Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: car


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I had the Meatloaf.

With no maps at hand, nor the inclination to read one, we roadtripped across America song by song. Blind, sure, but never deaf. 

When we graduated from radio to cassette tape to CD, our world opened up. Able to change the song, the album, the singer with ease, we could play my mother’s favorite game show, Name that Tune. Once she had mastered our “record” collection, I switched the game to Name that Singer. Frustrated when I went deep into the collection, like with Meatloaf for example, after a few incorrect guesses, she began to answer only Meatloaf. Miles of endless freeway could disappear with laughter. Even when it was a female singer that she didn’t know, she would guess Meatloaf, and states would echo with laughter in the rear view mirror. 

And it didn’t end there. With no phones or GPS, we never knew when our next meal would be. We’d have to chance the exits, or settle for gas station cuisine. At times, when stomach growls sounded over the playlist my mother would say, “I’m starving, put on that Meatloaf song again.” And hunger turned to laughter once again.

I no longer have a CD player, and I live in France, so it’s rare that I hear those old songs. But now we have Spotify, and I can choose the genre, which took some effort because they don’t have a “Blind driving with mother section.” So yesterday it happened in the car. As “Paradise by the Dashboard light” began to play, between singing, I had to explain to Dominique both the song and the game. We had driven around the city twice to try to find parking to pick up his new passport. With summer tourists in our already impossible to park city, we were blind of spaces. Is that why the song appeared? Possibly. A little laughter from heaven? I choose to believe it. 

I suppose it’s always a choice. How we decide to feel, what we choose to believe. When handed frustration, I will say, no, I had the Meatloaf. 

Cross over to the beauty that lies ahead.
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No backs.

“Slug bug, no backs!” We shouted it as kids, upon seeing a Volkswagen Beetle, playfully punching the person next to us. And it’s funny, we abided by the rules of this simple game. If the person said “no backs,” well, then that was it. Forward we went.

Maybe that was the romance of it all. The simplicity. The playful trust in what was. I remember hearing over and over through the years, when asking life questions about finding a career, doing what you love, following your dream, or falling in love… , the answer was inevitably, “you’ll just know.”

And I did, for the most part. Sure, I stumbled, faltered, in all of it. But I knew I was an artist. And I got there. True love took a little longer.

I must have walked by, biked by, drove by the VW bug for sale on the side of the road on Hopkins Boulevard. There was a romance to it, I suppose. Maybe it was the artist in me, the hopeful heart waiting, but it always made me smile — slug bug!, I said, and kept on dreaming.

Maybe it isn’t obvious, but perhaps the most romantic painting I have done is of the blue Volkswagen. It is entitled, “Something in my heart told me to wait for you.” When I fell in love and moved to France, it was indeed because “I just knew.” My playful heart said go — and forward I went. Forward we continue. Joyfully, no backs!

Something in my heart told me to wait for you.
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While the purse swells with youth.

I would have never dreamed of rummaging through my grandma’s purse. But I did admire it, sitting between us on the front bench seat of the car. It weighed nearly as much as I did. We never used our seatbelts then. The two safety measures were the outstretched straight arm of my grandma, (which could surprisingly secure me, along with the purse) and the rule that I wasn’t allowed to stick my body out of the window beyond my shoulders. I had the idea that if I wrapped my foot in the purse handles it would hold me as the wind blew open my pinkening cheeks. 

The AM radio, permanently tuned into the farm report, was also blocked by her massive purse. There was a station I had heard of, out of the Twin Cities, KDWB 63. “It won’t come in,” she said, cruising down the country road. “Maybe if I held the antenna,” I pleaded. “I could just bend it through the window.” I knocked off the orange styrofoam ball that was attached to the antenna top before she pulled at my leg and secured my sweaty thighs against the leather seat. “Paul Harvey’s coming on..listen.” 

Calmed by his melodic voice and the feel of the golden metal clasp of her purse beneath my fingers, I imagined a day when I would carry the weight of the world beneath white leather straps. I would have make-up and breath mints, I thought, and quarters for the parking meters. And candy and pencils and paper. And perfume and underpants. Yes, and Kleenex. And a checkbook with pictures. The tv guide for planning, of course. And grocery lists and photographs of everyone I loved. A book for reading. Rubber bands for my hair. Band-aids, because something would always happen. And Bazooka Joe gum, for the cartoons. Before I filled my imaginary purse, Paul Harvey was saying, “Good day!” “Wasn’t that good!” my grandma said, not asking. I smiled and shook my head. It was good. I had an open window. My grandma’s attention. An endless summer ahead. Youth’s purse was filled. I had everything I needed, and just enough to wish for. I slipped my hand through the loops and touched her floral dress. It was a good day indeed. 

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“Isn’t it romantic?”

