Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: summer


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The comfort of shore.

Van Dyke Road separated the two worlds. It was so magical how far crossing one small stretch of gravel could take me. The back of our house faced a sea of grain — Hugo’s field. And in a way, it was like swimming, running through the stalks at full chubby- legged-speed, arms stretched to each side, creating a golden wave. Across the road though, behind Weiss’s house, was a lake. Not a big one. Nor a clean one, of the 10,000 our state touted. We didn’t swim in it. So what was the allure? It had to be the dock. 

Florence and Alvin had a big yard. Bonnie, the daughter, was so much older, that to me, she was just another adult. So there were no arms of youth waving me over to play. I would sneak along the shrub line. Roll down the manicured slope to the lake’s edge. I could hear the dock before I saw it. The wave rocked wood cracking gently. I took off one bumper tennis shoe and placed my lavender-white toes on the sun warmed plank. It was extraordinary. I have no memory of being a shoeless baby, but I imagine at some point some uncle or boisterous neighbor blew their warm breath on my rounded feet, and I knew, standing there, barefoot on Weiss’s dock, this must be exactly how it felt. I giggled like that infant and took off my other shoe. 

I braved each crack to the end. My body craved what my feet already had, so I lay down and let it gather in my arms, legs and back. My fingers danced at my side in the tiny puddles of cool water that gathered in the wood’s unevenness. I don’t know if I saw all the beauty of these imperfections, but I’d like to think I did. 

Who knows how long I stayed. Summer afternoons felt eternal. I guess in a way, they are. I can still rest in that warmth. 

I have written so many times about swimming – in actual lakes. Lake Latoka was only a bike ride away. But just out my door, front and back, oh, how my heart and imagination swam. Daily. And maybe that’s what home is after all…this ability to dream in the comfort of shore. 

The comfort of shore.
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The out from under.

There must have been more of it then — the snow. I remember garage doors avalanched. Gravel buried. Yards that melded one into the other on Van Dyke Road. (Aaaaah, the great white equalizer.) And maybe it was youth, or inexperience, or lessons yet unlearned, but I don’t remember ever feeling that we wouldn’t come out from under. Even as abandoned snowmen clung to life beside Spring’s marigolds, I believed in the warmth ahead. 

Perhaps it’s the reasoning for all the lights. On trees and mantles. Candles lit and windows outlined with blinks of eternal hope. I suppose we do everything to keep the warmth alive. We highlight memories. Not to relive the winter, but to point our way to summer’s embrace. To prove to our hearts, and mostly our minds (the heart is always the easier sell) that we can overcome. We can survive. And will. And WILL. 

It’s ironic — this urgency to rush the winter, when it all really goes so fast. To slow it down, I remember the boots tipped over on radiators. Scarves half frozen from breathless gasps captured in the cold. And I think, what haven’t I survived? What haven’t we survived? And I gather in the light — warmed in the “out from under” — and I am saved.

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Untethered.

I wanted to be excited. I walked and finger rolled the handful of quarters I had saved from cleaning the house each Thursday afternoon. Counting them with each step. Knowing it would only take a couple of them get through the gates of the fairgrounds, a part of me wished for a surprising hole to open in my Herberger basement cut-offs…dropping the silver coins in Kinkead cemetery as I short-cut through, coins that I would once again find as I made my way back home after apologetically waving to my friends on the other side of the Douglas County Fair. But my American-made jeans remained strong, holding the coins, forcing my dusty dragging feet through the turnstile. 

Everyone loved the fair. I wanted to be everyone. But the rides made me sick. The games were rigged. And the food was too expensive.  There was always one girl each year that said, “Come on, you won’t throw up this year, I promise…” Still believing in promises, I would nervously stand in line, double check the lock that the summer carnival worker made, smile as if to warn her, remind her, “you promised.” The spinning would start and my lunch flung somewhere into the crowd. I walked over to the live ponies — all of us tethered to a fair we didn’t want to attend. 

“You know you don’t have to go,” my mother told me when she got home from work. “But everyone goes,” I said, “they love it.” “I don’t,” she said, “I hate it.” There was no hesitation in her voice. No pull of the “they.”  I watched her change out of her work clothes. Placing her shoes back into the original box — no dust on them. Nylons in the sink. Skirt and blouse smoothed and hung. 

She made no promise of where my joy would be…she only slipped three new shiny quarters in my pocket and said, “Do what you love.” 

I still am.

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Between two adorations.

