Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: grandmother


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Waisted in wonder.

I was only a few strokes in when I began to see her face. I had to wipe away the tears because suddenly I was transported from my easel in the south of France to the Charles de Gaulle airport, holding the sign above my head that read Grandma Elsie. Of course she wasn’t yet a grandma, and possibly not even a mother, but I knew her. And oh, how she was dressed for Paris. That hat! That fur collared coat. And a waist — a waist I had never seen before. But that grin I knew. That grin was all Elsie.

I have been waiting for over 10 years, wondering if she would come. Wondering if she knew where I was. She had visited in a dream once, but I still wasn’t sure. I wasn’t certain until I held the paintbrush in my hand, and watched her come to life. On the panel, she is much younger than I am now. But maybe that’s the way it has to be. Maybe we have to get old enough to realize how young they once were. To see them as women of this world, our grandmas, our mothers. Running on legs of fawn, carrying hopes and dreams, cinched in at the waist, as to never let them go.

Of course I was happy for myself, to see her, but it was so much more than that. I was happy for her. I AM happy for her. To see what came before the apron. Before the ever-wringing of hands in front of the sink. This young and vibrant Elsie. Not jet lagged or weary. Ever hopeful. Ever possible. It all makes so much sense now — her daughter Ivy.

I have two belts that belonged to my mother. Today I will cinch one in tight. And carry them both with me. Waisted in wonder!

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The audacity of plaid.

By the time I met her, she had already full on grandma-ed into her Elsieness, (the aproned belly, the Thom Mcann shoes) so to catch glimpses of her just being Elsie is such a delightful and necessary surprise.  

We’re all guilty of it I suppose, seeing people from a single vantage point. But the full story is never really just the single page we plop ourselves into. These softened grandmas that we rest our youthful heads against were once sharp and angled women of the world. 

I look at the few photos that I have. There is a girlish mischief from the start. So young and beautiful, with side-eye glances that said she probably knew, but didn’t feel the need to actually come out and say it — no, that was reserved for her smile. And then in middle age, already rounding, she still had the wide eyed willingness, the joyful audacity, to wear plaid. Head to toe. Vested and pantsed in full-on, still daring, still hopeful, youth-angled plaid. 

I mention it because I want to paint her soon. And I want to capture it all. She was so much more than the woman in front of the sink. In front of the stove. And I have to laugh, because looking beyond the keyboard where I type these words, I see my plaid pants. And I can honestly say, it only just occurred to me, that this is what she gave to me, the “audacity of hope.”  The little angles that say, she is relevant still — I am relevant still. Isn’t it what we all want? To be seen? To still be possible, with all of our softened edges?

So I offer you this — be bold in your choices, bold in your love for others and yourself — with all the certainty of today’s angles, dare the plaid!

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An Elsie swoosh.

It let out a small scream when I opened the door. I guess even a microwave knows when it’s over. My grandma let out the same sound when she scooped up the dice after I lost my turn in the game she said I would one day understand. I picked up a few rules in between squeals, but I’m not sure I really ever understood — until maybe yesterday.  

I thought it was the first gift of any substance that I gave to my Grandma Elsie. I moved several times after college. Microwave and large books on Shakespeare in tow. The third apartment had a built-in microwave. It was my mother who told me the timing was perfect — that grandma’s had just died. Of course she could have this one. I was so happy that I finally had something to give. 

It was back when things used to last. Maybe she still had it when she passed away. I never really checked. What she did have was a piece of bark with straw flowers glued into the ridges that stood on her nightstand. An art project I had made in the fifth grade. It turns out I was wrong — I had given her something, long before the microwave, with a much greater value. 

Today we will go buy a new microwave. We will have to dispose of this one. I asked Dominique how much it weighs this morning at the breakfast table. He said it was a two hand operation. I smiled, thinking that it could be picked up in one Elsie swoosh.  It’s just a microwave. I think I understand the game a little more each day. 

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The thread that holds.

It was my grandma Elsie who made quilts. We have them scattered throughout our home. Each one a hug waiting to be entered. (None of them wait long.) 

My mother loved to sew. But she was more about fashion. Because it came as a surprise, (and also upon my bed in our Jefferson Street apartment), I remember exactly the time she decided to try her hand at making a quilt. I didn’t ask why. I knew pretty early on that life was a series of attempts to connect. So I joyfully slept on the side of my high school bed that was not covered in squares, resting under the watchful hands of both my mother and grandmother.

I have that quilt as well, here in France. It may be smaller in size, but it retains an equal amount of magic — this ability to draw me in, hold me, comfortably. But perhaps even more magically, it sets me free to try the things that aren’t necessarily in my skill set. To keep reaching out when connections fail. To keep believing this might be the thread that holds. 

That’s a lot to expect, you might say, of a heart’s thread, but as I step from inside a quilt’s embrace, I know, it’s not too much to ask. 

We are as strong as our connections. 

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E penso a te.

They say if you have a song stuck in your head, the best thing to do is to see it through — sing it all the way to the end. Maybe it’s the same with the heart.

I first heard this song on Tik Tok — E penso a te — (I think of you.) A young man is singing with his grandmother. This was enough to warm my heart, but the music, the lyrics, the harmony that only heart related people can produce, this was pure magic. And it stuck. It played again and again within me. And I let it play. Before I fell to sleep. When I woke up. When I went to the studio to paint, the grandmother arrived on my paper. Note by note. Stroke by stroke.

