Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: California


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Expecting the unexpected.

Of course I read it in high school.  Possibly again in college. The words haven’t been altered these many years, in this book, Travels with Charley, by John Steinbeck. But visiting Monterey this year, the connection of his words to page to book to heart to the very roads we were traveling, this connection was so strong, I had to once again purchase the book.

Its subtitle, was perhaps the most alluring — In Search of America. Never, for me, has this been more important. On the back cover it reads, “he reflects on the American character, on racial hostility, a particular form of American loneliness he finds almost everywhere, and on the unexpected kindness of strangers that is also a very real part of our national identity.” I pause here. I hold the book tightly. And question. Is it? That kindness? I have experienced it for such a great majority of my life. I have found joy, and pride in it. I hope and pray that I have given it. Freely. That I give it. Still. Can we keep it alive?

I write daily of the lives that have enriched mine. That have held me up. Coddled me. Lifted me. Strengthened me. Brought me so much love and joy. That asked the same of me. And it occurs to me, when I see your comments, when I see you write my grandma’s name with such ease, such familiarity, my mother’s name, my grandpa’s, my teachers’ and friends’…. With each Elsie repeat, she lives on a little longer a little stronger, and I believe in that identity, our identity.

Years ago Facebook did a study. Feeding one group with negative thoughts, another with positive. The increase of negativity in those that received the negative feeds was profound. Now, did we need a study for this? Probably not. But it is important to make a daily decision of what we are putting out there. And it is a decision. 

What is our character? What is our identity? Maybe the quest never ends. From the northernmost tip of Maine to California’s Monterey Peninsula, as a nation, we drive, we pullover, we continue to ask for that “unexpected kindness,” and pray with each roll of the tire, that we are willing to give the same. 

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The center cannot hold.

If we are to take any comfort from the Yeats poem, in times of unrest and mayhem, there will always be a force bringing about a new age, and we will continue “slouching towards Bethlehem.” 

I had first read it in college, but as with any art, it takes on new meaning as I, we, bring new meaning to the words. And maybe it was Joan Didion who brought the most understanding as she wrote under those same words in a collection of essays. Didion begins with a series of essays set in California, her home state. She paints a vivid picture of the Golden State, capturing its unique blend of beauty and decay. She explores the lives of those who live on the fringes of society, from Haight-Ashbury’s hippie culture to the world of migrant workers in the Central Valley.

Perhaps we romanticize everything. Perhaps we have to. Visiting Haight and Ashbury yesterday, it is filled with thrift stores — adorned by the colors of being hippie. And I too am woo-ed like the other tourists. But the daily news looms over our heads. You can feel it. There is an unrest that no tie-dye can calm. Yeats writes, “Things fall apart. The center cannot hold.” He says, “The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.” And daily, we have to decide who we are.

I thumb through the rack of colorful t-shirts. I’m looking for answers – but there are none in my size. So I keep writing. I keep painting. I keep believing. Hoping a word, a stroke, will straighten my stride, strengthen it. 

Walking away from Haight. Running away from hate. Slouching towards Bethlehem. 

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My Golden Gate.

I don’t remember the assignment. Were we studying California? I can’t be sure. But the speed at which I raced home from Washington Elementary, (well, the bus went at it’s normal lumbering yellow pace, but my mind was feverishly blurring) to build a replica of the Golden Gate Bridge, reflected the certainty of my need to cross over. 

The size was already established. I found only one piece of plywood in the shed that divided our lot and Dynda’s empty one. Did I ask for permission to use it? I hope I did. Anything found on Van Dyke Road seemed like community property, so I put it in my rusted wagon and went back to our basement. Since the Tech School renters had moved out, I used the downstairs kitchen for making things – anything. I wasn’t allowed to use a saw, this would have to be the size. I went upstairs. Put a chair in front of the cupboard where my mom “hid” the chocolate chips. Passed them over. There was art to be made. I opened the thin cupboard beside and pulled out the off-brand roll of tin foil. It was probably only minutes, but it seemed a lifetime, with feet dangling over the kitchen floor, that I worked to release the foil from its own jagged grip. Once freed, I ran back downstairs and covered the entire sheet of plywood. Crinkled it like waves. With neither a mask nor a drop cloth, I spray painted it blue (also found in the shed). There was nothing left to do but plan my argument on how my mother should drive me back to town after just driving home from work. I had already made a list. Popsicle sticks. Glue. Wire. Red paint. I watched the second hand on the clock. 

