Chapter 1: Life used to be so simple...

This is a story about me. I know what you are thinking right now. Why would anyone want to read a story about a simple girl from Utah? Stay tuned and I'll show you. I am real. The people are real. The events are real.

Here goes nothing.

lil’ ole me

My name is Heather. I was born in a place called Provo, Utah. I came from a pretty normal family with a mother who worked as a nurse and a father who is an engineer. My mother was a very charismatic person. She loved to be center of attention and the life of the party. She always wanted to make people laugh or tell a crude joke. My mother was a city girl from L.A. and grew up with the finer things in life but also with an alcoholic and abusive father. She met my father in college in a little town in Idaho through mutual friends and eventually ended up dating. My father grew up on a farm, moved pipe year-round, rode horses to school, and milked cows for his mother. Somehow they fell in love and got married. First mistake.

We have 4 original kids in our family and I fall into 2^nd place right behind my older brother. I then have 2 younger sisters. We lived pretty well off in a suburban neighborhood where we left our doors unlocked and kids could play night games without parental supervision. My grandparents on my mother’s side lived only about ten minutes away and I loved my Grandma Joan. She was my idol. More about her in a minute. My other grandparents on my father’s side, lived in Idaho on the farm where my dad was raised. In 2^nd grade, we moved to Alpine, Utah. This is where it all began. The life that I NEVER thought I would write about someday, all happened here. But first, let’s back track to the simpler days… Before we get into the nitty gritty of things.

donuts

I was a fat child. Not the, pinch your cheeks cause its cute kind of fat, but just fat. I was also a nerd. I was shy and awkward, and growing up I did not have a lot of friends. I was picked on and made fun of most of the time. I was always the last to be picked for kickball. But... there was one person who always understood me.

Grandma Joan.

Grandma Joan was a red-haired firecracker who worked as a real-estate agent and acted like she ran the world. She loved to say inappropriate things and embarrassed the hell out of me any chance she got. But, she loved me. I spent much of my time with her because she made me feel important. I spent so much time with her that I even dressed like her on most occasions. Many of which I am not proud of.

Most mornings my Grams would come and pick me up for school. On our way to school she would always take me to the nearby gas station where we would stop for breakfast. I, being the pudgy child that I was, was elated that I could pick my breakfast from anything they had to offer. At only 6 years old, I was about eye level with these circular frosted morsels slathered with an arrangement of sprinkles and nuts. I was a kid at a candy shop. However, after much trial and error I found the perfect combination.

A chocolate chocolate donut with a 32 ounce Diet Coke.

Crushed ice.

 Red Straw.

This glorious concoction of sugar and fizz could not be recreated even if I tried. Every morning I would enjoy the crisp carbonated freshness that the soda had to offer as it tingled down my throat with every gulp on my way to school. I would savor the melted chocolate frosting that coated my pudgy fingers and were ready for the licking. Those were the good old days.

Simple. Easy. Predictable.

Now skip ahead to when I moved to Alpine. To the happy days. To the darker days. To the most memorable days. To even some days when I thought there was no God on this Earth…