Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: cartoons


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Roadrunner.

I spent every Saturday morning in front of the television set (and it was a piece of furniture then). Not too close of course, because we still believed, or were told, that we would go blind. Still in pajamas, I sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor. With each cartoon, I leaned forward. Closer. Nearly bent in half. My belly resting on my legs. My head in my hands. Still remaining in the safety zone, but believing I could will the roadrunner just out of reach from the coyote. And I always did.

All the glorious colors of Saturday morning danced in my head and made their way to my feet as we walked (me almost skipping) the Saguaro National Park. Having the luxury of living beyond the “fashion” of camouflage, I was well aware that actually seeing one of the animals they posted would be a stretch. So far I had only seen a woman in full Lycra step out of the shade of the sign posting “beware of the javelinas.” The timing was perfect. I could feel my mother’s wink from heaven and we both began to laugh. It was near the end of the trail, maybe only 20 feet from the car, when I saw it. My finger pointed as if to shout. I could hear the people behind me say, “She’s pointing out something.” Then the people in front of me, saying the same. A roadrunner I whispered, but pointed more loudly. And when it moved, they saw it. My first thought was not to grab my phone, but give thanks that I had remained five feet away from the television set. I hadn’t gone blind! (Those behind me probably sat too close.) I smiled and took the photo. I could hear the beep-beep (or was it meep-meep) in my head.

Sometimes, I think it’s all going too fast. It feels like time’s coyote is right at my heels. But in the glorious moments when I catch myself between decades, one foot on VanDyke Road and one foot in the desert, or even a country away, I can gather it in, and I slow it down, lean in just a little closer, and give thanks for all that is to be seen.

Let me always see the gift.
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Oranges. Poranges.



For a brief moment, we had orange countertops. Some of my friends’ mothers wouldn’t allow you to sit in or on the kitchen cupboards, but my mom did. Maybe it was because I told her I liked to read in that sea of orange — like I was balanced on a giant spoon in a bowl of sherbet. Or maybe it was because she was never really all that precious about things. Or maybe she knew we wouldn’t have them that long. They didn’t have time to go out of style before we had to sell the house.

It wasn’t that long ago that she wondered aloud, perhaps she should have cooked more. Taught me things in the kitchen. Oh, but you did, I said. Cooking, no. But the things I learned! To imagine! To dream! The freedom to sail orange waters! Nothing could have fed me more! And perhaps just as important, the lesson in letting it all go, with grace, and with hope. That’s how she lived.

There was a cartoon at the time. H.R. Pufnstuf. I loved it. Every Saturday morning. In one episode they sang a song, “Oranges Poranges.” It was ridiculous. But it always made me laugh. Everything was packed and in the moving truck, but for the weight of having to leave — that we carried with us. I was standing by the back door. I watched my mom take one more look around. I didn’t want to cry. She looked at me. Brushed her hand across the countertops, then gave it one final tap, as if to cue the song. “Oranges Poranges,” she sang at the top of her voice, “Oranges Poranges, who says, there ain’t no rhyme for oranges!” We smiled and walked out the door one last time. She taught me everything.

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