Once released from her nylons and having heard my plea, my mom drove us back to Ben Franklin and purchased the goods. It took me an entire week to finish. It was too big for the bus, nearly three feet in length, and almost as high, so my mother once again had to drive me to school. Nyloned or not, I never heard her complain. 

I suppose we received grades, but that’s the thing about art, the real joy comes in the doing. It was my first bridge. I have been building them ever since. Word by word. Heart by heart. Day by day. Seeing it yesterday, The Golden Gate, I was reminded, the only reason I am here today, is my willingness, my eagerness, to cross over to the beauty that lies ahead.


It’s all about the choices we make. We can choose to stay or to cross over. We are offered these bridges as gifts. It’s not always easy to dare to cross over, to get through, to get beyond… but it is a choice. So many rivers to cross. And with one step, we choose… we decide to love, to be loved… we decide that we are actually worthy of the giving and receiving… we choose to live… and we cross over… we cross over to the beauty that lies ahead. What a journey!
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Those Pacific Coast Cows!

I guess somewhere between Washington Elementary and my grandparents’ farm I must have learned it. It does sound like something my grandpa would have said, between sparring cousins or in front of an unyielding field  — that life simply wasn’t fair. But I suppose it was the luxury of being loved enough that allowed me not to think about it that much. I knew what I had, what I have, and it was more than enough. 

I mention it only because I saw them yesterday, the cows at the beach. The most gorgeous views in front of them. 77 degrees and sunny. It made me laugh, wondering if my grandpa’s cows ever knew, ever gave them a thought, shook a hoof in the air and thought, “those Pacific coast cows….!!!!!” As ridiculous as it sounds, we humans do that every day. Fisted hooves! Shaking. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the answer seems to still be  — love.  If you are loved enough — and I mean both giving and receiving it — then maybe someone’s extra five minutes taken at lunch time won’t really matter to you. Maybe someone’s good fortune could be celebrated instead of envied. Someone’s win wouldn’t be your loss. I don’t know. I suppose you could say, well, it isn’t fair, your mother loved you… and that would be true. I am still heart-deep in that luxury. When it comes to my husband, my family, my friends, I am wandering in a grassy field beside the ocean. I know this. All I can do is give thanks and return the love. 

The view from gratitude is pretty spectacular.

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In the word.

We went in search of seals along the coastline of Monterey, California, but instead I found myself back at the kitchen table of our house on Van Dyke Road. 

I was just a tween when I read it, John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. I loved to read. I had been reading for years. First just moving my eyes along with my mother’s words. Then sounding them out by myself by lamp light. (I never had to hide under covers, my mother encouraged me to read.) But this was the first book, my first adult feeling book, my first read that made me climb the stairs from my bedroom, taking them two at a time because of the urgency to discuss this marvelous book with my mother. She smiled as she wiped the orange countertop with a dishrag. She knew the feeling. She was a voracious reader herself. She let me go on and on, not unlike Lenny I suppose, about each word. Each page. Each rabbit. My life has never been the same.

That conversation remained throughout her life. We would call each other after every book. From city to city. Country to country. The words kept us connected. She wrote notes on sticky pads. I wrote thoughts on my iPad. We gathered in between. 

We didn’t see the seals yesterday, but the romance of this coastline went deep. John Steinbeck helped for sure, but it was my mother that aided most in the authoring of my soul. 

We are given what we need, I suppose, when we need it. In the absence of seals, I visited my home.

You are part of my story, and it is beautiful.
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Otter to otter.

Maybe everyone who saw the otters that morning went home and played Wordle and thought that it was made just for them, but it still made me feel special. Imagine that, a little word like “otter” could make me feel a part of this big, magical world! It made my heart spin just like the seemingly Disney characters right there in the water.

