Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: fun


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First, there was an Indian.

Before it was a beach, it was a motorcycle.

Showing them the studio for the first time, I was explaining that the 8’ frame that holds the painting of these people in the water was once holding an Indian motorcycle, horizontally. The Indian sold rapidly. Needing to ship it to another continent, I took it off the frame and rolled the canvas. And while it has been long replaced with these people now bobbing in the deep, I always feel the need to tell them that first there was an Indian. 

I suppose that’s why I share the stories of my grandparents, my mother. Because long before there was an artist, me, there was a farmer, a dreamer, a dancer. And even as I type this on a different continent, I am part of it all, part of them. And to tell my story properly, they need to be recognized.

It’s never just one thing. We are not one thing. As the motorcycle rides a wall somewhere in New England, I can feel the breeze. And with soiled hands, I do the work of the day. With a sparkled vision, I see what’s possible. With a daring heart, I spin around the room. Love comes first, and seems to be all that lasts. 

What was it all for, if we didn’t have a little fun?
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Trilling!

I suppose we set ourselves up for it, the scrutiny, wearing berets and earth shoes in the high school band in Minnesota. I mean, I’m sure we would have heard the snickers just for being in the band alone, but somehow, we found ourselves immune to the mockery. Maybe we were off balance in those backwards leaning shoes, but we embraced it. Even the complicated unmemorized sheet music was no match for our confidence. When all else failed, clarinet in hand, I would simply trill (the rapid alteration between two notes).  The music sang from my feet through my beret. And I guess it came from our leader, Christy, (no mister needed). After all, he said, it was music, it was supposed to be fun!

I never dreamed then, in the stale smell of gymnasium sweat, feet sticking to bleacher floor, that I would one day find myself living in France. And, just like then, I suppose, I set myself up daily for the scrutiny, simply by opening my mouth. Some days are harder than others, but I lean back into my shoes and feel the music. You can make fun of my accent, or my height, or my country of origin, but I won’t hear you over the trill!  

Let’s have some fun!

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Just ride.

No one ever asked where you were going. We didn’t even ask ourselves. We weren’t going “to,” we were going “for.”  Going for a bike ride. Because that was the point — the ride — a hair flying, legs spinning, clothes breezing, gravel popping, mouth singing, hand waving, heart racing ride. 

I don’t remember when exactly I had to start reminding myself to do things just for fun. I suppose it was around the same time I began riding my bike to get somewhere. When I began to check my watch. Use all the gears. And lock up my bike at the destination. None of those things are bad. It’s all a part of the growing. But it’s not the all that I need.

Yesterday I went to the studio without a goal. It takes a good deal of effort to make the panels for painting. To measure. To cut the wood. Measure again. Sand it. Glue it. Sand it again. Gesso it. Sand it again. Gesso again. The grown, destination driven, bike locking part of my brain says not to waste it. To have a plan of what to paint. And I have done that, joyfully, for several weeks now. And I’m so very proud of the portraits that I have created. Of people I know. People I love. But there is a certain pressure to get it right when you’re painting real humans. So yesterday, I let myself just ride. The breeze of each stroke was glorious. Time passed without my knowledge or permission, but it wasn’t wasted.  I could see my banana seat bike lying safe in the empty lot, as I used paint and panel, without measure. 

We don’t say it that much anymore — the one thing I always heard on VanDyke road, from my mother, from neighbors on front porches and open screen doors — “Have fun!” they said, waving with hands not just to say hello, but to be a part of the breeze. So I say it to you, today, do something not because you have to, but because you want to. Have a little fun! Forget about the destination, and just ride.

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Untethered.

I wanted to be excited. I walked and finger rolled the handful of quarters I had saved from cleaning the house each Thursday afternoon. Counting them with each step. Knowing it would only take a couple of them get through the gates of the fairgrounds, a part of me wished for a surprising hole to open in my Herberger basement cut-offs…dropping the silver coins in Kinkead cemetery as I short-cut through, coins that I would once again find as I made my way back home after apologetically waving to my friends on the other side of the Douglas County Fair. But my American-made jeans remained strong, holding the coins, forcing my dusty dragging feet through the turnstile. 

