them. Accept them. Love them. Love them with full, broad, permanent strokes. That is a love that never fades.

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What I hold on to.

It was Mrs. Bergstrom, our first grade teacher, who asked us to write down the names of our family members. Including our grandparents. We were six years old. I was surprised that within this handful of years, most of my friends hadn’t learned their actual names. They wrote down things like gramma, or grammy. I wrote Elsie. Grandma Elsie.

It had only taken one visit to Jerry’s Jack and Jill, the small grocery store that sold the coconut marshmallows that my grandma liked, to be certain of her name. Before we walked through the door, the man arranging the carts outside the store, waved and said, “Hi Elsie!”  Inside, the woman behind the thick glasses at the first register said, “Oh, Hi Elsie!” 

It was somewhere in the first aisle that I knew she was not just my grandmother, but a woman of this town, of this world. And her name was Elsie. I was proud of her. So proud I wasn’t even annoyed at the amount of time it took to fill the cart. She had to stop and visit every few feet. Exchange a recipe. Report on the “kids.” Ask about an illness. Offer her prayers. Listen to the butcher’s joke. Repeat it as her own and laugh in aisle three. Eat some marshmallows from the yet-to-be-paid-for plastic sack. Introduce me as Ivy’s youngest around each corner. The cart was filled along with my heart.

I knew, that in knowing her name, I was a part of it all — a part of her. I was a part of this Elsie, this Ivy, and I belonged.

We said our long goodbyes in true Minnesota fashion, and followed the cart man out to my grandma’s car. He put the bags in the back. Tapped his hand twice on the roof of the car, to signify the shopping experience was complete. “You take care now, Elsie,” he said. And I knew that she would. Especially of me.

We drove with the windows open back to the farm. I knew the way by heart. I knew this life by name.

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Jelly Beans.

We often met in St. Cloud. It was half way for both of us. Just an hour for each. We tried on clothes. Praised our figures. Three-way laughed in mirrors. Had lunch slowly. Splurging with a glass of wine, while going over what we did or didn’t buy. Then lattes at Caribou or Barnes and Noble. And if the season provided, off we went to Walgreens to get the candy of choice, like Jelly Bird Eggs this time of year. 

Loosened, comforted, caffeinated, she headed north and I headed south. It was less than half an hour before I called her at the designated mark on the freeway. Pleasureland. I think they sold motorhomes. I just liked the name. When she picked up her cell phone, I got to say, “I’ve reached Pleasureland.” “I’m still lonesome,” she said. “Me too.” Then I could hear her reach inside the sack of candy. It was glorious how love made sweet and sad the same. 

We lived through it all on that route. I wrote my first book in that car, on that journey. We lived through breakups and family members passing. Weddings. Events to plan for. Outfits to buy for them. We laughed and cried on that freeway. Gathering all of our experiences. And it all got simply blended into love.

I navigate through the laughter and tears now. But daily I hear the call. She’s telling me, “I’ve reached Pleasureland.” My heart, all glorious with love, I reply, “I’m still lonesome.” She replies, “Have a jelly bean.”

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At play.

I’m not sure we ever finished a game. There was softball. And kickball. And kick the can. And freeze tag. Regular Tag. One game morphed into the next in the empty field between our house and Dynda’s. With five girls, the Norton’s made it possible to do almost anything. If they showed up, teams were easily made. And that’s really all any of us had to do — just show up. Balls. Bats. Even bikes waited patiently in the grass, or the curb of the gravel road.

If we did keep some kind of score, it was forgotten. Erased by front stoop calls to dinner, or the dark of night. When I think back, it may be one of the greatest lessons I received in humanity. In love.

As we get older, we think we have to do something – and even worse – do the “right thing.” When someone is going through a difficult period, we struggle. “I don’t know what to say.” “I don’t know what to do.” We search for answers or solutions. But as with most things, we were given the tools from the start. We knew what to do. It turns out, it still holds true. All we have to do is show up. Be there for each other. Forgetting all the scores, remembering only to reach out an imperfect, sweaty, grass stained hand, and just be… together.

My lot is trampled. Sure. Worn even. For this I am blessed. My heart is at play. And I will never finish loving you.

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727 home runs.

