Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: library


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Reminders of yellow.

She used to write them on little yellow sticky notes and put them by her telephone — favorite lines from the books she was reading.  They would be at the ready for discussion when she called me. Maybe everything in that sentence is dated. Printed books. Wall mounted phones. Notes hand written. My mother. But for me, it feels like five minutes ago. Now.

She is still getting in her red Ford Focus. Driving down the street to the Public Library to return the books — never in the drop box, but to the librarian Bobbi Jo, who is lucky enough to hear the “yellow notes” straight from my mother’s mouth. And she is quick to deacon herself back home on the bench in front of the picture window. And the sunlit words of choice find their way from page to heart to hand to pad to me. And it never ends. 

Each note was a reflection, a reminder I suppose, of who she was. We’re all looking to find ourselves, the best of ourselves, and pass it on. And, oh, she was good at it.

I change the business card holder on my desk frequently. Even with paint on my hands and pants, I need reminding of who I am. Who I want to be. A reminder to keep searching. To keep writing down the clues. Little bits of my heart. And to pass them on. Is it the best of who I am? For today, yes. Maybe tomorrow, even better. Because the calls are still coming into my heart. I hear my mother’s voice. And Bobbi Jo will remind me through Facebook that this library is still open. And maybe we will all get a little better at communicating the best of ourselves.  And possibly, most probably, if we Ivy it right, the yellow of our beating hearts, will reach through all lines, and stick.

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A trail I won’t forget.

There was nothing really “western” about it, this growing up in the Midwest. Maybe that’s why I remember them — the bookends my mother had — wooden cowboys riding wildly on horseback, not taming, but protecting each author in our living room on Van Dyke Road. 

And surely it was my mother’s love for the written word and her wooden bookends that led me to the “Cowboy Sam” series on the bottom first and second grade shelves of the Washington Elementary library. We read together each night, a trail I won’t forget.

When the years roughened the edges of the metal bottoms that slid under the books, she lined them with green felt, and the words rode in comfort once again. She taught me that each story was precious, to be held, cared for — even hers, even mine.

I never would have imagined then that some of the plots we lived through could be gathered, softened… even protected. But she, you see, was and is the green felt that slides the cowboy ‘neath the wildest of my words, my dreams and keeps them alive. 

First, I was a cowboy. Ever and still, I ride. 

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My way to the bench.

It was on the deacon’s bench, under the picture window, where she liked to read the most. The words tucked safely between arm rests and the light reflected all meaning. She bookmarked, never dog eared, these library books. When she reached a line that sat beside her, she walked it to the note pad underneath the land line, grabbed a pen from the junk drawer and wrote it down with quote marks. She Scotch taped it next to the phone and read it to me on the next call.

We were always connected with words. My mom was the first person to read to me, and so far, the last. What an intimate act, this reading of words. Because I knew them. I knew where they sat. To read them now is to be right beside them, her. Beside her. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my shoulders that melts gently into my heart. Word by word, my soul remains filled.

I began writing when I was five. Maybe it was because the words were placed within me. Maybe it was a love shared from birth. Maybe it was because it was a part of the tucking in at bedtime. Maybe I knew it was my way to the deacon’s bench.

We all travel different paths. We have different interests and likes. I can’t tell you which ones to take, but I will tell you this — be intimate in your journey. Daily. Tell your best friend, “You’re my best friend.” Tell your loved ones that they are indeed loved! Give your heart freely. Those that are deserving, have already saved a place for you. Don’t be afraid to take the seat beside them.

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Cataloged by heart.

After my grandfather spoke, no one ever had to say, “Well, what he meant by that was…” He was perhaps the first to teach me the strength of word economy. When he said something, without flower or hesitation, I believed him. 

Even with the wide open nature of youth, the vulnerable cracks of the heart and brain are very small. So it was this simplicity that allowed the love in. Word, by compact word. 

When my college professors began to emphasize the point, speaking of editing and being precise, I could only smile. That point had long ago been walked in –firm, straight and overalled. My grandfather’s words built a library inside of me. Cataloged by heart. Endlessly referenced. 

