It was one of the greatest mysteries to me, the perfection of the rows in the fields. I knew nothing about farming, nor even driving, when I asked my grandpa how he did it. “I just see them,” he said. “But how do you not run over it all when you turn the corner? Or get out of line when you take a sip of coffee from the thermos between your feet?” “I know where I am, and I know where I need to be. It makes it very clear.” “That’s a lot to see,” I said, still not certain that I would be able to do it. “Will I be able to do it?” “This, probably not, but you’ll see what you need to see.” “How will I know?” He got on the tractor, and showed me.
I don’t know the exact moment it happened. How I found my row. My place. But I did. It all became so clear on the page and on the canvas. People ask me all the time — How do make them so real? How do you bring them to life? The truth is, I just see them. And it is my hope, that they see what I see, and others too… then they will know they are beautiful. That’s why I paint the portraits.
I can’t tell you how it happens. So I simply hop on my daily tractor, and write and paint, and I know, somehow, we’ll all find our way.
I don’t suppose the spaces left from loved ones passed can ever be completely filled. But maybe it’s wrong to think they ever were. These relationships weren’t beautiful, memorable, longed for even still, because of their solid perfection. Perhaps they were always stardust, flittering, fluttering, changing shape, with room always left for dancing, beneath the flickering light.
It’s the way I choose to think of it, my mother’s space, not as a hole left behind, but a dance floor. And all that magic that sprinkles from her still, lights up the people around me, and they step in, tap me on the shoulder, and ask me to dance. They are my new daily connections. My new last calls. My shared laughter and secrets. Hopes and challenges. Not replacements, but keepers of the dance.
We’re not all good at the same thing. Some are meant to pull you in, and simply sway. Other’s tap their feet and keep the beat alive. Some dizzy you into laughter. Dance you into breathless. And hold out the ladle of punch. I am grateful for them all. All of you, who keep my dance floor filled, my heart in motion, in sway, in the right tempo, under the stardust.
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.
She was the first to notice, the waitress in Stillwater, Minnesota. I have worn these earrings every day for a couple of years — the outline of the Sainte Victoire mountain. She brought the check to the table and asked, “What mountain is that?” I beamed, for me of course, but for her as well — being curious, paying attention. “It’s the Sainte Victoire,” I replied, “in Aix en Provence where we live.” And the conversation began, all because she was alive, awake!
These earrings represent home. Heart. Courage. Strength. They are the mountains I have, can, and will continue to climb daily. What made her, of all people, notice? Even in France, no one has asked about them. But she did. Maybe she was climbing her own mountain. Maybe she was asking her legs to carry what her heart just couldn’t bear at the moment. Or maybe she just liked them. And that’s enough too. The thing is, she asked the question. A specific question.
We get lazy I think. Uninterested. We settle on the “how are you?”s and think we did enough. But is it? Is it enough? Is it enough to just pass through each other’s lives? Without learning? Without caring?
Two years of climbing were wiped away in just a few brief seconds, and I was happy! It really takes so little. So I tell myself, I tell you, be curious, pay attention, — it’s not too much to ask.
When you’re the last one in line, the hand-me-downs have to go back up.
I bought the black leather vest in New Mexico while traveling with my mother many years ago. I wore it proudly, then passed it up to her. She looked fabulous in it. Black pants. A popped white crisp collared blouse underneath. Scarved for a little color. (Scarf is the new black, she would say.)
I have it back again. That black leather vest. When I get compliments, I always say it was my mother’s. Because that’s the most important part of the story for me. They don’t need to know the whole “Sisterhood of the traveling pants” version. That beats quietly beneath the zipped leather.
I like that we shared the clothes before it was, pardon my pun, in fashion. Long before vintage was cool. Truth be told we didn’t even use the word vintage — we only had hand-me-downs, and hand-me-ups. But we weren’t looking to be on trend, we wanted to be connected. For that same reason, my mom handed down clothes to her sister Karolynn. To be connected.
Just last week my cousin Kalee wore my mother’s coat to our cousin’s funeral. The coat that my mother handed to her sister, that she handed to her daughter. The coat I would wear on winter visits when I didn’t bring one of my own. I like to think that love is sleeved. Each time we slip through, we pass on the hugs, we pass on the love. And it gets handed off, up and down and all around.