We had just finished watching the Days of our LIves episode, or “the Hortons,” as my grandma called it. It wasn’t educational television in the traditional sense, but I certainly did learn a lot. During this particular episode, they used the word “romantic,” several times. My five or six year old brain wasn’t familiar. “What is romantic?” I asked my grandma. “Lots of things are romantic,” she said. “No, but what does it mean?” I continued. “You know when your heart feels all a flutter?” she asked. “Oh, jimbly…yes…” I said. “Sure,” she said, “jimbly…”  “So Uncle Ron is romantic?” I asked. “Why do you say Uncle Ron?”  “Well, yesterday, when I crawled inside the closet of the upstairs room with the loom inside, there were uniforms, and they were so crisp and beautiful, and something made me want to hug them, and you said they were Uncle Ron’s service uniforms and my heart felt funny inside the closet so…” “It’s not just people. You were feeling a different time and place. And that can be romantic. In the past, or the future even. I feel it when I turn your old clothes into quilts. It’s magic. It’s experience. It’s life. And that can be very romantic.” 

I annoyingly spent the rest of the day picking up items like perfume bottles and canned pears. Overalls hanging on the wall. Photographs and rugs made by hand. “Is this romantic? What about this?” 

When I think about the real magic of the day, it wasn’t in each of the items discovered, but in the time spent with my grandma. The time she answered yes to all of my questions, again and again, with patience and love. Pure romance. 

So maybe you won’t find it surprising when I tell you that I think one of my most romantic paintings is the one of the Volkswagon sitting in this European street. Maybe it’s the color palette. The small route that will only allow a one-way passage — a love that knows there is no turning back, this is it. A calm that doesn’t judge how you got here, simply welcomes you in. The name of the piece is “Something in my heart told me to wait for you.” 

I’d like to think that journey began at noon, in front of the television, with my grandma, on a farm just outside of Alexandria, Minnesota — and somehow, led by a trail of “yes” after “yes,” continued to the south of France. Even as I type the words, I can’t help but think, “Isn’t it romantic?!”

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The get-a-way car.


The common expression was “partners in crime.” While we didn’t commit any crimes together, my mother and I, (unless you consider the time in Las Vegas when we cashed in the abandoned chips we found on a casino floor), together we made it through some laughable and questionable times, during which she drove the get-a-way car.

My apologies to our North Dakota neighbors, but it was in Fargo the first two times we fled the scene. I was maybe 21 at the time, in search of my first real job after college. I had an interview in Fargo. I was suffering from kidney stones at the time. I knew if I had a flare-up, I wouldn’t be able to drive home. Plus, my mom said, “There’s West Acres.” (Malls always factored into our travel plans.)

I only made it through half the interview when my stone decided to make its presence known. I began to sweat. Nearly doubled over. No longer interested in making a good impression, only making it to the car. I stumbled my way into the back seat. She literally squealed the tires of our light blue Chevy Impala wagon, (purely to tell me she knew how badly I felt) , as I threw up in an empty Folgers can in the back seat. “We can do much better than West Acres,” she said. And I was saved.

My second get-a-way, around the same age, was for an interview of another kind — a date. A friend of a friend. “Oh, you’ll love him…” my friend tried to convince me. Unsuccessfully assured, I asked my mother to come with me. Always up for a road trip, she agreed. She dropped me off at the restaurant and went to the mall. My date, to put it mildly, was as uncomfortable as the stone on the last trip. I was standing outside the restaurant as he explained the intricate details of his expensive car. Unimpressed, I searched the parking lot. And then I saw it. That glorious light blue streak of safety. I waved and speed- walked to my mom’s car. She could see the horror on my face. There was no need to explain. She squealed the tires even louder out of the parking lot. “Well, just to make sure he knows…” she said. We laughed. Again, I was saved.

I mention it only because I thought about it all night. I haven’t had a kidney stone in years, but one came for a visit last night. The extraordinary pain kept me awake for the duration. I kept telling myself it won’t last, it won’t last. When we’re in pain, time seems forever. But when I think about how quickly it has all passed, the years between Fargo and France, I can hear the squeal of time. I can count on my “getting through,” my “getting away,” my “getting beyond,” the moment. 

Dominique is here now — my streak of blue — here always to race where needed. I smile. And I am saved.

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Roll on by.

She wasn’t a screamer, nor a fighter. I suppose I get that from her. But I know that my mother got stressed. And somehow it had to get out.

I wasn’t yet of driving age. We had a blue Chevy Malibu station wagon. It wasn’t built for speed. Not known for its quick pickup. The light blue remained unblurred, but for those special moments when out of traffic’s way, safely buckled in, she would wink at me, slam her Herberger shoed right foot onto the gas pedal, roaring the engine! We could only squeal tightly along with the tires. We released our breath and she, her foot off the gas. “I just had to get the soot out,” she said. And we laughed. Louder than any engine’s roar.

It took awhile, but I would come to realize it wasn’t to release the “soot” from the car, but from our very spirits. Life can clog you down. And somehow, you have to release it. Laughter seemed to be our favorite route!

I can’t Malibu myself out of today’s stress. But I have found my own ways. On the gravel path. In shades of blue on the canvas. Sometimes, just word by word on the page, hoping they take you along for the ride, sometimes with a laugh, sometimes with a tear, sometimes both. The sun is coming up, hop in, my friends, let’s get the soot out!

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