Jodi Hills

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

Tag Archives: summer


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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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After the pétanque.

I can’t go back to when they played there, these sun-kissed French boys just out of ear-shot of their grandmother, (intentionally or unintentionally). Back to when they played with sticks and sometimes fists, like only brothers and cousins can. They wrestled below and within the smells of tobacco and cut grass and stove pots wafting through open shutters.

But when we gather each year on August 15th, Napoleon’s birthday, (and one young cousin Guillaume’s), if the wind is just right, and the wine has settled, the vine that hangs above and beside the old house whispers to me, “Listen…listen to them play.” And I hear the clinking of the Pétanque balls, and the spirited calls of who is closer, with arms pointing to the ground, pleading cases, just this side of youth’s wrestle. And these now men, very grown men, are still pinkened by the sun, and the thrill of a summer that just might not end. 

And for the moment, I belong. Because the language of family is universal. And laughter and hope and joy under summer’s whisper, after the pétanque, rings loud and clear, and needs no translation. 

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My summer heart.

Sitting next to the early morning window, trying to capture the brief moment of air that might still be called fresh, I slowly scroll my ipad for pictures, ideas to write about. It’s even a little hard for me to believe that I don’t plan out my daily posts. I don’t have a list of ideas or prompts. I don’t even worry about it. (Which, in knowing myself, is a huge deal.) I simply trust that it will come.

This morning, I stumbled past a few photos from winter. Bundled. Scarved. Gloved. It seems almost unimaginable to be cold. I know it will come, (we will even travel deeper into it) but I don’t waste a second of summer worrying about it. I really don’t. If only I could bottle this feeling for everything. The challenges of time and relationships. If I could just let them come and go, as is the nature of all things. If I could just be grateful for the season I’m in. And not be afraid of the ones to come. This is the goal. My goal. 

And certainly, just as in nature, I will be better some days than others. Even the fruit trees in our garden know this. I hear their leaves buzzing from the extraordinary harvest of this summer, with not a whisper given to the bareness of last year’s, nor a worry for the next. The birds sing in those branches, as if it were the first morning ever given. I listen with open window and heart, and know that I can do the same, and pray that I will. 

In my first remembered summers on Van Dyke road. I ran barelegged and armed through endless sunny days. Thinking they would never end. (But maybe that isn’t true.) I suppose I knew, but I was in the moment, and in the moment there is no beginning or end, there just is… 

My window can only open up to today. I smile into the sun and capture the thoughts that still might be fresh. And I tell my brain, what my summer heart already knows — it is enough, more than enough.

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With all those who dare.

I must have thrown myself down the grassy slope of our house on Van Dyke Road a million times. Maybe it was aided by winter’s covering of snow, but our summer grass was always lush. A carpet of green.Safe for toes and hands. Welcoming of backbends let go and fallen cartwheels. I could tuck and roll, and only feel the tickling of blades.

I was living free from context. All was as presented, until it wasn’t. I remember the day perfectly. It was just as the day before.  The sky blue. The sun yellow. The green sprouting between summer-free toes. And I was pushed down that hill. It’s funny how something can happen so fast — your world changing in an instant — and yet, it all seems in slow motion. That same glorious grass felt sharp and so unfriendly. I remember thinking with each unstoppable roll, “you used to love me.” 

It took me years to get it back. I carried that unwanted knowledge for decades. I suppose I still do. I suppose we all do. But it’s ok, because I figured out a way, on the most welcoming still of summer days, to let it go, lay it beside me. Rest it in the supportive grass. The grass who was never to blame. And trust the freedom of greening giggles. Trust myself. Trust the day. Trust those standing beside me with wiggling toes, those, too, laying their knowledge down in order to trust. 

The grass grows thick with all those who dare. Welcome to the garden.

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The gift of summer ending.

It’s easy, I suppose in the heart of the summer to let a day just slip away. I try not to, but it can happen. “Oh, it’s hot – I don’t want to set the table…I’m tired from mowing the lawn…we could just have a pizza…” And the day disappears.

Perhaps one of the greatest gifts of summer is that it ends. I can feel it. It’s not here yet, but it is around the bend, telling me, reminding me, urging me, to enjoy the moment.

Yesterday was some of summer’s finest work. Yellow sun, bouncing off tanned shoulders. Not too hot, just warm enough to welcome the pool. Hair still wet, I gave the white cloth a whip into the tiny breeze, flinging it over the outdoor table. I placed the pool-blue plates with waves, atop the large white chargers. A wine glass next to each. Summer in the south of France calls for a rosé. White napkins. I cut the peppers, green and red, the eggplant – aubergine — and cooked them on the outdoor plancha. Next came the fish — rougets – in my opinion one of the Mediterranean’s finest. We toasted the day as the gift it was given. Not looking ahead. Not looking behind. We always eat slower outside. Gathered in a sea of green, we are still… and ever.

I was having such a good time, I forgot to take a photo. And perhaps that is the best compliment I can give the day. To be in it. Truly in it. Maybe that’s the only way to say thank you – thank you for this beautiful day!

If it never ended, I wonder if I would give it the reverence it deserves? I’m not sure. But I know this — yesterday was a beautiful day, and I, we, enjoyed it. The morning sun is telling me, reminding me, urging me, to do the same today.

Our someday is now.

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Worth saving.

The summer months off from school, we called vacation. And they were. We didn’t go anywhere. No hotels or restaurants. No fancy monuments. No positioning for a selfie – I didn’t even own a camera. But it was vacation. A celebration every day. 

I still feel it. Waking up each morning with the summer light. But I have to make an effort. Certainly. Because that feeling can easily get lost in a pile of laundry. 

Yesterday was a beautiful summer day. Blue sky. Green grass. Birds singing. Sprinklers watering. But there was work to be done. Washing. Ironing. Beds to be made. Fighting with the duvet covers, I could feel the “vacation” slipping away. And we’re not given that many. It had to be saved. It was worth saving. 

So I grilled the shrimp. Sauteed the peas. Boiled the fresh pasta. Cut the homemade bread. Let the cheese breathe beside the wine. And we ate slowly in our summer kitchen restaurant. Our vacation was saved. I was saved. 

I was certain after every grade that my summer would never end. Even returning again and again to school, I believed in the eternity of summer. I guess I still do. The magic of my heart’s vacation — that is something to hold on to, something to be saved.