Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: style


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Making ruffles.

I still go to the mall with my mother. I don’t suppose we ever stop living with the ones we love. It’s only a matter of opening my closet door. Passing my hand along the draping of sleeves — each allowed the space to breathe as she taught me. We exchange silent ensemble ideas. I settle on the one where she clutches her imaginary pearls with more than approval. Pure excitement! And I am complete.

When it’s time to paint, I return the clothes to their rightful spaces and put on my splattered hoodie and pants, as if it were Sunday morning after sitting in my six year old’s white dress on a folding chair near the kitchen at Bethesda Lutheran. Smoothing out the drape with gloved hands long before and after Easter. Feeling to my very core the meaning of “good clothes.” 

I read recently that memories are the handrail of the stairs we continue to navigate. So it’s no surprise as I made my ascent in yesterday’s sketchbook, that the ruffles appeared on the woman’s portrait. White ruffles. My mother’s favorite. And didn’t they suit her. So. I hear her saying, “Ooh, I need to find that blouse.” And I smile. Heart strong, I grab the rail and climb. Forever making ruffles. 

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Style unpurchased.

My mother took in ironing. Just being born, of course I didn’t have the words for it, or any words at all, but I think I knew. I could feel it, the warmth. Not the heat from the iron, nor the steam, but the balm of service done with grace. 

It wasn’t humility. She wasn’t lowering herself. She loved clothes. She needed the money. She tested the quality of the fabric between thumb and forefinger. She knew how it would behave. How to make the collar and cuffs respond, not with rigidity, but a wantful desire to frame a face, release a hand. When finished, she didn’t just exchange it for cash, she showed them how to wear it — not as a mannequin, but a woman with style unpurchased. And they knew it. That’s why they came back. They could have gone to the local dry cleaner on Broadway, but they returned to my mother, in the white house, near the end of Van Dyke Road.  

I watched her years later, doing it for herself, and I could still feel the hands that cupped the back of my head, marveling at the warmth against my resting spine. My mother took in ironing, and ever returned it with grace. 

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In the palette.

There is a color to Paris, I thought like no other. The earthy tone of warmth. Beautiful, not because they had been spared, but just the opposite, because they had come through. A palette of empathy, not asking you to blend, but a knowing and welcoming nod. A grandeur of grace. 

My mother had that. Before we knew of Paris. Before we even dared speak of beauty itself, she taught me of grace. In the earth tones of survival, she found something beautiful. And I took to it like a dream. I carry it with me, her with me, every time we visit.

At my friend’s house last week, I stopped in front of a photo. It was of her parents’ farm. I stood for a minute. Drawn in, not exactly sure why. But then I noticed it. Could it be? So far from the Eiffel Tower? This same earthy palette. I suppose you could chalk it up to the color of old film, an aging photo, but I felt it too, this same feeling. Again, maybe it was because of my grandfather, my mother, or our recent walk through Paris, or maybe there is beauty in all things that survive, that grow, that keep becoming. 

I smile because someone just wrote on my post that my mom is “still teaching us.” I think it’s true. Possible. If, no matter where we are, we keep walking in grace.

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Sometimes a runway.

I told myself it was because of the stripes — that’s why it would be too hard to do this portrait of my mother. My heart tapped my brain each time I was looking for a new project. But I wasn’t ready. And it had nothing to do with the endless blue lines. Of course they would be a challenge, but the real reason, I just wasn’t prepared to spend that much time in this dance. In this joy. 

Sometimes even joy can be too much for a weary heart to lift. But the thing about joy —love, I suppose — is its patience. It sat waiting for me. Music cued up. Hand on the lights. Runway set. Whenever you’re ready, it said. 

And one day, “can’t” dares to take a tiny twirl, dropping off the apostrophe, letting go the t, and suddenly you’re stepping into the “can.” And once you reach “can,” the music begins to play, the lights shine, and you’re dancing in the “are.” 

It was something spectacular to see my mother’s confidence grow. It was my first real job after college. I was in charge of the style show. Of course I leaned on the most stylish person I knew. She picked out the dress she wanted to wear — the ‘ol show stopper – the one with the twirl. I wasn’t surprised. Those in the style show were offered a discount on the clothing. She didn’t have the money at the time to purchase it, but don’t think for one second she didn’t own that dress!  

My heart heaves still with a beaming of pride. I had witnessed her dance in the kitchen. Even at the Lakeside Ballroom in Glenwood. But here she was, in front of strangers, never feeling more herself, in the glow of the runway. I never saw her in the same light after that. For me, she’s still glowing.

I won’t say that there weren’t a few tears of tenderness, as I painted each blue stripe of her dress. But pain, had somehow found its way to love. Love, that ‘ol show stopper,” once again twirled its way into my heart.

I’ve heard it said before that love can build a bridge. I smile and think, sometimes a runway.

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Go higher.

We almost past by this store yesterday, until we saw the sign, “This store voted number one in Midway, by owner.” We turned around and went inside. A store with a little pride and a big sense of humor, we couldn’t miss that! It was a delightful store. And we almost missed it. The people inside were welcoming. Funny. And they had great merchandise. And we saw it all because they presented themselves in the best manner. Maybe we could all do that.

Even at our most poor, my mother always looked like a star. She dressed well. Put on her make-up. Put on a smile, sometimes gutted there by pure will, but it was always there. She looked great! Still does. Because she cared. We were at the downtown Minneapolis Dayton’s store. It had many levels. The levels got more expensive with each escalator ride. She didn’t even look at the first level. At the second, she glanced around and said, “Ewwww, this looks like stuff we could afford…”. We laughed and went higher.

Through the years she found the sales. Put things on lay-a-way. Saved. Wished. Styled. And always looked wonderful. She taught me that. What a gift. It’s never about money. It’s about style. And if that style can include a little pride, self-esteem, and a great sense of humor, that will take you pretty far, and you’ll look good along the way.

She will always be voted #1 mother, (by her daughter.)

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