Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: hometown


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Look Homeward, Angel.

94 is as straight a drive as it ever was. Even the rental car feels the muscle memory seeping from my hands into the wheel. Midway, near St.Cloud, at the sign for Pleasureland, I’m supposed to call my mom. To give her a time frame of my arrival, plus the added bonus of saying and being in a place of “Pleasure” — (what better place to mark one’s travel?).

And she’s supposed to answer. Giggle even. And I’ll giggle. And oh, the pleasure indeed, this anticipation. And I’m supposed to sing along to the radio for the next 60 miles. Call at the exit for Alexandria, asking if she needs any essentials — and by essentials, meaning something from Walgreens, like jelly beans. And even though I’ve done it my whole life, she’s supposed to remind me to look through the bags to get the ones with the most reds, and yellow next, because she still likes yellow… And I will do it, calling when I’ve secured the goods. And she’s supposed to recall the time we traveled to Washington State with my Grandma Elsie in tow, and how we only shared with her the purple and black ones, and we’ll laugh, and she’ll say, “but she likes them,” and we’ll laugh again because who could like them and because we know we’re really only taking the ones we like.

But the hole in my heart where all the supposed tos live, grows wider and wider as I drive the Main Street, with no special place to go in my hometown. But I do need water. And the Walgreens is right there. So I pull over and go inside. Put the water on the counter. “Are you a rewards member?” They will ask, just as they are supposed to. We used to be, I say. (As I was always supposed to use my mother’s phone number so she would earn more points and I would get the better price.) I type in her old phone number on the keypad. The number that hasn’t been hers for two years. “It still works,” the clerk says. Just as it is supposed to, I think and smile.

Thomas Wolfe writes in Look Homeward, Angel — “We are always looking for revelation—even in our most known places and our most loved people. We hope to find the undiscovered in ourselves—the window into everything.”

My mother always finds me. Lives within me. I travel on.

All is as it should be.
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The shape of Minnesota.

If you made a line of every bike ride. Every walk on gravel. Every stroke in one of 10,000 lakes. And if you swept that line through golden fields, and trudged it through snow that spilled into boots. Then climbed it through grades and classrooms. Danced in through gymnasiums. Drove it through the DMV. Set it into the sky and released it to an open door. That line would form the shape of Minnesota.

I learned pretty early on, what could be taken away, and what couldn’t. There is no physical home for me to go to in my birthplace. No scratches of growth marked on a wall. No cedar chests. Gravel driveways have been paved. Empty lots over-filled. Schools torn down. But I am not sad. Everything that has given me form remains. My heart will ever know the way. 

My friend from the first grade, and friend still, gave me a Minnesota cookie cutter for Christmas. Yesterday, here in France, with the spring of a schoolgirl, I rolled the sweet dough and cut out the shape of my heart. 

I am part of the roads that lead to and from here,

the neighbors near and far, all 

under one sky, trying to get to their own place 

of unconditional, outstretched arms, 

I am part of it all…

and I am home.

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Waiting for Phyllis Norton.

It wasn’t surprising that my mother had to drive Phyllis Norton at full speed down Van Dyke road to Douglas County hospital to have her baby. The surprising part was that she only had to do it once. Mrs. Norton did have five girls after all.

I’m not sure if they were rules of law, or just the rules of the neighborhood, but people respected them either way, and drove slowly on the gravel. On the rare occassion that you saw the billowing of dust behind a vehicle, you knew something had to be wrong. It was this sort of knowledge that was the firm structure on which we based our youth. We knew our neighbors. And for better, or worse, we counted on them. And not just to do the heavy lifting, or make the hospital run, but to be who they were. Each of us had our roles. The Norton girls could fill out any team — softball, kickball, kick the can — they had the numbers, and the ever willingness to play. The Schulz boys guarded our behavior. In hindsight, they weren’t bad, but probably just a little wild, and served as a threat if we did something wrong — “Do you want to go live with the Schulz’s?” We didn’t. So we behaved. Our stunt grandparents, both Dynda and Mullen, served as stability. Open screen doors and plates of cookies. Clothes hanging on the line. Constants. The Lees provided our future — our last pick-up on the school bus, they were young and sparkling clean as their mother, Yvonne, with her movie star looks and shift dresses waved us all goodbye. The Spodens came to fill in our missing pieces and hold together the movement that kicked up the gravel one last time.

Does it matter? I can answer this by a dream I had the other night. It was really in the early stages of the morning. The kind of dream that comes after a rough night. The kind of dream that stays with you. In my dream, we lived in a replica of my grandparents’ house here in France. Our house was filled with unknown tourists, struggling with their cellphones. Looking out the kitchen window, I saw someone familiar. I flung open the door and raced toward her yelling in delight for all of France to hear — “Phyllis Norton is here!!!!! Phyllis Norton is here!!!!” I screamed it through our yard. Through our house! And woke up with such joy. Such comfort.

