Jodi Hills

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


Leave a comment

A Schwan’s delivery.

It was hard to believe that something so delicious could make me ill. But it was evident after only a few tries, I couldn’t eat ice cream. Somehow still, I found it very exciting when the pale yellow blur of the Schwan’s ice cream delivery truck drove toward my grandma’s house. I began running up the gravel, hands waving in air, directing him into the driveway. I knew full well that my grandma’s love of root beer floats would never allow her to miss a delivery. I hopped and skipped and ran with the truck to the house. Uniformed and certain, he jumped the steps and went to the back of the truck. “You’re Elsie’s granddaughter?” “Oh, yes!” I said proudly. I could tell by the smiling way he said her name that he liked her. He unloaded two of the giant tubs as my grandma came out the screen door. Her hands ever floured or wet, or both, she wiped them on her apron before signing for our haul of vanilla. 

How wonderful, I thought, to deliver ice cream. Everyone must be so happy to see you. I was, and I didn’t even eat it. The only other delivery person that I knew was my Uncle Mike, who drove a beer truck in the Twin Cities. I asked him if people jumped up and down when he arrived. He looked confused. Like I do with the Schwan’s truck, I explained. Not so much, he said. Maybe you should paint your truck yellow, I said. He smiled. 

Surely it has to be taught. There must have been a million things my grandma delighted over with me. Things she had no interest in. How else would I have known, known this joy of feeling good for others. I loved art and clothes and drawing and crayons and “Look, look what I made! It’s flowers glued to a scrap of bark! Look!” And my grandma showed all of her teeth in love. An ear to ear joy. This is the only explanation I have for being happy, truly happy, to celebrate a Schwan’s delivery, not for me, but for her!

Joy is not owned. It is passed and given away freely. It is run along beside. A yellow blur of others. The day is pulling toward the driveway. I raise my hands in the air and skip to whatever joy it may bring. 


2 Comments

On Walking.

I was in the fifth grade when I did my first Walk for Humanity. I’m not certain I knew what it meant, but I took the pledge sheet and walked around our neighborhood to get signatures and promises. Maybe it was a nickel a mile. Ten cents. A quarter. Maybe this was the most “human” part of it all. This neighborhood knew me. Knew the strength of my legs. Had watched me run the field, ride the bike, and so they said things like, “Of course you’ll make it, I know you’re going to do it.” And if I’m honest, it was the only humanity I was thinking of when I walked the miles that Saturday morning. These were my people. They knew my bedtime. The call of my mother. My wave from the bottom of the hill to the top. How my blonde hair whipped in the wind. And I didn’t want to let them down. 

It was a rainy morning. I was fueled with Captain Crunch, and no knowledge of how far ten miles actually was. I had flat bumper tennis shoes and jeans purchased from Herberger’s basement. I was soaked from rain, puddles, and possibly a few tears at about mile eight. I had no idea where we were, but for the marked signs and groups of teenagers that I followed. I had to go to the bathroom so badly, but I was too shy to enter any house that offered those services for the day. I didn’t know them. This wasn’t Van Dyke Road. I had no idea how to even get back to Van Dyke Road. All I wanted was an open screen door that I recognized — like our resident neighborhood Grandma Dynda — a grandma that no one was related to, but who’s door was always open to kitchen and bathroom. What would she think of me if I quit? I couldn’t quit. I kept walking. Even Mrs. Muzik pledged for me. We couldn’t walk on her lawn, but she was paying me to walk across this new humanity. I kept walking. 

I wet my pants around mile nine. But no one noticed because I was already soaked. I never told anyone. People were so proud of me when I went to collect the money on Sunday that I forgot about it. They tousled my hair and filled my pockets with change and a few dollar bills. I don’t know if the tiny bit of money I raised made any difference at all to the cause, but for me, it was a fortune. I was rich in my neighborhood. This sea of humanity. 

My pledges are different now. Along with my neighborhood. But I keep walking. Hopes remaining ever high.