Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: bookstore


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Of book and bird.

She could only read a page a day, the bird at the bookstore. Perhaps had she been able to turn the pages, she could have read more. She came every day and landed, not on, but near the book. She fluffed her feathers as bold as the words she imagined.

The exact day the store owner noticed her, she couldn’t be sure. She had no watch, no phone, no calendar. Just the angle of the sun. It glinted off the sidewalk’s tree, at the same time each morning and lit the way to the unlocking door of the bookstore. She watched him wheel his stack just under the shade. And she rested eager, smiling on the blue cover. He smiled back at her that one day. She was surprised he could see her turned beak, but he had, and he opened the book. Page one.

She returned each day to a new page. Pecked the words. Then nested them home. A month of words. A summer of chapters. They belonged to each other now.

Of course he had known loss. Everyone does. Perhaps that was the main reason he opened the bookstore. To connect.

In those sunny months of bird and book, a young girl was learning to read. She sat at the foot of the store owner. He read the words out loud, slowly, carefully. She followed along, raising her hand. Asking the questions. Eager for story. She noticed everything. Even the bird on the book.

“Is she reading?” She asked. “I think so,” he said. “Did you teach her?” “Not exactly…” he said, “some things we have to learn on our own.” “Then what did you do?” She asked. “Sometimes, you just have to help turn the page.” She smiled. They were all learning.

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Scattered “w”s

I don’t know her name, the woman at the bookstore — the one I told you about the other day. The one who followed Frances McDormand around and out the store last summer. But I know her face. And she knows mine. When we returned a few days ago, I placed my book on the counter to purchase, and held my phone up to show her the photo. I started with “Remember when…” and she looked terrified — the store is filled with international customers daily, so I’m sure she was not prepared for a test. But I continued quickly…”we talked about Frances McDormand?” And she broke into a huge smile. Yes, yes, she remembered this. I told her that I was so inspired that I went home and painted her. I held out my phone displaying the portrait. “Wow!” She claimed, “You are soooo good, wow!”  I beamed. I thanked her in two languages, both of us still grinning. “Because of our conversation…” she repeated, recognizing the part she had played. “Yes!” I said. And we knew we were connected. We spoke a little of paint, and words, and she placed my new book in a sack. I turned around to join Dominque and she said, this time to herself, perhaps to the store, the books that connected us, “Woah! Magnifique!” 

There are no price tags for each day that we live, but we do get paid, in the most glorious of ways. Sometimes it is with a passing smile. A lingered hug that says, “I know,” without words. A wave from an open window. Two wows and a woah! — I have them pocketed still, not to hoard them, but to have them at the ready, to give them freely when the moment arrives. When looked at with the hope of connection, I can scatter my “w”s and form a bond. Wow!

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Everything.

We went to the bookstore to pick up the latest release of Elizabeth Strout. She is one of my favorites authors. As I held it to my chest, the woman behind the counter was smiling at me. She loved her too. It wasn’t a competition, but we went through the titles excitedly, until we both ended up nearly moving to Maine (Strout’s home). 

I went into the small nook where Dominique was looking for murder and mystery. Soon she was back with us, asking me if I had watched the series made from the books, with Frances McDormand. Of course, I love her too, I said. “You know she was in here last summer,” she said. “No!!!!” I said, not in disbelief, but in why wasn’t I here, clutching a book!!!!! “Tell me everything,” I said.  “Oh, yes,” she said, “And I wasn’t sure it was her at first, when I saw her walking up the stairs, because how could it be her, but then I knew it was, and I watched her touch the books, and I hope she used the bathroom, and then she smiled at us, so I followed her all through town!” We laughed and I hugged my book tighter.  

It wasn’t until this morning, pulling the book out of the Book In Bar bag, that I noticed the title — “Tell me Everything.” Oh, how I love life! The beauty of how words connect us. Gather us in, letter by letter. I suppose, in my own humble way, that’s what I’m trying to do each day. 

I haven’t started the book yet, but I’m sure I’ll give you a report when I’m done. In the meantime, we clutch each other in, just a little closer.

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In the word.

We didn’t have backpacks. We had lockers. When we transitioned from the one classroom of sixth grade to the multi-class cycle day system of junior high, they gave us combinations and a stacks of books. Theft was not a big problem. Not that we were morally superior. The five minutes allowed to get from class to class was barely enough time to search your own locker. I wasn’t worried about my coat. Or my boots. But my books. My underlined, yellow-highlighted, notes in margins, heart clutched books…I loved them. My most prized possessions. I carried the stack from class to class.

At the first teacher’s conferences, I got the standard responses. They told my mother I was doing well. “But she doesn’t need to carry all of her books to every class.” My mother smiled, “Actually, she does.” She knew me.

I suppose I have always lived in the word. The comfort. The hope. The beauty. They danced from my mother’s mouth, until I learned to partner with them myself. They have never left me.

As we travel from city to city, the first thing I look for is the bookstore. Even if I don’t go inside, I do need to know it’s there. I trust a city that reads. A people that live word by word.

My suitcases are weighted with this trust. Books in every zippered flap. Some might find that silly. Some might say you don’t need them. With the assurance of heaven smiles and heart whispers, I tell you, “Actually, I do.”

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