I write of my own grandmother. My mother. Daily. Their music lives within me. I tell their stories like the lyrics to my favorite song. And I let it play. Again and again. Because, just as recommended, I am going to see it through, think of them, love them, all the way to the end.

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But the trail.

I don’t suppose I had yet thought of myself as a woman — 18 years old — my freshman year in college.  It was something I knew I would have to earn. (In typing this, I only just realized the nearness of the words earn and learn. Maybe a part of me knew this all along — the importance of learning.) So I signed up for my first course in Women’s Studies. 

As we began navigating through the required reading, it turned out that the history of women was really just “history.” We were there from the beginning. We weren’t just on the trail, we packed the wagon. 

One story got in deep. I think about it often — her often. They began, as most of the stories did, on the east coast. They were about to travel west. All the way west. In a covered wagon. She was already lonesome. Leaving behind her mother and father. Just a young married woman, she loaded the wooden wheels with the comforts of home. Her clothing. A little furniture. Keepsakes. Her mother’s dishes. The trail was brutal. Unforgiving. The animals suffered to drag their belongings. The wheels broke away. Mile by mile she let things go. The furniture. The keepsakes — (she cried at the irony of the name.) Dress by dress, dropped along the hidden trail. She couldn’t look as her husband coaxed the horse. The wheels clunked. The dishes remained in the dirt. 

We often measure our relationships by what is given. Perhaps we need to look closer at, not the wagon, but the trail. I am grateful for the professor who pointed this out, reminded me, but truth be told, I already had the best examples. I had my grandmother. My mother. I still do. They gave their time. Their hearts. They made each wheel-worn step with grace. Clearing a path.

I pray that’s what I’m doing with these stories of them. Of us. Learning. Earning. Making a path. Making it a little easier for someone else to travel. Hoping we can all, one day, find our way.

@jodihillsart

♬ Golden Hour: Piano Version – Andy Morris
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She’s here!

I was at the New York library last night (in my dream). It is so rare that I have a good dream, I must tell you about it. To put it in perspective, if I don’t wake up screaming, it’s a good night. And those bad dreams, they can linger, not just through the morning, but for days. So this dream — this rare and glorious good dream — I put it to words, with hopes that it will linger.

I could smell the wood. And the paper. For me, libraries have always carried the scent of permanence and possibility. In the library was the perfect place for this dream to occur, amid the realm of all things possible. Dominique and I were donating our old books to the librarian. She was kind and grateful and wanted to visit. I told her of my love for books, and that, humbly, I too, was an author. She smiled and said she knew, and pulled out my most recent book, Pulling Nails. I beamed. She asked if I would mind signing a copy for the library. Of course! And maybe one for a fan, she asked. A fan? And then she stepped into the room — this beautiful woman — my grandma! My Grandma Elsie. And she was holding my book. (Tears of tenderness roll down my face as I type.) I was so happy to see her! Dominique look! It’s my Grandma! She held out my book and said, It’s gorgeous! (It’s gorgeous — you have no idea what those words will forever do to my heart!) And in my dream, I knew it was a dream, and I said out loud, …But she’s here! And she was. I can still feel her smiling.

I don’t know what dreams really are. I’m not sure that anyone does. The so-called experts say it means “this”, or “that”, but perhaps they are only as accurate as our local weather reporters making educated guesses. All I know for sure is that this morning the sun is shining and my heart is full — and it is as real as anything could be. I choose to call that love. Love that fills the air with the scent of permanence and possibility — and it IS gorgeous!

Good morning!

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What remains.

I admit that I was a little envious of the Pertermeier children, Erin and Shawn. They got to spend a lot of time with my grandma. Just the two of them, when she worked for them at Petermeier’s Funeral Home. Alone time with my grandma was hard to come by – she had so many grandchildren! 

I was sick with a bad cold and needed to stay home from school. My mother worked, so I spent the day with grandma at the Funeral Home. It may surprise you, but it was glorious. Despite the location, and my ailments, I was alone with her. She was all mine. 

The attention she gave me was as thick as the red velvet curtains that hung in the parlor. We played cards at the kitchen table. I didn’t know the rules to any of them. She said I’d pick it up as we played. I didn’t. And I’d lose every game. But she’d laugh, and I felt like I was winning. I knew I was winning. I walked beside her, step by step as she vacuumed (I know I was sick, but honestly, she didn’t work at it that hard.) We crossed the street to Jerry’s Jack and Jill and got treats. Hand in hand.  What’s most surprising to me, as quickly as this day passed, it has stayed with me for decades.

Years later, visiting my home town, I saw the empty space where the funeral home stood. For a moment, my heart stopped. Just a building some would say, but not for me. It was a day where I was everything. 

I went home and painted the picture, “What remains may only be in the heart.” Ironically, I guess, I sold that painting almost immediately, and my representation was gone, but just as predicted, the feeling still remained, remains still.

We came home yesterday from traveling. I brought with me a cold. Awake throughout the night, blowing my nose, coughing, it was still there, that feeling. I would be ok. No longer jealous of the Petermeiers, but so grateful! What a gift they gave me. Time alone with my grandmother. An afternoon of red velvet love that I will carry with me forever. The remains of the day.

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