I have the nose of a canine police dog when it comes to sniffing out the fresh melancholy of an approaching autumn. It started early. Nearing my return to Washington Elementary, I felt it. Not really sick, nor worried. I tried to describe the feeling to my mother. She checked the usual spots. Forehead. No fever. She rubbed my stomach. “Not in my belly really, closer to my heart,” I directed, “kind of jimbly.” She smiled, not in the “something was funny” kind of way, but in the “I know exactly what you’re feeling.” I sat on her lap. “Summer is ending,” she said, “we’ll miss it, won’t we?” “Yes,” I said. “But school is starting, and you love school.” “Yes,” I said, and really meant it. “You’re just fluttering in between. We call it melancholy.” “Melancholy?” It sounded dangerous. “It’s not bad. It’s good actually. A gentle easing into something new. Between the letting go and the moving on. You get to feel the love of both. I think that’s why it feels so full.” I liked that explanation. And I began to like the feeling. Embracing it with the change of each season. 

It came this morning. Filling me from head to toe. Jimbling around my heart. And I am not afraid. I am lapped in my mother’s love, between two adorations —  summer’s fun and autumn’s lessons — and I am saved. 

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The Strand.

It was the first gift given to us by Washington Elementary, and one of the most lasting. Plopped randomly on our mats behind her big wooden desk, Mrs. Strand stood before us. We all accessed this new situation. Some through tears. Others laughter. I looked around. Of all the boys and girls, David Holte was the only one from Van Dyke Road — surely an ally if I needed one. One eye remained on him, the other scanned the room. Everything was unfamiliar. Even this way of sitting, cross legged. For the past 90 days or so, I don’t remember even sitting. When the sun came up my legs began to move rapidly, only to come to a screeching halt as it set in the evening. Hands on my bent knees I marveled at how quick they were to obey. So ready to relinquish their bronze color. To give in to the lavender-white just around winter’s corner. My toes still jiggled, perhaps all hope was not lost. They kept time with my fluttering heart. What could she possibly give us, I thought, that was worth letting go of August. Then she asked the question — “What did you do over your summer vacation?”  Thoughts were now audible. There was an excitement in the room. Sweaty thighs lifted above mats. Arms shot in the air. All of it danced above our heads — every lake splash, every bike ridden, baseballs soaring, car windows open, dogs barking, wagons pulled, Dairy Queens and Crazy Dayz on main street — all alive! How did she do it? Even with the windows closed and the door shut, everything got in. We still had everything. And when we shared, we had even more. 

I won’t forget this gift she gave. (It’s not lost on me that it was indeed a “strand,” — one that connected us, and led us forward.) I use it every day. 

August 15th sounds its warning of summer’s end. I miss how easily I used to jump from a cross legged position. I miss my mom. But, joyfully, it still all gets in. All the splashes of laughter and comforts of love. There is still so much more to learn. Days to welcome with fluttering toes and hearts. I’m ready — ready for more. 

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Dinger!

I would have missed out on the joy of many summers, had it been about winning. Each game started in our basement laundry room. I would dig through the baskets of clean clothes for my t-shirt that designated this year’s team. Baskets, similar to those of the Easter Bunny — somehow you knew in your heart that your mother filled them, but there was still a hint of magic. I pulled through my pony-tailed head, ran my fingers over the iron-on letters and raced up the stairs to the garage. Grabbed my yellow aluminum bat — the bat that truly made a dinging sound against the ball — so fitting that on the occasion it hit a home run, we did indeed call it a dinger! I balanced the bat in the flowered basket of my banana seat bike and rode to the park of the day. We high-fived before any play was actually made. Because hadn’t we already won? We were outside. Bathed in the summer sun. Set free with all the girls once contained in the brick walls of elementary school. Reigns loosened. Dust flying. Hearts pounding. Someone kept score with a pad and pencil in the dugout, but I’m not sure anyone cared, never enough to diminish the joy anyway. Returning home, I put my shirt in the magic basket, knowing it would be washed by a mother who stood knee deep in the laundry room and still managed to smile at the replay of my day. It turns out I had won, in the best of ways!

I haven’t started my next large canvas. It takes some thought. Paint is expensive. My brain knows this, but often forgets to tell my heart, my heart that just wants to play. It pleads the case of “not everything is for the museum,” and “not everything is for sale.” I grab a small scrap of wood. The brush handles clink against the glass. It is the sound of play. The bird comes to life. It is made with only joy. I lean it up to view, step back and think, “Now that’s a dinger!”

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BANG!

As far back as I can remember, July never promised to stay. But without fail, each year we banged it in with a welcome so loud, thinking this time, just maybe, it would. 

It was the Schulz brothers at the bottom of the gravel road that introduced us to the firecracker. They didn’t bother to wait for the fourth. By July first, they were armed and ready. Pockets filled with matches, they wandered VanDyke road to make sure its young inhabitants were awakened to the magic of summer. Feet perched bare and tentative, I watched as they pulled the firecrackers from their tattered jeans. My toes curled in as they lit the matches. I held my breath, as they put one to the other. BANG! I jumped back! BANG! BANG! It screamed the warning – summer was here! BANG! BANG! BANG! Do not miss out, they cried! The bangs got closer and louder and skipped in the gravel. And I cheered and vowed to not miss a day!

