Jodi Hills

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

Category Archives: memory


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The February of my heart.

I don’t own a set of china. Not anymore. When I was a little girl my mom gave me a doll size set of dishes in March for my birthday. She told me about it in February, because she never could keep a gift-secret. She started slowly, displaying the wrapped box. I was in my bedroom, playing with my dolls when she set the box on the bed. “They’re going to love it,” she squealed. I smiled and kept playing. “You know, when they’re hungry or thirsty…” I may have been young, but this was not an indecipherable clue. She exchanged my Baby Malinda with the box, but told me not to shake it, because “the glass would break.” I smiled again, not because I knew what it was, which I did, but simply delighting in how much she loved giving, so much so that it simply burst at the seam of her mouth.

When I opened the present a month later, they were the most beautiful dishes I had ever seen. White with blue and red flowers. A coffee pot. Cups with saucers. Bowls. And plates. They were meant to be displayed. I wanted my entire doll family to be able to see them at all times. I made a small shelf from an Iverson’s shoe box. But how could I make them stand up? I asked my mom for help. Her eyes darted around the house. Questioning. Searching. I knew that she had the answer when her eyes sparkled. She got out the footstool. She hated heights. It made her dizzy. She must really be certain, I thought, for her to risk the spins. She placed the stool in front of the window. I had no idea what she was doing. She pulled a few drapery hooks, randomly, so you couldn’t even see the slight sag. She brought them to the table and pulled the middle tongs. They looked like small easels. We displayed the plates and the cups in her old shoebox. I was February excited for the rest of the year!

There is a slight sag, knowing that I don’t have them anymore. But it’s not noticeable, not when the memories of footstools and drapery hooks shine over the moment. I had such a mother!! This can never be boxed or shelved, but forever carried in the February of my heart.

Her birthday isn’t until July 6th, but it seems fitting to start a little early.

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Snapshots

When Delta Dawn came up on the radio, it was as if my Aunt Sandy was sitting in the car beside us. Maybe it was because she named her daughter Dawn. Maybe it was because she liked to sing. Probably it was because she told me she looked like Helen Reddy. I remember it not because I was so sure that it was true, but I liked the confidence. She didn’t say, “People have said…” or “I think maybe I…” No, she came right out with it — “I look like Helen Reddy.” I’m still smiling. It’s just a snapshot of a moment. I don’t have many. And certainly no photographs. But I have this. And I can play it whenever I want. I’m humming the memory right now.

We didn’t take photographs. Maybe it was because my mother didn’t want to be on either side of the camera. Maybe we didn’t have the money, or the inclination. But moments were captured. In heart and mind. With each song that comes up on the radio, I can tell you where we were, with confidence. I can name the time, place, and food. The clothes worn. And can feel the picture between love’s thumb and first finger. Never to fade.

Maybe it’s easier now to take the photos. We all have cameras in the palm of our hands. No cost. No film. And I take many, it’s true. But I’m happy I didn’t grow up with a phone camera. I think it would have been too easy to rely on it. I had to find other ways. Work other muscles of living, of memory. What a gift to have them at the ready now. No swiping for hours to find that image. To release that feeling. I don’t have to find the nearest Starbuck’s to use their free wi-fi in search of a treasured memory. It’s within. Ever.

As we drive from state to state, Dominique learns a little bit more of my family. Marty Robbins began to sing and we are at my Grandma Elsie’s kitchen table. In a rare moment, talking like girlfriends. About love, like girls do. I asked her if she ever loved anyone else but grandpa. She just smiled. That was for her heart to know. As the music played she asked me what singers I loved. She didn’t know any of them. I asked her which famous person she loved, who she would leave Grandpa Reuben…before I could add the word “for,” she shouted “Marty Robbins!” I don’t know how long she had that in the holster, but it was at the ready! We laughed hard. Waist bending hard. We knew she loved Grandpa. But this was a moment. Our moment. I sing the memory to Dominique. The music plays on. The wheels keep turning. Smiling the snapshot.

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An Amazing Peace.

I read it every year — Maya Angelou’s An Amazing Peace. It is the manger of my Christmas decor. I don’t remember each word by heart, but the feeling, oh, the feeling that these words create — of understanding, of trial, of joy, of hope…and peace, well, they are permanently engraved in my heart. And those feelings latch on to memory and time. Of what was, what is, and what could be. And I live there, coddled in every word. Piece by piece. Peace by peace. 