Everyone loved the fair. I wanted to be everyone. But the rides made me sick. The games were rigged. And the food was too expensive.  There was always one girl each year that said, “Come on, you won’t throw up this year, I promise…” Still believing in promises, I would nervously stand in line, double check the lock that the summer carnival worker made, smile as if to warn her, remind her, “you promised.” The spinning would start and my lunch flung somewhere into the crowd. I walked over to the live ponies — all of us tethered to a fair we didn’t want to attend. 

“You know you don’t have to go,” my mother told me when she got home from work. “But everyone goes,” I said, “they love it.” “I don’t,” she said, “I hate it.” There was no hesitation in her voice. No pull of the “they.”  I watched her change out of her work clothes. Placing her shoes back into the original box — no dust on them. Nylons in the sink. Skirt and blouse smoothed and hung. 

She made no promise of where my joy would be…she only slipped three new shiny quarters in my pocket and said, “Do what you love.” 

I still am.

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Dinger!

I would have missed out on the joy of many summers, had it been about winning. Each game started in our basement laundry room. I would dig through the baskets of clean clothes for my t-shirt that designated this year’s team. Baskets, similar to those of the Easter Bunny — somehow you knew in your heart that your mother filled them, but there was still a hint of magic. I pulled through my pony-tailed head, ran my fingers over the iron-on letters and raced up the stairs to the garage. Grabbed my yellow aluminum bat — the bat that truly made a dinging sound against the ball — so fitting that on the occasion it hit a home run, we did indeed call it a dinger! I balanced the bat in the flowered basket of my banana seat bike and rode to the park of the day. We high-fived before any play was actually made. Because hadn’t we already won? We were outside. Bathed in the summer sun. Set free with all the girls once contained in the brick walls of elementary school. Reigns loosened. Dust flying. Hearts pounding. Someone kept score with a pad and pencil in the dugout, but I’m not sure anyone cared, never enough to diminish the joy anyway. Returning home, I put my shirt in the magic basket, knowing it would be washed by a mother who stood knee deep in the laundry room and still managed to smile at the replay of my day. It turns out I had won, in the best of ways!

I haven’t started my next large canvas. It takes some thought. Paint is expensive. My brain knows this, but often forgets to tell my heart, my heart that just wants to play. It pleads the case of “not everything is for the museum,” and “not everything is for sale.” I grab a small scrap of wood. The brush handles clink against the glass. It is the sound of play. The bird comes to life. It is made with only joy. I lean it up to view, step back and think, “Now that’s a dinger!”

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A little fun.

I have yet to be surprised by the amount of times I use it, as the Algebra teacher once promised. To be honest, I’m not sure I was even “using” it then. Don’t get me wrong, I loved school. And I think one of the greatest things it taught us was simply the art of learning. What I AM surprised by are some of the unconventional places where I was taught things that, in fact, I am still using today — like the ballpark behind the Dairy Queen in Alexandria, Minnesota.

Our summer girls’ softball league was loosely supervised by a semi-reluctant 19 year old who was either complying with his mother’s wish to get out the house and get a job, or perhaps fulfilling some mandatory community service. Either way, he didn’t seem thrilled to be spending his summer with over zealous pre-teens who could recite the DQ menu, yet didn’t understand the simple infield fly rule. Other than calling balls and strikes, he rarely inserted himself into the game. Sunglassed and uninterested, he neither coached nor encouraged. Except for one day. Of course we all went to the plate wanting a hit. We swung at anything really. After the two previous girls struck out, I was up to the plate. The pitcher continued her wild throws over my head. Nearing the dugout. I looked confused. It was then he looked at me, and said the only words I can remember from that summer, “You know, a walk is as good as a hit.” I let the next two balls sail past and took my base.

There are some days when I clean with vigor, using the proper vacuum attachments to get in and under. But there are many days, like yesterday, when covering the broad open spaces with a quick push around, I think, that’s pretty good…and “I take my base” — (which is often the pool.)

Not every victory is a home-run. And surprise! — not every lesson has to be so difficult. Sometimes, it’s simply knowing when to let go, when to give yourself a break and maybe even go have a little bit of fun! Enjoy!

What was it all for, if we didn’t have a little fun?
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