Jodi Hills

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

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Showering in the Louvre.

It was one of the best compliments ever. They were visiting us from the US. After getting ready for the day, he said of my bathroom, “It was like showering in the Louvre.” I’m still beaming. 

Sunday afternoons were always ripe for the dreaming when I was a young girl. Saturdays, my mother did laundry and catch-up work. We often snuck in a trip to the mall if my homework was done. And it always was, by Friday night.  Which left the sweet spot of Sunday afternoon, hovering between the rush of Saturday and Monday’s panic that arrived late Sunday evening. 

In our small apartment, it wasn’t unusual to wish for space. “And if I had a big house,” she said, “I would travel from room to room, each one an adventure.” “Oh yes!” I agreed. And donned in our Saturday clothes, sale tags still hanging, we decorated the imaginary rooms with all of our very real hearts!

I think of it still. Each room an experience. Books and paintings and photos and music. Walls with feeling. A welcome. A gathering. Decorated with the sweet dreams of Sunday afternoons. 

So when he said, it, it wasn’t about the bathroom itself. It was bringing my mother here. To France. It was a gathering of all sweet dreams come true. 

For the same reason I offer the scent of fresh baked cookies to the kitchen painting on a Sunday afternoon. It wafts throughout the house, past Sunday night, into the fresh week’s beginning. The dream continues. Monday promises to carry. 

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Having the farm.

When he saw the painting of my grandfather he asked if we still had the farm. I paused, stuck in who the “we” would even be. I started passing it down in my head, from uncle to cousin, to second cousin, (none to whom I felt a collective we). It passed again in my head to I’m not sure, to finally, it didn’t really even matter, because, I told him, “I still have everything.” And I do.

Even a lifetime and country away, I can feel the warmth of the rock at the base of the driveway. The same steady of my grandfather. The gravel beneath my feet. The jolt of an electric fence. The smell of apples, on and off the trees. The sandy feel of a cow’s tongue. The bounce of a screen door. The scent of my grandma’s kitchen. My face against her sticky apron. The ever damp basement. Jesus on the cross upstairs. Prayed to from the kitchen table. The sewing room that stitched all nine children’s lives together. The front stoop that promised the scent of tobacco and hope. My mother laughing in that kitchen. Crying in that kitchen. Hands folded at that table. Driving away from the rock one last time, never really leaving. 

So, yes, I still have the farm. And the we is all who listen to the stories. The we is you who remember your own grandmother’s apron. Who read the words and climb upon your grandfather’s lap. We still have it all. We have everthing.

Something will grow from all of this, and it will be me.
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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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The comfort of shore.

Van Dyke Road separated the two worlds. It was so magical how far crossing one small stretch of gravel could take me. The back of our house faced a sea of grain — Hugo’s field. And in a way, it was like swimming, running through the stalks at full chubby- legged-speed, arms stretched to each side, creating a golden wave. Across the road though, behind Weiss’s house, was a lake. Not a big one. Nor a clean one, of the 10,000 our state touted. We didn’t swim in it. So what was the allure? It had to be the dock. 

Florence and Alvin had a big yard. Bonnie, the daughter, was so much older, that to me, she was just another adult. So there were no arms of youth waving me over to play. I would sneak along the shrub line. Roll down the manicured slope to the lake’s edge. I could hear the dock before I saw it. The wave rocked wood cracking gently. I took off one bumper tennis shoe and placed my lavender-white toes on the sun warmed plank. It was extraordinary. I have no memory of being a shoeless baby, but I imagine at some point some uncle or boisterous neighbor blew their warm breath on my rounded feet, and I knew, standing there, barefoot on Weiss’s dock, this must be exactly how it felt. I giggled like that infant and took off my other shoe. 

I braved each crack to the end. My body craved what my feet already had, so I lay down and let it gather in my arms, legs and back. My fingers danced at my side in the tiny puddles of cool water that gathered in the wood’s unevenness. I don’t know if I saw all the beauty of these imperfections, but I’d like to think I did. 

Who knows how long I stayed. Summer afternoons felt eternal. I guess in a way, they are. I can still rest in that warmth. 

