Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: gravel


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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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Gravel weeds.

Returning to France, our driveway was full of them. At first glance, I may have thought – ugh — but I had to remind myself, that for so many years, growing up on Van Dyke Road, I was one of them, joyfully one of them — these gravel weeds. 

We blossomed wild on this dusty road. As strong as the earth below our kicking and pedaling feet. As free as the cloud that tried to keep up behind our tracks. And maybe we found such joy in our status because anchoring us all was the tallest of the Van Dyke Road weeds, Jim Norton. Lanky and strong, ever, he gave us, me, a reason to believe that we were something special. That we had a place here. A purpose. Almost willing us, daring us, to stand tall. 

Certainly all of his girls did. All five of them that popped up at the end of this gravel road. I thought they were beautiful. I thought nothing could stop these glorious flowering weeds. Nor me. So we all kept growing. 

It’s not even gravel anymore. But it lives on, in my heart. In my daily direction. And so will he. I’m proud of where I came from. And I’m grateful for those who gave me a reason to be. Thank you, Jim Norton. Heaven joyfully just kicked up a little dust!

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Painting gravel.

There’s no easy way around it. (And I’ve looked. Googled.) The current painting I’m working on has a stretch of gravel road. Without the luxury of pavement, nor good intentions, it is but a lesson in patience. Pebble by pebble. 

I must admit that I was a bit embarrassed of our gravel as a child. Van Dyke Road remained wild and loose for most of my youth. And I have the scars to prove it. But I was able to recognize the thrill of the change. Half way on my bike ride to town, just off of Van Dyke Road, right in front of Lord’s big gray house, it was tarred, and down hill. No more popping pebbles beneath my tires. I began to fly. My long blonde hair making a trail behind me. Weaving in and out of the geese beside the lake before the railroad tracks. Pushed and propelled all the way to the feet of Big Ole at the beginning of Main. 

Would I have appreciated the sleek, black surface as much, if I hadn’t begun on the gravel? Possibly. But I’m not sure. I think about it as I stumble along this new painting. Anticipating the speed to come. The thrill to come. And it will, all too quickly. Will I remember each pedal, each stroke? I hope so. It’s the journey after all. 

And not showing you yet, this unfinished painting, you get to ride the gravel beside me. Waiting. Watching. Imagining. That’s the gift I offer today. Sweet anticipation. Hang on. Soon we will fly.  

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The wisdom of gravel.

“If you know wilderness in the way you know love, you would be unwilling to let it go.” Terry Tempest Williams

Maybe it was because one of my after school Thursday chores was dusting. Or that my tennis shoes were never white. That winter’s snowballs often contained bruising tiny pebbles. Or that my mom’s car forever needed washing. There were many reasons to dislike the gravel of Van Dyke road. I felt unmodern. Somehow behind. I had a sense of urgency to catch up. To go beyond. And certainly the graveled pace of this childhood road was only slowing me down.

I chased the pavement. Off to school. Jobs. Apartments. Books and art. Creation. Life. Smooth beneath, it all went so fast. My bike. My car. Even my shoes clicked along at a feverish pace. 

A country away, I hear it again, the slow crunch of gravel beneath my feet as I walk my daily route. My feet found their way back to the wilderness they ran from. Tiny pebbles say, “but you were hurt there.” Yes, I whisper. Massive rocks that line hills and turn into mountains say, “But you were loved there.” “Yes!” I shout. 

I have paid and paved my way in dust. Love walks with me. Slowing me down? Enough to see, I think. To feel. And I will never let it go.

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