I guess what I’m saying is, it doesn’t have to end. We can all stay connected. Once we allow the passing through, it, we, can always be passed along. Held in the arms of love.
We went through all of my possible names at Sephora to try to find my fidelity card. Jodi Hills. Jodi Orsolini. Jodi Hills Orsolini. Even Dominique. Nothing. (We didn’t try “Goat” like they have me listed as at the winery.) It’s the second time they’ve lost it. Well, lost is probably the wrong word. My name just eludes them. And still, I exist. I could be upset about it. It’s my skin after all. And thick or thin, I still want the make-up. Thick or thin skinned, I have to stand in front of the mirror alone and apply. And I do. And, humbly, I must say, I like what I see. And I know my name. I know who I am.
When I was little, my brother called me Tess. Tessma Luma. Tessie Trueheart. I didn’t question it. I liked it. My friends called me Jodes. Joder. Jo-Jo Starbucks. Josi Hi. Jod. And I suppose I knew it was me, not by the actual name they used, but the sound of the call, the familiarity I heard with not just my ears, but my heart.
I remember getting off the bus at Lee’s house to play with Lincoln and Tony. Mrs. Lee was the only mom in the neighborhood to call me Tessma Luma. I walked through their open screen door and knew I was home.
Here in France, they emphasize the second syllable. My name is Jho-DEE! At first I must admit it sounded strange. Now it swings as easily as a screen door.
I guess it always comes down to being comfortable in your own skin. No one can give you that, you have to hear it — hear it from the filter within. I smile at the “rose by any other name” in the mirror, and decide to have a good day.
I suppose every baby sister looks to her older brother. Forgetting all the complicated gender roles, I don’t think it has to be defined as support, or leadership, nor guidance…maybe sometimes it feels that way, but really, for me, I just want to be loved. And speaking of complications…it has taken me a long time to understand that people don’t, or can’t always love you in the way that you want.
Learning the French language, it becomes more clear every day — “that doesn’t translate,” “we don’t have a word for that,” “we have six words for that,” “we use the same word, but for different context.” What??? It seems to be the same for love. My brother and I have always struggled to get the language right. When I’m looking for a hug, he will bring me a sack of fish. Me thinking, “why can’t you just do it,” — while he’s probably thinking, “look what I did for you…” I’m trying to get better. I want to get better. If I can put forth the effort to learn French, I must try to learn the language of Tom.
It was at my mother’s funeral when I felt it. The minister told us to stand, while grief told my knees to buckle. It was Micah, my nephew, Tom’s youngest grandson, who switched places and stood beside me. He put his small arms around my waist and just held me. I can still feel it. Love.
When I began this painting of Tom’s arm wrapped around Brody, (his oldest grandson), and Brody’s arm wrapped around Micah, and Micah’s arm simply reaching out, I got it. The hug, the love, was being passed down through all of them, somehow finding its way to me. What I had been longing for, I already had. Love.
It was Brody and Micah who became the translators. I don’t know how to fish, but I do know how to paint. I hope they can feel the love in this. I do.
We used to see it all the time, my favorite tree, when we went to visit Dominique’s mother. I haven’t seen it since she passed. I suppose it would be a long way to drive just to see a tree. But I think of it occasionally. It had struggled with the drought of recent years. I painted it when it was full, hoping somehow it would be the hydration needed to keep it alive. Maybe I’m doing the same with all of my painting. Trying to keep the connections. Families branch out. Each limb gets thinner. That’s the nature of it, I suppose. But we can remain strong. Some say it takes work, but mostly I think it just takes care. You just have to keep caring. Even when it feels like love’s rain has abandoned us, we keep caring. Is that foolish? Probably. But for me that’s not disparaging. When I wrote of my grandmother and grandfather falling in love — He said, “I’m such a stubborn man, Elsie. I’m stubborn as a mule.”She said, “I love you just the same.”He said, “Then I hear you love a fool.”And he fell for her as only fools can,and the story of Rueben and Elsie began. No one grew things like my grandfather. This mule. This farmer. I want to be this foolish. So I keep believing. I keep painting. I keep watering the branches. I don’t have to drive by to know it’s there. Love ever remains. Ever green. Ever growing.