So it did matter. It matters still. We built something. Together. And it remains. Even a lifetime and country away, it supplies a structure of support. A stability of goodness. I carry it with me daily. Count on it. Guard it with my heart. And go to sleep each night, waiting for Phyllis Norton.

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Winning.

I suppose some of the gifts should have been a surprise, but they never were. We grew up with them, these strange and fantastic presents from Grandma Elsie. She was certain that she would be the next Publisher’s Clearing House Winner. Certain enough to clear a path at the front door for an oversized check. But not quite certain enough to stop ordering from the catalog. She imagined with each purchase she got a little bit closer to winning. And she needed gifts after all, what with 27 grand children. So she ordered. I’d like to think it was all random. It’s hard for me to imagine that she saw the red knee length laced panties (bloomers), and thought immediately of me. But that’s what I received for my Christmas present when I was 8 years old.

I had no sinister thoughts at the time. No thoughts of “saloon girls,” or worse… No, I thought they were shorts. Fancy shorts. I kept them folded neatly in my summer drawer.

I was still at my softball game when my mother got home from work. Now, as luck would have it, (so I thought) our town colors were red and black, based on our Cardinal mascot. It was on this very day that I decided to wear my fancy Christmas shorts with my Cardinal t-shirt. The man-made fibers rubbed against my chubby thighs, and caught on the wooden bench of the dugout. I imagine I left a trail of red lace as I rode my bike home from the Dairy Queen field. My disappointment was met with horror on my mother’s face as I dropped my bike in the driveway. I started to cry pink tears. “No,no, no…” she tried to assure me. “It’s fine. You’re beautiful,” she said. I caught my breath, hiccup by hiccup. “Grandma doesn’t know anything about softball,” I said. “No, she doesn’t,” my mother smiled. “How was your game? Did you win?” “No,” I said, but I think we’re getting closer.” I was indeed my grandma’s girl.

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Shiny black and blue.

When it comes to reading, I suppose I am a bit of a magpie – chasing after the words – grabbing, feeding off of them like shiny objects. They are all so beautiful. I want to gather them in my little nest of daily stories. 

There was a woman in our home town. She picked through the garbage cans of main street. This was long – long before it was cool. Long before people made Youtube videos of treasures found. She was alone in her picking, and we made fun of her. Not to her face, but I can see now that doesn’t really matter. I can blame youth. Inexperience. But now that I see… I have no more excuses. 

When you first look at a Magpie, you think you know, well, of course – it’s black and white. But when you really look – I mean really – you see the blacks are not just black, but so many shades of blue – maybe brown eyes – maybe a hint of green in the changing light. I paint them now and discover all that I haven’t seen. 

Her name was Bernice — this woman who had the courage to search for treasures in our home town. I see her now, so black she is blue – such a beautiful blue. And I thank her for giving me a chance to really see. A chance to wonder about what else I am missing. A chance to search for the shiny objects, hidden in plain sight. And so I read, and I write, and I paint, and I fly! Singing thanks to the Magpies, thanks to Bernice.

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Out of the tree of life.


A red plum in France is called prune rouge. I like the sound of it. Elegant, I think. We have a tree in our front yard. Each year she gives us the most delicious harvest for making jam. It’s my favorite. Of our fruit trees, peach, apricot, cherry (she is yet to produce enough for jam) and plum, the plum, or prune rouge is the most difficult to make into jam because the fruit is very small and the pit is very big, and very attached. But the reward! As the fruit turns from yellow to pink to the most glorious, well rouge, aaah, it is magnificent. And the taste! The taste bursts into Frank Sinatra singing, “Out of the tree of life, I just picked me a plum!”


I heard once, and it took a long time to learn, but I believe it now, “One doesn’t love a home less for having suffered in it…” Things happen. Hurtful things. But I suppose, only where there is love can there be pain. People, places, that you don’t know, that you don’t care about, they can’t hurt you. But they can’t give you anything really. To really love someone, love something, there is always the risk of being hurt, well, more than risk really, you will get hurt. But the reward! When you take that hurt, grab it with both hands, break it apart, tear away the pit of it all, it can transform – you can transform, into something absolutely delicious!


Coming home now, I can see this place for all the rouge it contains. All the gifts it has given me. And I am grateful for it all, the pain, the work, the possibility, the start, and most of all the love! For giving me the lyrics to my song, “Still it’s a real good bet, the best is yet, to come!”

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