Jodi Hills

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

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Each song has wings.

The worse we sang, the balder he got. Each wrong note hit in our seventh grade choir raised Mr. Dehlin’s hand to the top of his head, rubbing in desperation. How could he direct us to the right note? He seemed to be willing the answer inside his brain with the hand that carried the baton.

I don’t remember the note, nor the song, but no one in the alto section seemed to be hitting it. He directed David Alstead to hit the note on the piano. Again. And again. The note rang through the choir room. The problem was that that one poor note had to compete with all of the noise in our teenage heads. The noise of the upcoming exams in English and Math. Who was dating whom. Who was about to break up. Why was she wearing that? Would we be invited to the dance? Would there be time to get to get to the locker room to grab the forgotten book? Who would we sit next to on the bus. Again! — he pointed the baton at David. Again! He played the note and we sang something close to it as a section, but not close enough. Mr. Dehlin went down the line of altos, pointing the baton at each person. One by one. Note by note. Each missing by a hair – a hair that seemingly fell from his head to the floor. Twice through the line. Getting closer each time. He had our attention now. And we sang. We sang that glorious note. He raised both hands in the air, then collapsed them to his knees. We all cheered (in the right key!). It was only a note. But he got us there. There was still a whole song to learn. But he gave us our victory. Our moment. He stood tall again. Tapped the baton on the music stand. Gave a look to David. One quick flick of the baton, and we were off – in song!

Through our junior high years we held countless concerts. Parents gave us standing ovations for the mere fact of being born. But it was that impossible note reached that I remember the most. And what it took to get us there.

My love for music has never faltered. It has layed beside me during the darkest times. Danced with me through the highest. Pushed my lawn mowing legs. Moved my paintings, stroke by stroke. Brightened breakfasts. Made sacred each holiday, each friendship. Gave me the soundtrack for hellos and goodbyes. Note by note.

I suppose we never forget those who walk with us, battle with us, just to get us through — see us through — to become our best selves… those who give us not only the note, but also a reason to sing!

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To find out who I am.

They didn’t protect us from getting lost – in fact they encouraged it — our teachers at Central Junior High. We were swung through a carousel of mini-courses, each lasting six weeks. It seems they knew that in order to find ourselves we first had to wander off the paths of our familiar.

The transitions seemed abrupt. Moving from sewing to drafting. Drafting to metals. Metals to plastics. Back up to home-ec. Back down to wood shop. My mother’s laundry room/storage area was stacked with an uneven wooden shelf, a dangerously sharp edged metal toolbox, a yellow stuffed dog sewn with red thread, a glitter filled plastic soap dish in the shape of a pear, blue prints for an undetermined office building, and a lingering bitter taste of a slightly unbaked apple pie.

I suppose it was this balance that helped to form me. Being thrust from place to place in school, and then welcomed home, no matter what I carried, in hand or in heart — I knew it, I, would be saved.

I don’t think any of us knew that we would look back on these junior transitions and think, how simple, how small, compared to the ones life now challenges us with. As we move through adult time and space, perhaps the most difficult is when people transition in and out of our lives. This letting in, and letting go. Maybe that’s what they were trying to teach us all along.

They armed us with experience. I carry it up and down today’s stairs. I’m still learning.

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Fresh.

I suppose it took us a bit to make the transition. She was our first teacher who wore her hair down. Perhaps even the first to wear pants. She was young and beautiful. Our elementary school equilibrium had to date been neatly tucked in pencil skirts and bunned hair. But not Miss Green. We could smell it, this, her “fresh” out of university. 

But we were open. As open as the first team room in Washington Elementary. We played Jackson 5 records on the phonograph before class. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and we listened. She sent us off on “spelling trips” around the globe. We had to write stories together. In groups we created inclusive adventures. Each journey was dependent on every member. And we were hooked. 

We pledged allegiance to the flag, but mostly to her, to our class, and to each other. So when she came to us (Barb, Wendy, Lori and me) one morning and encouraged us to “Be nice to Danny today,” we didn’t question it. We didn’t ask why, or what was wrong. We just did it. Without our knowledge or permission, she had slipped it in, this lesson of empathy. We didn’t even have the word for it then, but we had the ability. She gave us that.

There is a lot of talk about artificial intelligence today — AI. I believe in progress. I believe in growth. Technology. Advancement. I am not afraid of the future. But I am still sure of one thing — human contact can never be replaced. What we learned, working together, there was nothing artificial about it. And it has lasted a lifetime. 

Maybe we just have to keep learning how to learn. If we can do this, stay human while we stay fresh, then maybe we can do anything.

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Du jour.

I never considered our family broken. What a crazy word to call a family. Was it a big fat mess at times? Sure. Of course. But none of us really wanted to be fixed. Only loved.