I have written so many times about swimming – in actual lakes. Lake Latoka was only a bike ride away. But just out my door, front and back, oh, how my heart and imagination swam. Daily. And maybe that’s what home is after all…this ability to dream in the comfort of shore. 

The comfort of shore.
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No sharp edges.

For me, it’s the softness of her gaze. No sharp edges to her reaction. Even her shoulders aren’t weighted. This is what makes her beautiful — not what she sees, but how she sees it. From within. 

I paint her to remind myself the same is true for all of us. How we navigate through this world is what people really see. We need to stay informed, of course, but the ugliness that gathers, and there is a lot, I don’t want that inside of me. So I soften my gaze. My eyes. My lips. My tongue. Relax my shoulders. Nothing for hatred and ill will to hang on. (Because aren’t those sharp edges so much easier to cling to?)

I suppose I only know it, because I was always given that soft place to land. My grandma’s lap, my mother’s heart. I see now that it was not only for me, but for them as well. A gift we must give each other.  A gift we must give ourselves. I dare the morning and the mirror softly. No sharp edges in sight.

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Blue! Red! Orange! Bang!

On my way out of the art store yesterday, I saw it, the “Color of the Year.” And the first thing I wondered is, (I’ve always wondered) who decides?

We were asked on the playground. In the classroom. By adults. Our friends. It was one of the most frequent and popular questions — “What’s your favorite color?” I suppose people thought it was such an easy question. No thought or controversy. Just simple. And I listened to them pull the answers out of the their holster so quickly, with such fluidity, such ease – Blue! Red! Orange! Bang!

Why couldn’t I do that? Why did I have to give it so much thought. Why, at even five or six did I struggle? Who could pick I thought? All the colors – they had so much importance! Yellow for when I needed cheering. Blue for calm. Green was a longing for bare toes in the grass. Tans for the gravel that led me home. No one wanted to hear that. The thoughts raced through my brain — just shoot, I thought, pull the trigger – just say blue! But I couldn’t. I loved them all too much. So I began explaining to the blank faces, the eye rolls, the far off stares, the backs walking away.

And maybe I wouldn’t have had the courage, but for Grandpa Rueben. He listened. He looked directly at me. And if he were to walk away, his hand always extended back. He knew. He told me, often. You decide. Whatever the situation, he repeated it — “You decide.”

The world has always tried to direct, but now more than ever, we are bombarded by “influence.” (My apologies to Dominique, he hates the word.) And I’m still wondering, why on earth do we need it? Why do we need someone to tell us our favorite color. Moreover, why do we even need a favorite? We get to decide. Daily. We get to grow and change and love what we love, who we love, when we love. Neither my heart, nor my palette can be boxed in.

You can choose Mocha Mousse for your favorite color this year, if that’s what it actually is — if you love it, really love it — but remember, you get to decide! And you get to change your mind. You get to be you! Bang!

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The long “o” of Jodi.

Grandma Elsie would have known the word. She was all Swedish. But I didn’t learn it until yesterday. Oh, I knew the act, but now I know how to call it by name — Fika — “A moment to slow down and appreciate the good things in life, like coffee or something to eat with friends.”

And isn’t it something to be called by name!

When I think of it, when I hear it, and of course I still do, there was a bit of a gravel and a giggle to the way my Grandma said my name. There was joy in the long “o” (almost oh!) of Jodi. That has remained in my heart’s ear all of these years. Maybe we never get to repay the gifts we are given in their time. But that’s no reason to stop trying. When I hear my friends talk about her now, even friends who never physically met her, it’s clear that they know her from the stories told. They don’t say “your grandma,” — they say “Grandma Elsie.” We have conversations about her. They use her name. They see her image. And the gravel and giggle remain strong. Nearly on Swede. 

I hope she can hear the love in that. I think she can. I think she can taste the lefsa that my friend made for me. She can see the book on Scandinavian Gatherings that they gave to me. She sits in the not so empty chair at the table we share, and she feels full. She feels the love.  I know that I do.

I have been given so much. I could shy away and say that I’m not worthy. I could be embarrassed. Uncomfortable even. That doesn’t sound like any fun. That doesn’t sound like an Elsie thing to do. So I will just be grateful. Be happy. Enjoy it!!!!  This joy, I will call it by name.