Almost everything that I learn today, I learned first on the grounds of Washington Elementary.
We started slow at first. Only one rope. We didn’t all advance at the same speed. Some caught on right away to this jumping in, jumping on, singing along to the song. The single jump rope for me was fairly easy. And I thought we were best friends, but one day Shari and Jan, without my knowledge or permission, added another rope. Double Dutch. I had no Google source at the time. Probably not even the sense to want to find a meaning. But here they were, twirling two ropes at a time and telling me to jump in. My hands couldn’t find the rhythm, nor my heart, nor my feet. Soon I was whipped. Tangled. Double Dutched right out of the security of everything I loved.
I don’t remember the length of time. I’m sure it seemed longer then, than now. I tried jumping in, again and again. It wasn’t until I asked if I could turn the ropes that I got it. I started to feel the rhythm. I had wanted so badly for the ropes to love me first. (I pause to laugh here, because I suppose I, we, still do that.) But then I got to know them. Feel them. Love them. And when I took my turn again to jump, they let me in. And it was beautiful.
It’s not easy to join a family. I married my way into a French playground. Rules of play already set. But there I was. So eager to jump in. Fumbling now in two languages. Now looking up the origin of “Double Dutch,” it’s not lost on me that it means a type of gibberish, something so indecipherable it would seem like ropes swinging through the air. That was me, an American in France, speaking Double Dutch.
When I first started painting their portraits, I will admit that unconsciously it was an attempt for them to love me. I wanted so badly for this to happen. To be loved. Let in. Time travel takes, well, some time, but through the years, I have made it back to Washington Elementary, and I learn again, and again, for the first time.
When I painted their portrait this time, the grandchildren, it was different. Certainly there are the ropes, the jumping, the missteps — it’s still a playground after all. But this time, the message is clear, simple. Not a plea for anything, only a statement, that I love them. I love them. That’s all I have to understand. And it’s beautiful.
Maybe we were all just as fragile as the sticker we stood behind. This sticker with only three words. But three chosen words could bring us together, couldn’t they? Hadn’t they brought us together so many times? So we wrote three new ones at the moment of the Charlie Hebdo shooting in Paris — Je suis Charlie (I am Charlie). And we marched. We gathered. Together.
Lifted by the scents of the boulangeries, we asked for the same — something new, something fresh. We weren’t just journalists and jokers. Not only French, but humans — humans all over the world. People standing up for the rights to be free, and to be safe in that freedom. Safe to laugh, to create and to grow and to love. So we shuffled from foot to foot, knowing there is never really “safety” in love or creation. Knowing that there’s risk in both. But we lifted signs above our heads and out of our hearts, believing still, the risk was never, is never, meant to be our lives. We had to be secure in the living. Standing next to the ones we loved, and the ones perhaps we’d love to know, we said we were one. We said we were together. We said we were “Charlie.”
I can’t tell you which tragedy happened next. One blurred into the next. And we changed our pictures on Facebook from one flag to another. Vowed our support on Instagram. Shouted our discontent. And changed our banners the following week, and sometimes daily. And it was never enough, and too much for others. So we went back to our smiling selfies, and soon stopped changing our banners altogether.
I don’t want to grow immune to it. To look away at injustice. I don’t want to merely shrug my shoulders and move on. But neither can I, we, carry the weight of it all on our shrugging shoulders. Our weary hearts. Somehow we must keep standing, for and with.
This painting is of that day, that day when we claimed who we were. Standing behind the sticker is Pascal. He is my brother-in-law. Really, he is just my brother. The sticker of “in-law” has long worn off and dropped. Maybe that’s what family is — those who are still there once the stickers have worn off. Once the flags have been changed. And changed again. It is who we really are.
Maybe we need to ask ourselves each day, “Am I a part of this world?”; “Am I a part of the human race?”; “Am I a part of this family?” — look in the mirror, look at those around us, and proudly answer, I am.
