Jodi Hills

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

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Story books.

I don’t know when it changed — the moment we dropped the word story and just started calling them books. A part of me wants to bring it back. 

The story books were in the basement of the Alexandria Public Library. Maybe it was because we didn’t know how to use the card catalog yet, but so many were on display, not by spine, but full cover. I can still see the bright blue cover of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. It was still above my reading grade, and sat perched on the very top shelf. I thought if I finished all the books on the lower shelves, read each and every story, worked my way upwards, that I too could fly. 

My mom dropped me off every Saturday morning. I climbed up the outer steps, then climbed down the inside ones. I read for hours. Just before my mom picked me up, I checked out as many books as my orange book bag would hold, and the librarian would allow. She never complained about having to come in and get me. Most of my friends from school sat outside waiting for their rides. Running around in the grass, soon and easily fed up with the quiet words of the basement. But not me. I wanted every moment. And my mother, being an avid reader, understood. She parked the car behind the Ben Franklin store and walked over to get me. 

I wasn’t thinking about it when I wrote the book Bird Song. Covered in the same blue, it is a collection of stories (a story book) told by the beautiful wings that carry them. But of course it lives within me. The days at the public library. Each word read. Each shelf climbed. I know they brought me to this place. They lifted me. Dared me. And faster than any childhood Saturday morning, I learned to fly. 

The stories we create are not weights, but branches. Out on the morning limb, I heart gather all the words – of mother and love and youth and chance and choice and story — I spread my wings, and I fly.

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The birthplace.

My brother left VanDyke Road for the US Airforce. Barely leaving the ground, he swooped back into town, just as he promised he would, and built his high school girlfriend a house on Van Dyke Road. Right next to Vaseks. Tom became TomandRenae. I helped them stain the cupboards. They had a two car garage and two cars. Renae wore a fuzzy peach bathrobe. Tom mowed the lawn. They called each other terms of endearment. They got a big yellow lab. Everything we had lost as a family just up the gravel road, was coming to life again. And it was all as Big Ole had promised — the statue that guarded the near entrance to Van Dyke Road — this was indeed “The Birthplace of America.”

As they drove past Big Ole, on the way to the hospital to have their first child, he told her, “When we drive past Big Ole again, our lives will never be the same.” They brought Joshua Thomas home two days later, and all of lives changed. For the better. They were parents. I was an aunt. My mother was a grandma, and somehow we belonged to something again.

Three years later, when Rachel was knocking on life’s door, my brother was on a hunting trip. Freshly licensed, I was the one to drive with Renae past Big Ole. My mom stayed with Josh and I stood inside the miracle. I breathed in time and watched them pull Rachel out of Renae with forceps. Sometimes life has to be encouraged.

I am in another country now, and a world away from being able to lift either one of them, but I do still carry them with me. I always will. In so many ways, we were all born together. I suppose that’s what Big Ole meant, we would all be asked to change and grow, to star over, to let go, to begin, again and again.

I can still hear the gravel popping fresh beneath the tires. It’s the birth of a brand new day. And so it begins.

Happy Birthday, Josh Hills.

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Beside her.

My grandparents had apple trees. All variations of sweet, but for one. That tree produced sour apples. My mother loved them. During peak season, my grandma would pick sacks of apples. Ready for any visitor that came by. Reused brown paper sacks from Jerry’s Jack and Jill grocery store filled with green. Only one was labeled. She wrote Ivy in bold, black magic marker. The sack with the sour.

I had only begun to put letters together to form words. I knew my name, of course, and I knew my mother’s name. I ran to it in delight. In this sea of ordinary brown paper, there was her name. “Are you famous?” I asked her. “Yes,” she nodded and smiled. My heart beamed. I knew it!

During my husband’s first visit to Alexandria, Minnesota, my mom took us to Herberger’s. We walked in the back door by shoes. Jessica looked up from her customer’s feet, “Oh, hi Ivy!” Sue from the bra department waved, “Hi, Ivy!” Dominique smiled. Claudia from the Clinque counter asked her how the new moisturizer was working. A man stopped, put his hand on my mother’s shoulder and said “It’s good to see you, Ivy.” “He’s the manager,” my mom offered. Dominique looked confused. “Is your mother the mayor?” he asked me. I smiled. “Of Herberger’s… yes.”

I suppose we all want to be seen…noticed for the bold markings of our own magic. But just as important, and rewarding, is to see others. What a privilege it is to be let in. To be trusted in someone’s truth. My mother gave me that gift. Let me walk beside her. I give thanks for this, every day.

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Mighty.

There’s a small stack of pots resting by the side of the house. A little plastic one on top. I think I used it as a scoop when repotting another plant. I guess some soil was left behind. Were seeds blown in from the wind? Watered by the almost non-existent summer rain? I can’t be sure. And I don’t need to be. Because it’s there. Not a weed — but a real plant. And it’s not similar to the two types we have in the house. No, it’s brand new. Strong. Greening and growing without our help. Without our knowledge or permission. Coming to life. Strong. Through all the madness of this world, it found a way. 