The thing is, we never know what will connect us. I wrote it so long ago, but it holds true, and I try to remind myself daily — “If I’m not happy in this time, in this place, I’m not paying attention.” And when you start to see things, it becomes, well, easier to see things. Easier to point them out. I had a teacher tell me once, it can be as simple as changing the article. From “the” to “a”. Here’s an example: If I were to say, “I was wandering down the road,” – that sounds pretty ordinary, “the” road makes it sound like I travel it every day. Now, if I were to change that to “I was wandering down a road,” — oh, the mystery that arises! Which road is this? What could happen next?!

And isn’t that just like life? It’s always the small changes, I suppose — the little observations, the different perspectives, that can give us a whole new view. I suppose the cynic would call my otter to otter experience, simply a random force of nature. I’m sure they could evaluate the statistics. Show me the graph. I don’t care. For me, it was magic. I will always choose the joyful splash of magic!

It’s a new day! I’m going to wander down a road!!!

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Little things

It’s not a work of art, this scrap of paper, but it is the picture of kindness.  We were going to Pismo Beach. When we got close to shore, we saw that we would have to pay. We didn’t have a lot of time, so sitting in neutral, thought about just going on (the luxury of beaches in California). On his way out, an elderly man drove up next to us, signaling me to roll down my window. I did. He gave me his pass. “Just tape it to your windshield,” he said. The thank you’s rolled out of my smile. It wasn’t about the money. We could have paid, of course. But the thing is, he didn’t know that. And he gave us his pass. I taped my restored faith in humanity to the windshield, and we saw the most beautiful beach I’ve ever seen, because it was lit with kindness.

We are in a period of time where hatred seems to be front and center. You can’t tell me that it’s normal. How? When, did this become OK???? It’s all around. It’s shouted through social media, on t-shirts, and face to face. We have to be better than this. We have to be the knock on the random window that passes along kindness. Please let me be that hand. May we all be that hand.

The tape will fade. The note will drop from the window. But the kindness will last. It is glued to my heart.

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Wiggle room.

They say you never forget your first love. I suppose that’s why in Santa Barbara yesterday, I thought of Cocoa Beach.

My ninth grade was full of firsts. My first plane ride. My first time in Florida. My first time seeing the ocean. My grandparents had rented a condo on Cocoa Beach. It is fitting that I experienced it with them — they had given me a sea of golden grain before that —and now an ocean of blue. Perhaps they were, and are still, the horizon to my every view. 

Maybe it’s always about the people. I know it is for us. As we travel the country, the world, the memories we make come down to the people we connect with — some for the first time, some again and again. And maybe it’s because I saw my grandfather’s bare feet for the first time — this midwest farmer who fit so perfectly shoed and working in the dirt — was toe-wiggling in the the open sands of Cocoa Beach — and I thought at that moment, we, I, could go anywhere. 

And if I believe it for myself, allow it for myself, I have to do the same for others. We should all be given that opportunity, that privilege, that chance to be open, to be free, to give a little wiggle. 

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The summer I didn’t go to California.

Entering the second grade they began the year with an assignment — What did you do on your summer vacation? Now, to be honest, I wasn’t ashamed of my summer schedule. I loved it. I would get up early. Fill the the styrofoam covered thermos — the one that my brother made in shop class and discarded in the basement — with ice water, and off I ran into the sun. I ran even faster than the hand painted stripes on the school made thermos. Some laughed when I continued the report. Of how I ran through Hugo’s wheat field. Rode my banana seat bike through the cemetery. Climbed Big Ole’s foot. Spent my weekly quarter for vacuuming and cleaning the house mirrors on a frozen Milky Way bar from Rexall Drug. Softball games. The endless swim of Lake Latoka. I heard one girl whisper loudly behind a cupped hand to her neighbor, all the while keeping eye contact with me as I returned to my desk, “She didn’t even go on vacation.”

I held my smiling face through perched elbows as she spoke about her trip to California. It sounded nice, I thought, but what I was thinking of was how after 4pm, when my mom came home from work, she would vacation out of her pretty summer work dress into shorts and a t-shirt and we would get on our bikes. It was gravel on Van Dyke Road, but traffic was non existent and you could ride down the center of the road. We stretched out our arms and rode hand in hand as the dust kicked up behind us.

I’m still smiling. I’ve been to California and beyond. Well beyond. But my heart vacations daily, floating just above the gravel.

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