Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: lyrics


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Hello

It always amazes me, the power of words. It’s often the most simple, strung together, that makes me want to be a better person. John Prine does this.

I was listening to his song, Hello in there. (If you haven’t heard it, I encourage you to listen.) He sings of the importance of connection, especially to older people. Those that we could so easily avoid. Ignore. And maybe it means so much to me because it’s not the first time that I’ve heard it.

Grandma Elsie phone sat at Petermeier’s Funeral Home. While waiting for the random ring, she would vacuum, dust — all the random chores of a normal household — normal but for the dead body often resting in the parlor. It was exciting to be babysat along with the phone. It was always an adventure. This exotic world. Windows draped in velvet. Organ music on replay. And fears of the unknown faced in every corner. But Grandma Elsie was never afraid. She scooted in and out of every room. At first, I thought she was singing while she vacuumed, but she was in conversation, with the corpse — and she would have never called them that, no, she always called them by name.

I stood at the parlor entry. Not wanting to get too close. I thought my Grandma was the bravest person that I knew. “Do you think she can hear you?” I shouted over the vacuum motor. “What?” She laughed. She turned off the vacuum, pulled in the cord, and wheeled it towards me in the safety zone. “I don’t need to be sure,” she said and smiled. “Go say hello,” she said, and went to put away the vacuum. I inched my way around the walls to the front of the room. My head didn’t yet reach above the casket. I put my hand on the side. My chubby, shaking hand. Grandma said her name was Gladys. I stood beside her wooden box. I loved my grandma. I thought in the doorway that I wanted to be brave just like her, but standing next to Gladys, I knew it was more than that, I wanted to be kind. Without the need for certainty or favor, Grandma was kind. I gave a tiny knock to the side of the casket and whispered, “Hello in there,” and ran upstairs to the comfort of the apron that turned no one away.

Softly.
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There is motion at your front door.

Maybe it’s because I want to hear it. Maybe it’s because Mr. Iverson told us in the first grade that they could be about anything, the poems that he wanted us to write — the poems that he would inscribe neatly on the black board and our hearts, measured out note by note. And they were special. Lyrical. The ordinary things, our houses and shoes. Our games and basements and cars and trees. They all became magical because we called them poetry. 

We recently got a new doorbell for our gate. It is connected to our phones. It gives us the alert whenever motion is detected, even when it’s us. When I go for my morning walk, just past the gate, she pings in my ear and says, “There is motion at your front door.” And every day it is the poem that starts my journey. There IS motion at my front door – and isn’t it a good reminder! I always smile. Because isn’t it what we’ve been told in movies and books. By philosophers and teachers. “When you stop learning you die.” “It’s over when you stop dreaming.” “Sharks never stop swimming. You gotta keep moving.” The list goes on. It’s all about motivation. And could there be a better place to start than your front door? So I hear it. I feel it. There IS motion! I AM alive! And so I begin with my doorbell’s poem, off in search of another. Because we get to decide. We hold the chalk that turns the cursive words into prayers and sets the path of our journey. 

I have to go now. Begin. Create something. There is motion at my heart’s door. 

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From both sides now.

I’m not sure that it was the heart of the lesson, but what I learned with the math “times tables” in first grade (this times this equals this) was that if you memorized something, it came with the security of always having it. I suppose this was the security I was searching for.

It was just my mom and I. Everyone else had left. I could hear my mother cry at night. I wrote poems and drew pictures, hoping to give the tears a soft place to land. But in the dark of night, I, we, could see none of them. So I began to sing, in my head. I found an old album cover that my sister used to play. It was Joni Mitchell’s, Court and Spark. I memorized the songs. Each lyric. Each note. I knew them all. Each took around three minutes to sing. And magically, time would pass. “This times this” — words times music equaled safety.

When days and nights became easier. Time became filled with activities and eventually, somehow, joy. I heard my mother’s laugh. And my own. Life became more full. And the rotations of songs in my head, became less frequent. And then almost not at all. But I knew they were there. They still are. And now, if I sing one, maybe while mowing the lawn, it is somehow, nothing but joy.

I painted her on one of my jean jackets. Maybe it’s too simple to say that she had my back. It may be simple, but it is true.

I saw a video of her on Youtube yesterday. 78, having survived a near death experience not that long ago. The words came out like honey. Pure and sweet. Tears flowed out of the eyes of those around her. Cheers flowed out of the audience. It was beautiful! Magical. Nothing but joy. And at the end of the song, she laughed. Giggled really. Like the little girl that still lived within her. Like all the little girls, the women, she carried. And in that moment, (with the words and music that we will always have,) she, I, we, were saved.

https://youtu.be/4aqGjaFDTxQ


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Heart song.

“Words are partly thoughts, but mostly they’re music, deep down. Thinking itself is, perhaps, orchestral, the mind conducting the world. Conducting it, constructing it.” ― Patricia Hampl

We have a glove compartment full of cds. The car holds our only cd player. Vacation for us begins as I slip the cd into the player. It grabs it gently. Recognizes it. And starts to play the familiar soundtrack of our wanderings.  These trips could be 30 minutes down the road, or five countries in five days. We know the words to each song. The beats. The rhythms. The little nods inside the lyrics. The poetry that fills our souls, guides us down an untraveled path. 

My mother and I did the same. We soundtracked our journeys. Each note giving us strength and courage and the joy of exploration. Frank Sinatra, singing “My kind of town — ” led us into Chicago. And so it went with nearly all of the 50 states. A song for each journey, each story. 

I suppose the music has always carried me. Each note a suitcase for the memory, and a map for open road. Those who know me, really know me, are the ones who can sing along. 

Find this someone — this someone you can sing with. Someone who doesn’t care about the missed notes, or when your timing is just a beat off. Someone who laughs when the country band whispers, “…and Leon…” or is moved to tears with the pure magic of every Paul Simon turn of phrase. Find someone who shares your heart song and says, “Play it again! Play it again!”