Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: grandpa


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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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Grounds from the bottom of the cup.

I barely remember the steps up the side of the mountain. I was so lost in the audible story I was listening to — my feet, as they so often do, went on autopilot and carried me to the top. I was actually surprised when the view had changed, but smiled and went back into the story. It was the voice, the farming vernacular, that drew me in. Although it was set in another country, the rhythm and economy of words were the same. How many times had I heard it at my grandparents’ kitchen table? “Won’t you stay for lunch,” “At least have a cup of coffee,” (which also meant kolaches, lunch sticks, or meat-stacked sandwiches.) The guests, neighbors usually, relatives, neighbors who thought they were relatives, always said, “oh, no, we couldn’t,” and yet somehow, they always did. I was certain I could hear the beeping, as they backed their way into a full afternoon, a card game, and eventually dinner. 

Just as in the story I was listening to, the purpose of the visit was never revealed at the start. Hours could go by. I would look at my grandfather, pipe in hand, never anxious. Wasn’t he curious? Why didn’t my grandma ask them? I would tug at overalls and apron, trying to speed it along, only to be met by a shoo-ing hand that said, patience. 

I had so many questions. I always wanted to know. Who, what, why. And they seemed so content to sip on egg coffee, brush the grounds from the bottom of the cup, and wait. 

Did it come from the land, I wondered. This settling of time. This faith in the season. My feet, ever on the speed of concrete, needed, craved answers, that so often never arrived, but disappeared into a blur of afternoon pastries, and welcomed unnecessary gatherings. 

I thought of it yesterday, pausing on the peaked view. Not recalling, or needing to, each step. I was here. I am here. Now. It doesn’t really require an explanation. Just being is good. I won’t ask what the day will bring. I’ll simply open the door, and see…

Sometimes, you have to let go of what was, stop worrying about what will be, and just see…
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Field of dreams.

I don’t know if it’s the chicken or the egg. People have always asked me through the years whether the words come first or the painting. I guess my only answer is that the story arrives, and it can take the shape of letters or landscape or limb, but it’s always in the shape of love. 

I suppose it’s all a practice. The more I see, the more I see. The same with memory. The most with love. What’s taught is what’s known. 

The fields are especially golden now in the south of France. But they aren’t the destination. No, people travel miles, continents even to gather at the feet of lavender. And it can’t be denied, it is lovely.  But wasn’t it my grandfather’s hand that gave me the gold? That first waved my hand over wheat, and in that swoop, painted me in? And it can’t be unseen. Unfelt. All that beauty. All that love. And in that same brush of the hand, my fields, my story, arrives on canvas. 

And maybe you see it. Maybe it tickles your palm, and you remember your grandpa, your neighbor, your teacher, or youth, and you wave it on, and on, and again, all the while humanity becomes a little more golden. 

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To love your tools.

He was always doing the “walk back” from the field. In need of a certain tool. Not because he forgot, but because of a new situation. And selfishly, I must say, I loved those times. I didn’t wish him any problems — and I knew that’s why he had to walk back from the field to the shed, to the barn, to the house, but selfishly, I also knew he would be a captive audience. 

It’s no surprise I still feel the same. It’s why I fall in love with a pencil. It is my wrench in an open field of pages. It can start my day, or finish it. When not in my hand, I know exactly where it is. In any situation, any walk back of the day, I can get to it. Hold it. Let it help me to become again. 

There were no cell phones. Nothing but wide open spaces and my two steps to his one. It’s possible he was merely thinking about the task at hand, but he seemed like such a good listener, which made me want to talk all the more. Jumping over cow pies, I told him everything I knew for sure, and asked him everything I didn’t. The latter outweighed the former. 

I was certain my grandpa knew everything. And this was confirmed by how he never looked for a tool, but walked directly to it. He wasn’t the kind to say it, (not that he could get a word in) but I knew he loved those tools. He took care of them. Respected them. In my head, this is why they always worked for him. 

Is it a lot to say about a pencil? Maybe. But at this moment, it’s what I know for sure, and it’s enough, to run along beside you, to tell you, we have everything we need.

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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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Return to gravel.

It’s not to say that we took our wounds seriously, but my mother never purchased designer Band-Aids. There were no cartoon characters or Disney royalty. In fact, I’m pretty sure they weren’t even the Band-Aid brand.  Possibly Curad. Or simply flexible adhesive bandages. And often times, just a Kleenex (which was really only a facial tissue) and a piece of Scotch tape (most likely just tape). 