And I use it still today. In my writing. My painting. My interactions. If you have to tell someone, “I was only kidding…”; “It was only a joke…”; “What I meant was…”; “The point they were trying to make…” —  then there is a problem. There’s no room in the heart for all of that. What a glorious filter it can be. 

I’m currently reading the book, “What you are looking for is in the Library.” When my friend recommended it, I accepted quickly. She had long ago made it past the filter. And the title itself walked easily in, wearing overalls. 

I suppose that’s where all the love is stored. Here. And I pull from it daily. My grandparents’ shelf. My mother’s shelf. Husband. Friends. Family of all covers, all languages. Those whispering still and again, my heart’s truth. 

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Finding place.

We were taught that it was sacred, right from the start. “Children, be quiet,” she urged, as Mrs. Bergstrom walked us from our first grade classroom to the library. I don’t remember asking why. I guess I always assumed it was because the books had so much to say, we needed to listen.

With this opening of worlds, it became necessary from the start to mark our places. The librarian told us, pleaded with us, never to “dog ear” the page. Imagine, she explained, if every time you walked into your home, your mother grabbed you by the ear and folded it over and pulled you in to show you your place. We all agreed that would be terrible. I know some still did it. I can’t say who for sure, but I had my suspicions. And the proof was often there in a big crease going diagonally down the story. I didn’t do it. I still don’t. Not because I was so perfect. No, it was because just down the hall, in art class, it was Mr. Opsahl that taught us paper had a memory. When you folded it, it stayed. Everything we were being taught at Washington Elementary told us that these books, these pages with words, were alive. And it was here, that I found my place.

I still live there. Here. In the word. It’s where I find my truth. My hope. My joy. It’s here I can find company. Comfort. I can welcome you in, and with any luck, give you the same. Because I think that’s what they were always telling us, as we raced to make our mark — to listen, to be kind. We can do this. For each other. We’re all hear to tell a story.

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This is better.

The walk of temptation was extraordinary for a five year old. My mom parked the Chevy Impala in front of Ben Franklin that Saturday morning. I could already see the candy through the double glass doors. My impatient feet jittered up and down next to the parking meter as she rummaged through the bottom of her purse for a quarter. I rolled my eyes as she pushed aside Kleenex and breath mints. “C’mon,” I would never say out loud, but released through the clenching and unclenching of my chubby fingers. The coin dropped and the red flag moved aside. We were free. I raced past the front cashier and stood in front of the penny candy. If I saw it today, with grown-up eyes, the square plastic bins stacked on an end cap, might not seem so magical, but then, oh, then, it was glorious! It was Tinkerbell’s wand waving over a colorful rainbow of sugar. I could feel my chin drop. “Wait!” I said as she led me down the aisle. “Can’t we just get a little bit..just one color even…just a piece of red…” “Next time,” she said, “We have better things to do.” Better things, I grumbled underneath my breath. Impossible, I thought. And dragged my bumper tennis shoes along. The aisle became stacked with toys. Beautiful, plastic covered toys! Yes, I thought. These must be the better things. I began to touch everything. I wanted it all. Or anything! Something pink and shiny! Please, I begged, perhaps out loud, or just with heart-reaching urgency. I felt her hand on my shoulder again. “Better…” she promised. It couldn’t possibly be, I thought. Yet, she had never lied to me. But here, in the center aisle of the Ben Franklin, I must admit, I had my doubts. We walked through the back door. A large pillared building stood in front of us. I began to near the grass, but she pulled me to the sidewalk. “You need to see all of it,” she said. We stood in front. The Alexandria Public Library. It was beautiful, but what was inside? “Books,” she said. “They give them to you. With just your name.” I could only breathe the word, “OHHHHH…” We walked up the stairs and opened the doors. “It smells like words,” I said. She smiled and led me down the stairs to the children’s section. I could barely move. Every spine, every cover, called to me. “Take your time,” she said. Each letter tugged at my sleeve until my arms were filled. I signed (printed) my name on the small mildewed card. My heart beat sugared from the inside. “Do you want me to help you carry them?” I shook my head no and carefully maneuvered myself and the precious cargo down the stairs. I started walking up the sidewalk. “Don’t you want to cut through?” she asked, pointing at Ben Franklin. “No,” I said, “this is better.” We walked the long way to the car. Books in hand, I held the keys to the kingdom.