Without my knowledge or permission, July has once again raced through its month of days. I hear the bangs of the 31st at my heels, and know I can’t let this moment pass, not one moment, without a celebration.

Sleeveless I sit beside the open window and still believe my summer will never end. I can feel it in my heart! Bang! – it beats against my suntanned chest! Bang! Bang! I do believe! BANG! BANG! — I shout the Schulz warning, uncurl my toes, and skip in the gravel of my endless day!

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A little fun.

I have yet to be surprised by the amount of times I use it, as the Algebra teacher once promised. To be honest, I’m not sure I was even “using” it then. Don’t get me wrong, I loved school. And I think one of the greatest things it taught us was simply the art of learning. What I AM surprised by are some of the unconventional places where I was taught things that, in fact, I am still using today — like the ballpark behind the Dairy Queen in Alexandria, Minnesota.

Our summer girls’ softball league was loosely supervised by a semi-reluctant 19 year old who was either complying with his mother’s wish to get out the house and get a job, or perhaps fulfilling some mandatory community service. Either way, he didn’t seem thrilled to be spending his summer with over zealous pre-teens who could recite the DQ menu, yet didn’t understand the simple infield fly rule. Other than calling balls and strikes, he rarely inserted himself into the game. Sunglassed and uninterested, he neither coached nor encouraged. Except for one day. Of course we all went to the plate wanting a hit. We swung at anything really. After the two previous girls struck out, I was up to the plate. The pitcher continued her wild throws over my head. Nearing the dugout. I looked confused. It was then he looked at me, and said the only words I can remember from that summer, “You know, a walk is as good as a hit.” I let the next two balls sail past and took my base.

There are some days when I clean with vigor, using the proper vacuum attachments to get in and under. But there are many days, like yesterday, when covering the broad open spaces with a quick push around, I think, that’s pretty good…and “I take my base” — (which is often the pool.)

Not every victory is a home-run. And surprise! — not every lesson has to be so difficult. Sometimes, it’s simply knowing when to let go, when to give yourself a break and maybe even go have a little bit of fun! Enjoy!

What was it all for, if we didn’t have a little fun?
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My summer friend. 

He didn’t explain the science of crop rotation to me. Not that I would have understood. But I did recognize when we took a different path to the tractor, one summer to the next. All he said, my grandfather, when I pointed to where I thought we walked the year before was, “That field needs to rest.” 

I was best friends with Sheri and Jan in the first grade. When we were in sync, it was fantastic. Jumping rope. Bike rides. Breathless stories with flashlights under the covers of curfew. But “three is always tricky” my grandma explained, as I cried having turned into the one of “two against.” We had all spent our time in that rotation of being the one left out. And it seemed endless when you were in it. 

I never saw my grandfather angry. I had heard stories, so I knew that it could happen. But it was never directed at me. And certainly never at the fields. “It’s the nature of things,” he said. Never faulting one field’s need to rest. I suppose it was this that brought me the most comfort — to not fight the timing. I smiled with him, as we walked through the dirt. He asked me about school, it having just ended for the year. He asked about my friends, “We’re resting right now,” I said. He shook his head. He understood. He felt like my summer friend.

Our fruit trees in the yard seem to be taking the year off. I love them. We’re still eating the jam from last year. Next year will come all too soon. I nod to myself, taking comfort in the sweet nature of things, my summer friend.

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The summer I didn’t go to California.

Entering the second grade they began the year with an assignment — What did you do on your summer vacation? Now, to be honest, I wasn’t ashamed of my summer schedule. I loved it. I would get up early. Fill the the styrofoam covered thermos — the one that my brother made in shop class and discarded in the basement — with ice water, and off I ran into the sun. I ran even faster than the hand painted stripes on the school made thermos. Some laughed when I continued the report. Of how I ran through Hugo’s wheat field. Rode my banana seat bike through the cemetery. Climbed Big Ole’s foot. Spent my weekly quarter for vacuuming and cleaning the house mirrors on a frozen Milky Way bar from Rexall Drug. Softball games. The endless swim of Lake Latoka. I heard one girl whisper loudly behind a cupped hand to her neighbor, all the while keeping eye contact with me as I returned to my desk, “She didn’t even go on vacation.”

I held my smiling face through perched elbows as she spoke about her trip to California. It sounded nice, I thought, but what I was thinking of was how after 4pm, when my mom came home from work, she would vacation out of her pretty summer work dress into shorts and a t-shirt and we would get on our bikes. It was gravel on Van Dyke Road, but traffic was non existent and you could ride down the center of the road. We stretched out our arms and rode hand in hand as the dust kicked up behind us.

I’m still smiling. I’ve been to California and beyond. Well beyond. But my heart vacations daily, floating just above the gravel.

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