No matter what she used, she did accomplish the main goal, which was just to return us to the gravel road, be it on bike or foot, skinned knees and all, as quickly as possible. No time for worry, or to go over the latest spill. Nor was there time to take pride in the survival. Who hadn’t fallen on Van Dyke Road? Her goal, I see now, was to keep me at play. Sometimes I would look up from the tattered tissue barely hanging on, as if to ask, “Really?” She would answer, “You think Phyllis Norton can do better? Go get in line.” We would laugh. And for this I will be ever grateful. 

Injuries change from year to year. Some wounds go unseen. But the goal is to always keep pedaling. Keep walking. Keep living. Because it is where we were wounded that we will continue to find the joy. 

A country and a lifetime away, I race out the morning door with a bit of Van Dyke Road still on my shoes. 

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Twice.

Gloria sat at the reception desk. I was in the next cubical. I was young and impressionable — and also eager to make one. Of course that youth made me think that I could do anything, and I suppose that’s why I gravitated towards Gloria — she was also a believer. Some of it was a bit fantastical, like the aliens building the pyramids and ghosts stealing her underpants while she slept, but that didn’t deter me, because she also said things that made complete sense to me — like when I would come to her in near defeat, telling her that “they” told me a certain project couldn’t be done. Her reply was always this, “Well, then you’ll make two.” And I always did.

I mention it now because France doesn’t celebrate Mother’s Day on the same day as the United States. It’s a few weeks later — this Sunday to be exact. Of course Mother’s Day is hard for me. I miss my mom so much. And now, I not only have to get through one day, but two. Even saying it, I see Gloria’s smiling face, and I have to join her. Of course it’s hard, but we were built to do hard things. To live the unlivable, bear the unbearable, and believe ever in the unbelievable. And I do! 

So on this Thursday before, I change my mind and think, not that I have to, but that I get to! And if ever a mother deserved two holidays it would be mine. My heart may feel the squeeze of all that love, but I will celebrate. Twice. 

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In the rear view.

I liked to sit by him at the table, breathing in the smell of the earth from his overalls, but there were often things on his plate that had me racing to the cereal cupboard for a replacement meal. I was not one for squirrel, or gizzard. Gravy poured over anything never appealed to me. It didn’t present the horror of a church potluck, but it was close. So I grabbed a stool to reach the bowls from up high, and something Kellog’s from the variety packs my Grandma so generously kept stocked in the very attainable bottom corner cupboard. And I was saved. 

We carry emergency food in the car. Mostly crackers. Mostly for me. Dominique will often brave the local cuisine as we drive from state to state. Gas stations are sometimes the only source. Somewhere in the indistinguishable fields between Colorado and Nebraska, we pulled over. After gratefully using their bathroom, I knew I would be finishing my Wheat Thins. Dominique looked behind the glass and settled on the deep fried gizzards. (Of course they had gizzards!  If my grandma could so easily show up with her root-beer floats, my grandpa was certainly not going to be outdone. And there they were – gas stations gizzards.) 

I kept driving with the box of crackers neatly tucked between my legs. Dominique ate his gas station gizzards — and really enjoyed them! The smell of earth seeped through the windows. Rueben and Elsie smiled in the rear view.

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Covered in the welcoming.

Walking into the entry of my grandparents’ home, I could feel my shoulders relax. Dropping down with the ease of the coats hooked on the wall. Nothing left to brace. No cold. No pretense. My first glimpse into the rumor of home. 

Of course I didn’t have any of those words yet, as I danced beneath the dangling sleeves. Cuffs that smelled like tobacco and earth, brushed across my face. My mother had already made it into the kitchen. But I lingered. Stretching my unmittened hands up and into the damp sleeves. With boots still on, I could slide my feet into my grandpa’s shoes. Almost completely covered in the welcoming. Nearly finished with her first cup of egg coffee, my mother waved me in. 

I suppose I’ve always been one to linger. Wanting the moment to last. It’s the 22nd and I want it all to slow down. I’m not ready to jump to the Christmas Day. I want to play the music. Loudly. Softly. I want to finger the wrapping. Nibble at the cookies. Drape myself in the entry of all the magic to come. I can see my mother’s feet in grandma’s kitchen. There’s no need to hurry. I know I am home.

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