Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: sharing


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The wave of welcoming.

It wasn’t like she didn’t have enough people to feed. Yet she never seemed to mind when neighbors (neighbors whose houses could not even be seen beyond the fields) popped over at the first waft of the oven’s scent. Her wide knuckled hands waved off the intrusion and welcomed them to the kitchen table.

On the rare occasion that her lap was open, (usually during Days of Our Lives), I would sit and twirl her thinning wedding band. Still able to move at the base of her finger, I knew she would never be able to get it over the middle knuckle. “Did it shrink?” I asked. “What?” “Your ring.” She let out a laugh that sounded like a leak of a hose. “No, my fingers got bigger.” I was shushed to listen to Ma and Pa Horton on the tv.

It makes me happy to think it wasn’t because of the work. I know now, it was the wave of the welcoming. Her hands, just like her heart, got bigger with every visit.

I felt it yesterday as I passed some cookies fresh from the oven over the fence to our neighbor. Her five year old granddaughter was visiting. She said her love for the cookies was bigger than the sun and the moon together! I felt the Elsie-ing of my hands and heart. What a welcome feeling!

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Sleeved.


When you’re the last one in line, the hand-me-downs have to go back up. 


I bought the black leather vest in New Mexico while traveling with my mother many years ago. I wore it proudly, then passed it up to her. She looked fabulous in it. Black pants. A popped white crisp collared blouse underneath. Scarved for a little color. (Scarf is the new black, she would say.)


I have it back again. That black leather vest. When I get compliments, I always say it was my mother’s. Because that’s the most important part of the story for me. They don’t need to know the whole “Sisterhood of the traveling pants” version. That beats quietly beneath the zipped leather. 


I like that we shared the clothes before it was, pardon my pun, in fashion. Long before vintage was cool. Truth be told we didn’t even use the word vintage — we only had hand-me-downs, and hand-me-ups. But we weren’t looking to be on trend, we wanted to be connected. For that same reason, my mom handed down clothes to her sister Karolynn. To be connected. 


Just last week my cousin Kalee wore my mother’s coat to our cousin’s funeral. The coat that my mother handed to her sister, that she handed to her daughter. The coat I would wear on winter visits when I didn’t bring one of my own. I like to think that love is sleeved. Each time we slip through, we pass on the hugs, we pass on the love. And it gets handed off, up and down and all around. 


I guess what I’m saying is, it doesn’t have to end. We can all stay connected. Once we allow the passing through, it, we, can always be passed along. Held in the arms of love. 

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I can help.

I was never afraid of the water. My mother saw to that. Buoyed by baby fat and unweighted from no previous experience, I easily bobbed up and down in the blue. She didn’t buy float rings for my arms, or an inflatable duck to strap around my waist. No lifejackets, or flotation devices of any kind. What she did give me was the confidence to jump in the water and trust my own skills. And what’s most remarkable, she never let me see the fear she carried.

I was in my early twenties, living in my first apartment, deeply secure in my ability to navigate any body of water, when she told me. Just before entering the pool for the complex. I had seen her dip toes in Lake Latoka. Wade in the water thigh high. Even sink to shoulders. But it was here, in this pool of firsts that she told me she had always been a little afraid. We got her a kicker board from Ridgedale mall. She did laps in the pool. I was so proud of her. So very proud. She was worried it would be a burden for me. Nothing could be further from the truth. What a gift. This turning of tables. A gift to carry what she once carried for me. We filled that pool with laughter and joy!

I suppose that’s what true love is — this constant exchange. This lifting. This buoying of hearts. Taking turns in bravery. In strength. Celebrating the victories large and small. Together.

I have a memory of a cartoon. Black and white. Two little girls on the front stoop of a house. One day the little girl is crying. The other girl reaches out her hand and says, “I’ll help you.” The next day laughing, with the same response. This is the world I lived in. The world my mother gave to me. The world I want to share with you.

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