I could tell you I did. There are no records to prove it. No one kept the stats. And to be honest, there was never a wall that the ball had to clear. We didn’t have stadiums. We had parks. And if you hit the ball beyond the outfielders, you had a pretty good chance of a home run. And if the infielders would happen to overthrow, underthrow, or just completely miss from base to base, which happened often, and you kept running, and they kept throwing, you could often round the bags without being tagged. A home run. Now in the major leagues they would never score it as that. Maybe a single with three errors. But this was summer softball. A league of our own. And if you scored with one swing of the bat, that my friend, was a home run. And when my mom got home from work, she stopped everything. Even if there were groceries to be put away. And I’m sure her feet hurt from heeled shoes. Legs to be freed from pantyhose. But no, before she did anything, she stopped and asked about my day. My game. As if it were the only thing in the world. She didn’t care about softball. She didn’t ask if we won or lost. She cared about me. I listed off the victories – “a homerun, a single and a double.” (When I think about it, I rarely got a triple. Once you got to third base, you just kept going, no matter what.) I could have told her anything, I suppose, but when I was finished, she raised her hands and cheered! Fists nearly to the ceiling, my heart not far behind.

I haven’t missed a day of writing these posts, these blogs, in 727 days. Again, no one other than me is keeping the stats. Some days I will get 30 likes. Some days 100. I started writing them mostly to get the two handed cheer from my mom. Nothing will ever compare to this. I can still feel it, with each word I type. Each letter is a foot on a sanded field. Each sentence a run toward the base. A paragraph to first. To second. A story each day, just trying to race home. Race home to the one who will lift you. Love you — hands raised in the air kind of love!  No matter the score. 

The sun is coming up, my heart is not far behind. I’m ready to play.
I will spread my wings and call this home.

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The Painful Blossom.

Nature has it right. Never is it more beautiful than when it is about to grow. Full blossom. And proud! “Look! Things are changing,” the trees say joyfully in pink and yellow and white. If they are afraid, they don’t show it. And the transition can’t be easy. They are awakening from winter. Changing shape. Having to rely on sun. On rain. Fully exposed. 

The obvious teacher of this would have been my grandfather. A farmer. Riding, guiding, nature’s wheel. And he did — teach me. Never shying away from the difficulty. “I can’t glamorize the dirt,” he told me. It was real. Rocks needed to be picked. Hands would be recognizably changed. But each year he too changed the fields from black to green to gold. Fully exposed. Fully beautiful.

But maybe the best teacher was my mother. When her seasons changed abruptly from married to single. From sure to uncertain. Fully exposed, each morning, she willed herself into the light. Smoothing the lines on her face. The seams of her skirt. Allowing the painful blossom. Allowing the beauty of growth.

The petals slowly falling on the trees remind me, it is once again my turn. It’s time to grow. Fully exposed, but never alone. Each petal a sign of those who have gone before me. In perfect harmony I hear them. My mother, my grandfather. “Look,” they say, “things are changing!” My smile blossoms. I am not afraid.

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A double Elsie.

There was a weight to everything my grandfather said. And everything my grandmother made. Upon entering the farmhouse, you were gathered in the scent of baking sugar and pipe tobacco. The furniture was thick and sturdy. Each bed ballasted by my grandmother’s quilts. It all felt so certain.

When I was young, I couldn’t stay overnight at anyone’s house.  I would get too lonesome. But I could stay here. Grandpa Reuben would say “Good night,” and I believed him. Grandma Elsie would kiss my forehead. Tuck the quilts around me. And I was safe. I was loved. Certain.

The house still stands, I am told. A variation of it. I haven’t been there in years. I don’t really need to. I carry it all with me. I have paintings of the barn. Of my grandfather. Quilts that my grandmother made. Even in this country far away, I am saved.
We returned from vacation yesterday. Running on no sleep and wobbled by jet-lag, we stumbled through the afternoon (Everything always seems a little off at first.) And the house was cold. No sun had entered. No heat had been on for three weeks. We opened the shutters and gave light to the familiar. 

And I saw it — this beautiful life we have created. This home. I felt steady. I put two of my grandma’s quilts on the bed, (a double Elsie), and I sleptin the certainty that I, we, are home.

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Love’s wealth.

I don’t know what she gave up so I could do it, but it must have been something. We didn’t have extra money. Maybe not even enough. Perhaps that was one of the gifts she gave me, the not knowing.

It was hidden, the store. No signs. No advertising. But someone had told my mother about it. She knew I would love it. I loved everything about art. We climbed the back stairs. When we reached the top it was a sea of white. Statues. Figurines. Pots. Bowls Plates. All unfinished ceramics. I knew how the scientists felt when they discovered the lost city. It was so beautiful. So much possibility. “And you just paint it. At home. No need for firing.” I could barely hear the words she was saying. My head was spinning. 