“You are part of my story, and it is beautiful!”
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Story books.

I don’t know when it changed — the moment we dropped the word story and just started calling them books. A part of me wants to bring it back. 

The story books were in the basement of the Alexandria Public Library. Maybe it was because we didn’t know how to use the card catalog yet, but so many were on display, not by spine, but full cover. I can still see the bright blue cover of Jonathan Livingston Seagull. It was still above my reading grade, and sat perched on the very top shelf. I thought if I finished all the books on the lower shelves, read each and every story, worked my way upwards, that I too could fly. 

My mom dropped me off every Saturday morning. I climbed up the outer steps, then climbed down the inside ones. I read for hours. Just before my mom picked me up, I checked out as many books as my orange book bag would hold, and the librarian would allow. She never complained about having to come in and get me. Most of my friends from school sat outside waiting for their rides. Running around in the grass, soon and easily fed up with the quiet words of the basement. But not me. I wanted every moment. And my mother, being an avid reader, understood. She parked the car behind the Ben Franklin store and walked over to get me. 

I wasn’t thinking about it when I wrote the book Bird Song. Covered in the same blue, it is a collection of stories (a story book) told by the beautiful wings that carry them. But of course it lives within me. The days at the public library. Each word read. Each shelf climbed. I know they brought me to this place. They lifted me. Dared me. And faster than any childhood Saturday morning, I learned to fly. 

The stories we create are not weights, but branches. Out on the morning limb, I heart gather all the words – of mother and love and youth and chance and choice and story — I spread my wings, and I fly.

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Pocketful.

I suppose one of the reasons I loved her the most was because she never tried to explain away the magic.

The first time I descended the stairs to my grandparents’ basement, I’ll admit I was a bit nervous. It was dark — even with the light on. Each step had a voice. My 5 year old imagination ran wild. But about halfway down, it started to smell familiar. Books, I thought. It smells just like the library. I raced the remaining steps. Wet, overworked overalls hung by the furnace.This was the army, I thought, that helped my grandfather in the fields. This one sized army, that was just his size alone. This pinstriped gathering of strength. These dampened blues and browns hung thick with the words that told his story. I ran my fingers across each page.

I wasn’t surprised to see my mother waiting at the top of the stairs. She was always the first to gather me in. Listen to me. To take whatever I had experienced and make it real. “It smells just like the library,” I said. “Pockets and pockets and pockets of stories! That’s where he keeps them, isn’t it?” “Yes,” she smiled. She always smiled, and I was home. 

She could have explained that the smell was merely the dampness of the paper, the material, perhaps even mold under the collective weight of age and use. But she didn’t. She never would. Some of my older cousins would try — LaWanna said I was a baby, with baby thoughts. But not my mom. She never took the magic away. Maybe that’s why I still have it. Still believe in it. Still carry it. By the pocketful!

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The scent of story.

I was only six when I was walked into the library of Washington Elementary. The door opened and it hit me immediately, the familiar scent. I didn’t have the words for it then. The knowledge. Certainly it could have been explained away with paper, and time. The aging, a slight dampness to it all. But I had smelled this before, this comforting familiar. And I needed no explanation, because I was home.

This welcoming scent – it was the same as the entryway to my grandparents’ home. Coats lined the wall. Dampened with work and story, they welcomed anyone who opened the door. They said, come in, you and your heart sit down. It was there I learned to trust. Trust in those who made the effort. Trust in those who worked hard to create something. Create a life.This library of coats. Of living.

When Mrs. Bergstrom, my first grade teacher, let go of my hand, I wasn’t afraid. She set me free in this open and beautiful world. There was life all around me. Book after book. Page after page. The words brushed against my arm, warm and worn, as the sleeve of my grandfather’s coat.

Some might say it is only nostalgia. But what is nostalgia? For me, it is not wanting to live in the past. No, for me, I see it as proof. A living and palpable proof of how it feels to be open. It is a reminder of how glorious life can be. A documentation of the extraordinary doors — the doors that let you in, the ones that set you free.

I don’t know what today will bring. But I know what it feels like to be open. I need no explanation. I brush against the familiar, and walk into the sun.

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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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