It was like my grandma’s kitchen. Dirty dishes in the sink. Ingredients never measured, simply added. Meals made out of seemingly nothing at all. Plates cracked and clinking. Forever a table full. A pot boiling. A dishrag dirty. In a constant state of preparation, but rarely prepared.

My grandfather soaked the last bit of sauce from his plate with a piece of bread and went back to work in the field. Guided by a belly full and ever changing weather, he too, created, farmed, something out of nothing.

We had a smaller table than the one at the farm. And quieter. Only 5 of us. And we weren’t prepared when our family of five suddenly became two. Of course my mom was hurt. I was scared. And the table changed. But we weren’t broken. We found a new way to love. To live. Our place at the table.

If you’re reading this, there is nothing that you haven’t survived. All those things, those changes, those unbearable times…you have gotten through. I write it to remind myself as I foolishly order up the “worry du jour.” As I try to “fix” it all. It’s not broken, I repeat and repeat. It’s only life. It’s only love. Take a seat at this beautiful new table.

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Something cracked, something broken.


The first time I wore plaster was in the fifth grade. I broke my arm ice skating during the Valentine’s Day party. I waited patiently in the nurse’s office of Washington Elementary. My mom came from work and drove us to the clinic. The sleeve of my winter coat dangled from the left side as I breathed in the antiseptic smell. My mother touched my knee so I would stop kicking the bed as we waited for the doctor to return with the xrays. He clicked the black sheets into the light that hung on the wall and said, “See right here… that’s where it’s broken.” We both agreed, but I’m not sure either one of us saw it. He dipped the strips of plaster and wrapped it warmly around my arm. It was as white as his coat. “Tomorrow all your friends can sign it,” he said. Oh, he didn’t have to tell me. That was the only thing I was looking forward to. I barely slept through the night.

Maybe the teachers gave them the permanent markers. They must have. Soon I was encircled with eager fifth graders, armed with all colors of opened Sharpies. Almost high from the smell and the attention, I presented my open canvas and each kid fought for the prime real estate of my cast. 

I don’t know how we knew. But we all did. Maybe it was a right of passage. This ritual. This coming together over something cracked, something broken. It was so beautiful. It would have felt no different had they lifted me above their heads and passed me around the classroom. 

It happens less frequently now. And maybe with less fanfare. Maybe it’s because the wounds get less visible when we’re older. Maybe our collective groups get smaller. But I consider myself lucky. Blessed. I still have those people in my life who surround me with support. Sometimes with just a few words, but they fit into the prime real estate of my heart and fill it. And I am lifted, with a permanent high. 

All we have to do is be good to each other. Be there, for something cracked. Something broken.

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I am here.

In the fifth grade team room of Miss Green, Mr. Andert, and Mrs. Pohlman, we were allowed to begin. And I mean begin anything. Without plans. Without direction. Without fear. 

The janitor’s closet was directly across from our classroom. During a rainy day recess, Wendy Shoeneck, Lori Patri, Barb Duray and I used it as our office. Amid the smell of disinfectant and the wet mop in the bucket, we came up with the idea of putting on a play for our classmates. We had no reason to believe we would be good at it. We had no reason to believe we wouldn’t be… so we continued. We had no script. No decisions were made other than to just do it. 

We flung the door open and told Miss Green of our plans. I don’t remember asking, maybe we did, I hope we did, nonetheless, she said sure, and when the class convened after recess, we began. We drifted between themes of don’t use drugs, be nice to everyone, some school bus songs…I remember jumping and waving, and soon the whole class was singing. It maybe lasted 5 minutes. But you don’t need a long time to get a real taste of freedom, a real taste of joy.  

We were rangled back to our desks and the day continued with books and structure. But the afternoon smiles never left our faces.  

I had been shy for my first four grades. Some said painfully — I had never seen it as pain. When they mentioned it on my report cards, my mother always told them, “When she has something to say, she’ll say it.”  My mother never lied to me, so I believed her, and lived in my quiet world pain free. She was right, and it happened for me in fifth grade. Maybe it was due to the open team room. Maybe it was because of the open teachers. The safety of friends. Or maybe it was just my time. But I give thanks for it all. I never turned back after that. 

I have no real plan for the day. I have no reason to believe it won’t be good. I fling open the door — here I am — powered by the freedom to live my joy.

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Thumbs up.

There is a certain group of people that will forever remain in the Mr. or Mrs. categories for me — my teachers.

As an adult, even becoming friends with some of them, it still seems almost impossible not to refer to them in a proper way. And how lucky, I suppose, that this remains. This simple sign of respect. 

