Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: line


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Heart on the line.

She’ll be surprised when she sees her portrait. She’s doesn’t know it, but she’s wearing one of my mom’s blouses. I think she looks pretty in it — though she would back up a little, shrug her shoulders and shake her head at such a compliment. I remember the first time I told her she looked beautiful in her ensemble and she nearly backed herself into the garage door. It’s not really the culture here, to be so fast and loose with the compliments. And I don’t want to make people uncomfortable, but I do want them to know how good it feels, these words of admiration. My mother gave them to me, and they carry me still. How could I not pass them along? So I put her in my mom’s blouse on this canvas, hoping maybe she could feel it, maybe the words would gather in the slight ruffles around her face and heart. Surely the flow of such gentle fabric would cotton to her being, and she would know that it wasn’t just a compliment, it was the gift I have of greatest value — a welcome into my family, my heart. And if she felt that, my sister-in-law, within all of my ruffled and flawed attempts, she would have to feel good, and possibly even pretty, and the discomfort would fade the next time I saw her wearing a dress fresh from the line, and I told her “You look so lovely in that color.” And maybe we’ll all be smiling, just like my mother wanted.

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Run Through!

We weren’t related, but they were older and nice, so it seemed natural to call them Grandma and Grandpa Dynda. And even though we didn’t share the same blood, there was an intimacy with these elders that anchored Van Dyke Road. Once you’ve run like the wind through your neighbor’s laundry on the line, I suppose there’s no turning back. You become a part of each other’s world. 

Laundry day at the Dyndas was my version of the Douglas County Fair. I never liked carnival rides. All that spinning made me dizzy — lose my lunch kind of dizzy. But the wind I could ride. The white of sheets and t-shirts, house-dresses and towels, that flapped on Monday’s line in Dynda’s side yard waved to me. And my ticket was Grandma Dynda nodding from the open screen door. Her smiling hand wave said “go ahead, run through.” Arms above my head, I raced through the cleanest breezes in Alexandria, Minnesota. I thought if a hug could fly, this is what it would feel like. I danced and tumbled. It was all so fresh. This neighborhood. This laundry. This summer. This youth. 

I walk past our neighbor’s laundry each day. Rain or shine, they have something on the line. I can’t get close enough to touch, for more reasons than just the gate. Time will take away many things. That’s just life. But I, we, can decide what remains. I stay connected to the world around me. I still believe that hope and possibility, even love, flaps fresh on the line — and permission signals from the screen door, “Go on! Run through!”

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Crossing over.

Maybe it’s because I was brought up to listen for them. To watch. Even to feel the track. It sounds of train this morning, though I know it can’t be true. There are no trains that run through our neighborhood, not through the hills of the Montaiguet, here in the south of France.

There were no flashing lights on the line behind the statue of Big Ole that guarded the Main Street of Alexandria, MN. No barriers to block out the danger. But to cross over from neighborhood to town, you had to get over the tracks. I began watching for one, coming down the hill by Lord’s house, just as my mother taught me. There were no distractions of cell phones. No music. No photos to take. But there was more than enough to hold my attention. Geese droppings to navigate through from the true owners of the lake on the left, who hissed and chased, just in case you forgot. Someone fishing. Someone biking. A gentle honk and hand wave out a car window — followed by an extensive explanation of yes, I indeed have gotten this big and am able to walk to town all by myself. Jingled change in pockets to be twirled and dreamed over. Shoulders burning in the summer sun. Would Shari and Jan keep fighting? Would Cindy still be my friend if I couldn’t sleep over? Is it Barbie’s birthday? Will I dive off the high tower? Will I be stopped at the tracks, losing five to ten precious minutes of my summer vacation — I listened for the train. Ready, willing, excited even, at the possibility that I could yell out to goose, fisher, or any passerby, “T R A I N!!!!!!”

I never go walking without my phone now. Is it for safety? Maybe. It would be hard to argue that case though. Is it because I need to begin every sentence with, “I was listening to a podcast…” — possibly. I do watch my surroundings. I say hello to the birds. Bonjour the daily walkers. I paint the path. But I know I need reminding to take it all in. Even the voices in my head. To really listen. To really see.

I know the sounds I’m hearing this morning are construction. Roads being redone up the hill. But my heart leaps with youthful warnings to pay attention. Listen. It’s all rumbling by so fast. Not to be lost, but gathered in. I want to shout it out to everyone – look how big we’ve gotten — how far we’ve come! — but it all sounds like “Train!” I look both ways, and cross over to the beauty that lies ahead.

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