And so it began. Each Saturday we climbed those stairs. My mom would let me pick out something, and all week, after school, after homework, I would paint. It was glorious. I filled my mom’s apartment. If she needed something for her dresser, I painted it. Birthdays, I painted it. What we didn’t have room for, we gave away. Because she knew, I knew, it was never about the having afterwards, it was the doing. It was the making. The feeling of accomplishment. I suppose at that time there was so very little that made either of us feel worthy. But this did. She was able to give me this opportunity to create, and I was able to do it. And exchange of love’s wealth.  The feeling was palpable. It jimbled around my heart, my belly, and I was alive!

We went to the museum a few days ago. Each time I go, I have the same feeling — all jimbly. It’s the only word I have ever had to describe it. And it never fails. Every room. Every painting. Every statue. I am a child climbing the stairs to possibility, filled with the wealth of love. My mother gave me that. I will be forever filled. Forever grateful.

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Belong.

To have walked a place is to possess it. I knew this before I even knew what the word meant. 

From my first visit I tried to memorize my grandparent’s farm. The house. The barns. Fences and trees. Knowing that I would need it one day. Not the things inside the rooms. Not the furniture or figurines. Not the rusting tools. Nor the worn clothing. But the security. I suppose that’s all a home is — this feeling that if you went there, they would have to take you in. And if in fact I carried it with me, this feeling, this home, then I could go anywhere. I could have everything, or nothing else at all, and I would have this. And I would be OK. So I memorized the steps. The pictures hanging on the walls. The variety packs of cereals in the cupboard. The smell of damp work from overalls hanging on the wall. Tables and rugs and boots. Desks and doors. Closets. 

My suspicions were confirmed when I saw the For Sale sign in the front lawn of our home on Van Dyke Road. My mother was trying to say the words. I tried to listen as I went through the steps. “We’d find an apartment,” she said. I walked up the gravel driveway to the house. “And we’d be OK.” I opened the front door and clung to the overalls hanging in the entry. “Just the two of us,” she said. I walked up the three steps to the kitchen. Tears fell from her eyes as she tried to convince me. “It wasn’t my fault…” I went up the stairs to the first bedroom, the second, the sewing room. I walked the barn. Even the empty chicken coop. And I returned to her face. My mother’s face. Seeing her. Loving her. Trusting her. It didn’t matter where we were going. If we had everything, or nothing else at all, we had each other.

And I memorized each laugh. Each day. Each struggle. Each adventure. Every trip to every mall. Every pretty dress. Every conversation mixed with coffee and wine. Each moment with my mom. Knowing I would need it one day. And that day has come.

I walk the streets, the gravel paths of Aix en provence. I have filled out the forms. Followed the rules. Applied. Tested. And carry the card that says I belong. But I know the only way for that to be true is to walk it. This place. Gather it all in, step by step, and carry it with me. Scattering along the way, everything that I have collected through the years. Each story. Every pebble on the path that I walk daily is now mixed with my treasures. My memories. Dampened overalls and sparkling dresses. Laughs and loves. I am a part of it all. And I am home.

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Word by word.

She loved to read by the window, sitting on the deacon’s bench. The sun lit the words, almost in reverence, just, I thought as it should be. 

It was Mrs. Bergstrom who taught me how to read, but it was my mother who taught me how to love it. Reading and rereading each library book. Words that calmed me when I was scared. Words that lifted me when low. Words that paid for the tickets when money was scarce. Filled the car with gas. Lifted the plane. Took us on adventures. Gave us not just happy endings, but happy beginnings. Told us that all things were possible. I know I was just a child, but when I saw my mother with a book in her hand, I knew that I was saved. We all could be.

Mrs. Bergrstrom wrote on the blackboard the word career. She went around the room asking what does your father do? What does your mother do? Maybe it wasn’t surprising, we were only six, but most of the kids didn’t know. Some said they went to a building. Did a job. Left in the morningtime. Set the table. When she pointed to me – asking what my mother did – I knew for certain, and said it clearly – “Well, she’s saving the world.” Some snickered, but I just smiled, because for me, it was true. Word by word.

I began a new book yesterday. These Precious Days by Ann Patchett. I sat at my desk, the sun shining through the window, illuminating each magnificent word, warming my shoulders. I could have vacuumed, or dusted. Washed clothes. But I was doing something more important. I felt the power. From sky to window to shoulders to page to heart. It was all love. And she was with me. All things were possible. Word by word, we were saving the world.

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