My first gym teacher at Washington Elementary was Mr. Christopherson. His job, I see now, was almost impossible. Rounding up these groups of children, on the brink of Lord of the Flies…so filled with the agony and frustration of grammar and times tables…bursting at the seams of our gym uniforms to release the energy of learning. But somehow he did. Separating us into teams. Arming us with red balls. Allowing us to throw and run and scream and laugh, and sometimes cry. But then, and here comes the amazing part, he had the strength, the respect, to wind us down. Make us pick up the balls. Place them neatly in the ball rack. Stand in line. March to the lavatory. Shower. Change back into our “civilian” clothes. And walk quietly, calmly, (a little lighter of educational worry) single file, back to our classroom . This is something. This is why he will, and should, forever remain “Mr. Christopherson.”

When I became an adult, and would visit my mother for the weekend, I would go out running in the morningtime. And I would see him out there. Even on the coldest of winter days. Well into his later years. Still running. Still fit. Still in charge. Still inspiring. I would see him from a distance. I knew how he ran. I could feel myself pick up my pace a little. Puff up my chest. Run a little taller, straighter, stronger. When we crossed paths, he would smile and give me the thumbs up. Approval. It mattered. It still does. 

Today we say goodbye to this forever Mister. I sit up in my chair. A little straighter. A little stronger. And type the words of thanks.

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If I had a hammer…

We visited the home of Thomas Jefferson. I took a picture of his work space on my ipad. I have the same hammer. I use the same hammer. In some ways we have come so far — I don’t know that he ever could have dreamed about an ipad, but he loved learning, progress, so I think he would approve. In other ways, the world hasn’t changed that much. The basics. The hammers. The tools of our daily living. I think the goal is to use what still works, but then keep learning. We have so many more tools at our disposal now. But are we doing better? I want to do better. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before, but I always go back to one of my favorite people, Maya Angelou — she said, “When you know better, you do better.” We can do better. We can pick up the hammers that still work, and build with them, build on them. Use the tools we have today and go further.


It’s easy to type the words. Harder to live them. I know. Yesterday I got clogged in a mess for a couple of hours. I don’t want to give it more time, so I’ll just say, toner. Stupid toner. Stupid printer. My first thought was, “you’re wasting my time!” I said it over and over in my brain. Then it occured to me, that it was actually just me. I was wasting my time. I can do better. Today, I will do better. My hammer still works. My hands still work. My brain still works (well…as it does), and I will build a better today.


Thank you, Thomas. Thank you, Maya! Thank you, new day! Let’s begin!

Watch for this image. It’s going to be the cover of my newest book – a collection of these blogs!

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Go higher.

We almost past by this store yesterday, until we saw the sign, “This store voted number one in Midway, by owner.” We turned around and went inside. A store with a little pride and a big sense of humor, we couldn’t miss that! It was a delightful store. And we almost missed it. The people inside were welcoming. Funny. And they had great merchandise. And we saw it all because they presented themselves in the best manner. Maybe we could all do that.

Even at our most poor, my mother always looked like a star. She dressed well. Put on her make-up. Put on a smile, sometimes gutted there by pure will, but it was always there. She looked great! Still does. Because she cared. We were at the downtown Minneapolis Dayton’s store. It had many levels. The levels got more expensive with each escalator ride. She didn’t even look at the first level. At the second, she glanced around and said, “Ewwww, this looks like stuff we could afford…”. We laughed and went higher.

Through the years she found the sales. Put things on lay-a-way. Saved. Wished. Styled. And always looked wonderful. She taught me that. What a gift. It’s never about money. It’s about style. And if that style can include a little pride, self-esteem, and a great sense of humor, that will take you pretty far, and you’ll look good along the way.

She will always be voted #1 mother, (by her daughter.)

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One

She, at the age of ten, already has a vastly greater grasp of the french language than I do. It is humbling for sure, and that’s not a terrible thing, but sometimes I wonder, what do I have to offer if I can’t convey it? Then we go to the studio. My paint. My brushes. My canvas. This is my language. And she wants to learn. I give her a small canvas and ask her what she’d like to paint. Immediately she looks around – at everything I’ve done. (And that’s when I think, I do have something to offer.) The apples. She wants to paint the apples in a bowl. I place that painting in front of her. Tell her to just draw in pencil at first. Give herself a good start. She chooses the paints. We create a palette. Slowly we go through each step. The light. The shading. The mixing. She is interested. Curious. And she is learning. It is a beautiful thing. We are different in age and culture and language and knowledge, but here, we are one heart, one creation, and that is everything.

It’s not easy to come together. Efforts need to be made. Egos must be put aside. We have to be curious. Interested. Yes, it can be difficult, but the rewards — immeasurable. Stop looking for the things that make us different – because you will find them — it’s so easy. Look for the things that can bring us together. And look again. And again. One creation. One heart. Everyone. That’s everything.

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