Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: small town


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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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Three Snow Whites and a Viking.

Three Snow Whites stepped out of the Starbucks in Bay City,Texas. It’s just a tiny town. It would have been surprising enough that they even had a Starbucks. And it sounds like the beginning of a joke, but they weren’t laughing. Their shiny black hair blew in the southern breeze, along with their silky yellow and blue dresses. Just shy of bluebirds on their shoulders, they looked perfectly Disney. They sipped on their coffees. Reached for their keys, and went to their cars, as if this happened every Saturday. And maybe it does, but we won’t be here to tell. 

I could have raced after them with my cell phone. Begged for a photo. But coming from a small town, I know the code. 

In Alexandria, Minnesota we have a statue of a large Viking. On his shield, it claims this is the Birthplace of America. In the summer, when our population doubled — all those coming from the Twin Cities to cool down in one of our many lakes — we could see them laugh. Poking fun at our big statue. Jumping on his feet. Taking ironic photos before heading off to the golf course. 

I would like to say that I defended him, us. But in my cut-off shorts and off brand tennis shoes, I didn’t yet have the words. I hope I apologized on my daily ride past him, perched on my banana seat bike, but I’m not sure that I did. 

Maybe it WAS the birthplace of America, maybe it wasn’t…I’m still not sure, but it was our birthplace, of our America. All of my beginnings began at his feet. It was the end of Van Dyke Road, and the start of Main. And even though at times it felt like I was the only one living this life, somehow it was not just my destiny. No, this we shared. Maybe all small towns do. We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t have to. This was our town. Our Viking. I had to leave to find the words, but even from a country away, I will claim it. Defend it. My hometown.

So no, I didn’t find out about the three Snow Whites. That’s their story to tell. I sit back on my imaginary banana seat bike, and enjoy the view as they step outside their destiny.

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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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