I’m not proud of it, but I can be a worrier. Inventing scenarios in my head that may never happen. But thankfully, I can also see the signs. The beauty all around me that says, “Look. We’re given everything we need.” I smile and carry the image with me. And on the days when I feel no stronger than a seed blowing in the wind, I think, I’m going to find a way. Hope grows mighty.

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A new measure.

I spotted it on the gravel path. The sun reflected off the silver case. I picked up the tape measure. It had a few scratches, but worked perfectly.  The metal strip was strong. It stayed in place when I pushed down the lever. A good measure. I looked around the nearby driveways to see if a work truck was nearby. There was no one. We are always in need of a tape measure. We have a couple, but they never seem to be in the right place. Smiling, I hooked my find onto the waistband of my shorts and kept walking. It was a good day.

The things that make me care are forever changing. There was a time when I measured the success of the day by the odometer on my bicycle. Each turn of the pedal brought something new. Then by school grades. Every “A” neared the way out. Paychecks and car doors. Plane tickets and galleries. Fax machines and store orders. Credit cards and rent paid. Computers and social media. “Likes” and “friends.” Measure by measure.

There are a million ways, I suppose, to monitor your success. I would never presume to tell you how to do it. The only thing I know for sure is that it keeps changing. That is the gift, if you choose to see it. But you have to change along with it. Find a new measure. I tell myself this daily. Will this painting sell? It doesn’t matter — I had fun doing it. Will this post get a lot of likes? The message was just as much for me. Did I get anywhere today? I had the time to go for a walk. New measures.

I don’t know if some signs are easier to see, or if some days we just choose to see them. Either way, I needed this one. Returning home, I presented the tape measure to my husband. “Bravo!” he cheered. Love — perhaps the greatest measure of all.

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The teachers.

It’s not lost on me that the math problem Mr. Lee was trying to explain on the overhead projector, was indeed, over my head. I suppose it was this focus on words and other such artistic attractions on my three ring binder that kept me from understanding the equation. We were all told to secretly write down the answer and walk it up to him. One by one I saw my classmates make the trip. Some racing with delight. Others tripping back to their desks in defeat. My hair, still wet from swimming class the period before, dripped on my blank paper. The bell rang and with a giant sigh of relief we all got up to head toward the door. No, he said, raising his one arm. Even with one sleeve folded and pinned to his shirt in that arm’s absence, he was the most intimidating teacher we had at Central Junior High School. He said we couldn’t leave without the answer. The few that had gotten it, laughed and raced into the filling hallway. Had I spent less time calculating my route to Mr. Temple’s Social Studies class, and more time on the problem, perhaps I would have gotten the answer. Mr. Lee made a few marks on the plastic with his red pen. This apparently was enough to get a few more students out the door, but the rest of us remained. He winced at the phantom pain of his empty sleeve. We did the same for our answerless sheets of paper.

He shut the projector off. Looked at me. Directly at me. I smiled — not because I was acting “smart.” (That ship had sailed.) No, I smiled to tell him it was ok. We’d do better tomorrow. I smiled because we were neighbors after all. He couldn’t keep us here forever. People knew my schedule. I rode the bus with his children. My mom had Saturday coffee with his wife Yvonne. He wrote the answer down on the hall passes that he gave us to get to our next class.

The answers weren’t always clear. But we were always learning. You couldn’t help it. The examples were everywhere. In every room. The courage, patience, and strength displayed each day from those who stood in front of us. Willing us to a better understanding.

Later that evening. When my hair was dry. And my thoughts were clear. I looked at the problem again. It made sense. “Showing my work,” I penciled my way to the answer that he had given. After dinner, I walked the gravel of Van Dyke road to his house. I could see the lights on in their dining room. Lincoln, Tracy and Tony were still eating. I printed my name in the upper right hand corner of the paper and placed it on their front porch.

My mother was standing in the well lit doorway as I walked up the drive. She smiled. There was so much to learn.

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Close to you.

It will probably sound strange to the youth of today, but it was something to see — this woman — who sang like an angel, wore her hair and dresses long, and sat behind the set of drums. You might think, so what? Anyone could have done it. While that may be true, she was the one who did. The first one I had ever seen. I’m guessing that’s the case for most of us. Karen Carpenter. Not all who lead stand in front. 

Most of the heroes that I write about daily were never given awards. Not praised in the news. Nor decorated with medals. But I honor them. These farmers that stood above the wheat. Teachers that cleared a path. A grandma who giggled amidst life’s clutter. Neighbors with open doors. A mother who loved within and beyond any storm. These are the angels that led me here. 

They are the reason I can sit in a country far away in front of an empty canvas, where birds do “suddenly appear,” and keep me daily, and ever close, to the ones I love.

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Four and Twenty.