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Armed with joy. (I love living so much.)

I was a little about halfway through my workout when she came in and got on the treadmill. For thirty nine minutes more, I climbed the imagined hill of the eliptical machine. I hopped off to grab the spray cleaner and a towel to wipe down the machine. In my mid step she said, “You know my brother lives in Dallas.”  

There it was! The nugget I wait for each trip. We always get at least one. People are delightful! I imagined her putting the words in her “holster”…just waiting for me to pass by. She was not going to miss her chance. I like to think of the words brewing as she took each step. 

And me, I wasn’t going to miss the chance either.  “Dallas, you say…” 

“And they have more snow than we do.” And we were off. Mid conversation. No warmups. Two humans. Let’s go! “We don’t have much here,” I said, as I cleaned up my station. “And his neighbor, only a few miles away doesn’t have any.” “The world is upside down,” I returned. I let her talk about that brother, those snow-full and snow-less neighbors, for 10 minutes. The only rush I felt was wanting to get back to the condo to tell Dominque of our new treasure — our new opening line — “You know my brother lives in Dallas.” I’m still smiling.

What are we here for, if not to engage with those around us? And why wouldn’t we begin mid conversation… with everyone. We are all humans on this planet. People will still vote for someone you don’t like. Fires will rage. Snow storms will never last beyond spring. And this moment will pass in a blink, so I encourage myself, you, to always jump in. It’s what we learned isn’t it? On the school playground? No matter who was swinging that rope, no matter what song they were singing along to the swing, we jumped in. I want to be that little girl, armed with joy, and ever jumping in.


There was her story– just right in front of her–
and this time, she wasn’t going to miss it.
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Mother’s time zones.

It wasn’t until I mastered the sleep-over that I understood most people set their clocks to the actual time. My mother had her own time zones. Her bedroom alarm clock was set 20 minutes ahead. The bathroom about ten. And the kitchen five. Maybe it arose from the days when sleep eluded her. When a smile had to be painted on before it could be followed. When there were no extras to be found, not in heart, mind nor pocketbook, she created them herself on the faces of each clock. 

The time changed here in France early this morning. Most of the clocks change themselves now. Our phones and iPads. Our computers. It’s 8:08 on my iPad. I glanced up at the screen saver on my computer and on full display was what could only be explained as my mother’s hand, 8:09.

It reminds me. She reminds me. Time means nothing. It’s what we do with the time. We get to decide. 

It didn’t matter the season, my mother always chose to “spring ahead.” To give herself a head start when facing any challenge. Whenever I feel the stress of time, I reach into the pocket of 20s, 10s and 5s, that she gathered for us through the years, and I, just like those minutes, am saved.

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Chasing the light.

It’s no surprise when my color palette sneaks from canvas to canvas. It happens quite often. When painting in blues, I gravitate from sea to sky for several images. Currently I’m in the greens. All colors are available all the time — one could be grabbed as easily as the next. But I think it’s because of what I see. After painting Margaux on the balcony of Marseille, the greens of bush and tree were everywhere. The light that changed this one green from yellow to nearly black, was called to me. Greeting me from the breakfast window, on to the morning path…everywhere a welcoming. You could say, “Well, sure, it’s France, it’s beautiful…” and yes, that’s true. But it’s not the first time I have been carried in this palette, lifted by this light.

My basement bedroom in Alexandria, Minnesota — yellow and green. It was the first time I got to choose my palette. From carpet to bedspread, that one windowed room gleamed bright with possibilities. I’m not sure it was even a year. The house was sold. The neighborhood got small in the rearview window of the small moving van. We left without bed or spread, but the color remained. It still does.

I suppose it’s always been about what you choose to see. Loss or opportunity. Pain or growth. Because within every palette of life’s journey there is the spectrum of color. The same green is lit bright, or shaded black. Knowing you can’t see one without the other. 

I can’t tell you what everyone sees. But I know it’s different. This is painfully clear from the daily news. From balcony to gravel, we all have a different view, a different perspective, a varying palette. But maybe the “them” and “us” of it all could be replaced with just different shades of green. And we could see each other, really see each other, as we navigate from color to color, sharing this palette, chasing the light. 

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