This is the first year that I don’t have the book beside me. It rests seven hours ahead in another country. But I am not without it. “I am not without.” I say the words slowly, truly, and perhaps learn the meaning of Christmas once more. 

Isn’t it the same with love? It may not sit beside us. But we are never without. This is my truest peace. I hope you can feel it — on this joyous of days — ever.

Merry Christmas, everyone. It is amazing.

“ Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.” Maya Angelou


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Tall.


I can feel her eye roll all the way from heaven as I sit in the hotel breakfast lounge. Not for me, of course. She would never have allowed me to go out into a public area dressed like that. She led by example. Hair, make-up, clothes — even when at their most casual — impeccable. And I wanted to be just like her.

When I was old enough, she got me my own starter kit for make-up. Most likely they were the free gifts from her purchases. She wanted me to learn with my own products. And not to mess up hers. This was clear from my earliest of memories. If I wanted to dunk my cookie, she gave me my own cup of coffee. And so it was with make-up. With clothes. I could admire her shoes, but never walk around in them. Because these things were special. They meant something. She took pride in herself. To be tall in stature was good, to be tall in self-worth was priceless.

And so we dressed for the occasion. Each day was just that. Whether we were toasting, or just going to the lobby for toast. I finished my morning coffee, not in judgement, but in thanks. I stand tall. Every day. My mother still sees to that.

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A light to stay connected.

I was watching a German creator who recently moved to Los Angeles, California. She was lonesome. Missing her friends. She walked around the streets and picked up odd objects. From the ground. Abandoned buildings. Seemingly useless stuff, but she could see something beautiful. She made a light that turned on by an automatic switch, notifying her of the German time between 9am and  9pm — the time she could safely call up a friend in Germany. Her best friend. To hear the sound of her voice. I love this idea. This simple reminder. A light to stay connected.  

Because that’s everything, isn’t it? Just to be connected to the ones you love. 

I search the house. Photographs and spare parts. Metal. Wood. Scraps. I know I can make anything. My heart smiles and tells my brain, “I’ve got this.” The flame that lights my mother’s memory is shining brightly. There’s only one thing I need to know — what time is it in heaven?

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Ironed blouses.

There were no smartphones to capture the moment. Only real film. Real cameras. No google to tag the time and place. We relied on the story. Packaged it deeply into our hearts and brains. Told it again and again to keep it alive.

I came across the photo of my mother on her hands and knees, in her bra and short pants, all smiles, ironing her blouse on the carpeted condo floor. That’s Hilton Head, South Carolina. I can’t see out any window. There are no discernable markers. But I know the story. 

It was my first real vacation from my first real job. We packed our non-rolling suitcases and put them in my GPS-less car. We drove from the Minnesota winter to the beaches of South Carolina. 

Having only real film to document our journey, decisions had to be made. It wasn’t like it is today with digital. No, there was a real cost to each photo, so I had to be frugal with my image choices. With all the beauty that surrounded us, the sand and sun, blues skies and flowers, you may be surprised that I used precious film to capture the moment of my mother ironing her blouse on the condo floor. But this WAS the story. The one I wanted to remember. Because I knew the landscape could and would change through the years, but it was our relationship, this was the most important thing of all. 

I can still feel the heaving of laughter in my belly. Struggling so to keep the camera still, and focus on the image. It wasn’t really “funny,” — it was just the release of so much joy. This freedom to be ourselves, to be our best selves. So much joy, all we could do was laugh. 

I know I took some pictures on the beach. I’ve misplaced them through the years. They weren’t that valuable. I saved what was important. 

You won’t find ironed blouses in the Hilton Head brochures, but in my heart, the laughter, the joy, the real story lives on and on.

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In the beautiful folds.

They say that paper has a memory. Meaning, if you fold it, the crease remains. Perhaps the same is true of the heart. 

The limb I found myself wobbling upon yesterday was a bit more unstable than usual, so I gathered in my heart and took it to the paper. It always welcomes me. And even with all of its security, it still challenges me. Dares me to create. To learn. To grow. To find the beauty even in this moment of uncertainty.  

I didn’t plan the portrait, I just started to paint. As she came to life, I knew what she needed to wear. My mother would have loved this ruffled blouse. How it gently gathered around the neck and framed the face. She was the queen of white ruffles, my mother. Such a delicate beauty. 

And there it was — found — the uncertain beauty of the moment. 

My heart is not broken. But it will be forever creased. Remembering and saving all the love. And it is here, in the beautiful folds, that I have the courage to move from limb to limb. To dare the lift of love, ruffle my feathers from heart to face, and let myself fly.

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