We were doing so well, until we got into the higher numbers. Not only did we have to learn the language, the French words for the numbers, we had to do the math as well. To say the teacher explained to us — (A “we” that could be only described as a collection of people from the land of misfit toys. Myself – the American, the two women from South Korea, the Cambodian, the Russian, the Mexican, and the 5 Arabs.) — this would be an overstatement. But in her defense, what good reason could there be to stop giving the additional numbers their own names and start combining them in different math problems? For example — the number for eighty is not given its own name, no, it is quatre-vingts (4×20).

Deep in my wandering brain, I thought of the first time I had heard this four and twenty. Yes, yes, baked in a pie…

“Sing a song of sixpence,
A pocket full of rye.
Four and twenty blackbirds
Baked in a pie.

When the pie was opened,
The birds began to sing.
Wasn’t that a dainty dish
To set before the king?”

It was my first music box. It was red and yellow, shaped like a tiny radio. You spun the knob and it sang the nursery rhyme. This one was my favorite. I dialed it in. The birds survived every time. Imagine that I thought – baked in a pie – and they survived! Glorious! I sang it again and again.

As the nursery rhyme repeated in my head, the teacher had already gotten to the nineties. It was even worse. In the nineties, you have to multiply and add. You can imagine the nightmare that 99 brings for a non-French speaking person — quatre-vingt-dix-neuf (4×20+10+9).

I suppose it will come as no surprise. To test out of this first unit, we had to hold imaginary conversations with the French officials. The first scenario, she explained, was in a store. I was to be the clerk selling dresses (so far so good.) She would be the customer. I looked at the pictures she gave to me. It showed a dress hanging on the rack. As big as life the tag read, $99.99. My heart sank. She asked how much it was. I started doing the math. The numbers raced in my head…all clunked together with the Song of Sixpence. I began my quatre-vignt-dix-ing… then stopped and said, in my best French — this dress was on sale. (Wasn’t that a dainty dish, I thought?) She laughed. I passed the exam.

I have been given the tools I need to find my way in and out of life’s pie. And so I keep singing!

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Aloft.

Soaring birds that wish to stay aloft without flapping usually fly INTO the wind for lift.

I suppose that’s the goal, isn’t it — a lot less flapping, and a lot more lift. And I mention it only as a reminder to myself. Oh, it’s so easy to get upset over the little things. “But they did this! – again…” and “she always does this – every time,” and “look at that, c’mon!” (So much flapping.) 

And we all know the goal. To get higher. But ooooh, those words — when someone tells you “to just get over it…” I’m not sure why exactly, but they sound like fighting words. Like it’s all your responsibility. Like why do I have to do it? Why do I always have to go higher? (Oh, that flapping!) So I tell myself in different words, be the soaring bird. And my heart stops fighting the wind, but using it. To glide. Higher. And I always feel better. Always. 

I’m so human. I learn the lesson over and over. But I’d like to believe I become the bird a little easier, a little more quickly, with each passing lesson. I hope so. Because the view! Spectacular! 

Maybe you’ve already mastered it. If so, I say bravo, little bird! And I make you this promise (me, too often here among the flappers) — I’m learning — and I’ll see you up there!

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Seeing blackbirds.

I was shocked when she said it. I couldn’t believe my ears. I looked at my mother, who couldn’t hide her surprise either. What did she say? We were riding in the car together with my sister-in-law’s mother. Headed to some sort of family event that had spread to include a good portion of this small town. We were discussing the family tree. She asked about one of my mom’s brothers. Surely she couldn’t be thinking of Uncle Tom, I thought. “Oh, yes!” she continued, “he’s so handsome!”

No disrespect to my Uncle Tom. But this is not how he had been branded to me. He was the rough one. Tough one. Bold. Straight talking. Intimidating? Sure. Colorful? Indeed. And I guess, once we’re presented with something, we often stop looking, as if this were the only answer. 

After the event I went home and looked at the family portrait. I guess he was handsome. Huh! I wonder if he knew. I hope so.

I love to paint birds. You might think the colorful ones offer the biggest in painting lessons, but for me, that’s not really true. The black bird is a beauty that really forces you to see. Because to create the deep richness of the black, you have to see all the other subtle colors. The blues. The grays. The taupes. And browns. There is no depth without these other colors. And with no depth, there really is no beauty. 

But where does the responsibility lie? Within whom? Is it up to the person to show you their true colors? Or the viewer to see it? I suppose it’s both. And this is not a hardship – no, this is something! Because when you look, and you see it, it makes you feel special — you are allowed into all the beauty. You get to see beyond the shadowed wings of the blackbird and watch the glorious flight. You get to see beyond the expletives of your uncle’s mouth. Beyond the overalls and slight smell of cow, and think, wow, he really was handsome.  

I have been flawed. I haven’t always seen what is right in front of me. But I’m learning. I’m trying to do better. Be better. And like the Blackbird song says, “Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

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