Where I Belong

Dear Readers,

You know that John Denver song "Country Road", a folksy ballad dedicated to returning to the mountains of his youth? I've been experiencing a similar sentiment the past couple of days. I haven't felt an urge to go back to the mountains so strongly for a long time. The craving is so vivid, my dreams have been infected with visions of tree-lined mountains, feelings of solitude, and the wonderment of realizing just how small I am in this very big world.

My dad never had a son; I believe I was the closest thing to it. Kate and Andrea never showed much interest in the outdoors. I, on the other hand, enjoyed the adventure. I joined him on trips to the desert and lava flows near Kasota, to the mountains and lakes south of Albion, and spent countless Sunday afternoons exploring the Minidoka Dam area. We did everything on these trips from cutting firewood to mapping trails for his scout troop (which I am still bitter that I wasn't allowed to join just because I'm a girl). White water rafting, skiing, backpacking, my dad taught me all of these things.

Later, when I was in high school, I discovered and fell in love with mountain biking. I helped to form the Minico High School Mountain Biking Club, and spent loads of times in the foothills outside of Oakley putting the shocks on my hard earned Schwinn to the test. My friend Monica and I were the only girls in the club, and the guys were more than welcoming to us. We had a blast racing the trails, and I'm sure I made a great impression on them with my sailor vocabulary when I would wreck. That Schwinn and I enjoyed a lot of miles of trail together; when I lived in Logan I continued racing and riding until I was hit by a car on my way home from work. No matter that my head was bleeding and I needed stiches in my leg, my bike was totalled and I was devestated. I haven't been on a trail since. What a shame!

On one college spring break, my friend Melanie and I went on a road trip from Logan to southern New Mexico to visit her family. On the way, we stopped to camp in Moab, Utah. It was dark when we got to our campsite and clumsely set up our tent as best we could with flashlights. It was colder than I expected, and I struggled to sleep. Finally, at first light, I climbed out of the tent to start a fire and witnessed what is easily the most beautiful sunrise I have ever experienced. I wish I could describe in great detail the warm, gold light as filled the red canyon with contrasting dimensions of shadows and stone. We drove through the red desert, eventually making our way through a vast sage brush filled country to the white sand dunes outside Alamagordo and finally to the snow capped mountains where her parents lived. Melanie is an outdoorsman to her core, and she and I had a great time on that trip, hiking whenever we got the chance and taking time to appreciate the solitude of the desert.

For my 30th birthday, I had the great pleasure of introducing "my boys" to one of my favorite places on the face of the planet: the City of Rocks. I grew up visiting there with my dad, and remember loving it from a very young age. The pioneers wound their way through the rocks on the Oregon Trail, and you can still see where they wrote their names and messages, as well as the seemingly permanent ruts of their wagons. Shay, Chris, Aaron, PL, Loren, and I had a blast climbing and exploring. We all slept in the same tent, and all woke feeling like we had slept on a rock. It is one of my favorite memories.

I can already hear the call of the Sawtooths, even though I won't make it there until late spring at the earliest. Zion's National Park and Bryce Canyon are beckoning me from afar. Even the small trails in Hagerman are singing my name. I've made a resolution to ignore the pains of my joints, pull my backpacking tent out of it's hiding spot, load up my 15 year old pack, strap on my boots and hike up that country road, to where I belong.

Sincerely,
h.

The Misery of Youth

Dear Readers,

I rode into the 1990's holding to the dirty flannel shirt wrapped around my older sister's waist. The very early years were lost in my childhood, but I made up for them quickly during my awkward tweens. Full of angst and hormones and armed with a very small collection of grunge cd's, I traded my bright Cross-Colors Malcolm X shirts (because no one can identify with the trials of civil injustice quite like a 12 year old white girl from Rupert, Idaho), for plaid shirts, thrift store cardigans, and a pair of fake Doc Martins.

I was reminded by all of this a few weekends ago, when late one night with Shay out with the boys and Lucas asleep in bed, I found myself watching the Cameron Crowe documentary "PJ20", about the beginnings and goings on of the band Pearl Jam. Conincidentally, I also dug out all of my old journals that same weekend, and spent a couple of hours being thoroughly entertained by my much younger self.

Like a lot of the music from those days, my journal pages were filled with themes of loathing and longing, a bipolar roller coaster of elation and dispair. I wrote of specific songs during that time, honestly believing that I had problems in common with the likes of Courtney Love and Kurt Cobain. Why not? Why wouldn't a good mormon girl who had never been to a bigger city than Salt Lake have much in common with heroin addicted rock starts? Clearly, it was a time when emotion took presidence over reason.

At the time I was quite sure I was the quintisential misunderstood teenager, and I was eyes deep in a misunderstood generation. Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, they were our voice. I remember clearly memorizing the words to Pearl Jam's song "Jeremy", and standing in front of my 9th grade speech class, reciting it as poetry, and sitting down in my seat thinking to myself, "No one in here understands the meaning of that song but me." Ha! Such confidence for someone with such limited life experience.

Later in my teens, while attending Minico High School, I went through some seemingly traumatic surgeries. I had been diagnosed with an extrememly rare skin disorder, which required a sizeable piece of my scalp to be removed. In preparation for the removal, a tissue expander was implanted on the left side of my head, and every week I had injections of saline put into the expander. It was extraordinalry painful, the stretching of my skin. By the time it was filled to capacity, it was about the size of a softball. My hair was cut short. My peers were cruel. My soccer career was over. Conincidentally, that awful band "The Presidents of the United States" released the song "Lump" during this time; I hate them still. I remember coming out of the second surgery, after everything was removed, and looking in the mirror to a horror scene. A nylon stocking of sorts holding my mess of a head together, my face swollen and my eyes blackened, and all I could do was cry. A mistake from the doctor resulted in more surgeries than originally planned, going through my senior year of high school. The strangest thing about this experienece, is that not a word about it was written in my journals. Not one, single word. In fact, this might be the first time I've written about the experience at length. Instead there is page after page of emotional vomit; entries of length on music; horrible poetry and drawings concerning crush's and my prettier friends of whom I was green with jealousy. The later pages desciribing my questions in faith and the beginnings of an existential crisis.

As The nineties ended I was entering adulthood. A year and a half at Utah State, a stint in Washington D.C., and then finding myself in Boise helped to curb my self-loathing and I found that maybe life wasn't as bad as I had assumed. The music scene made a transition along side me; while Pearl Jam survived, the grunge scene in general was lost. I found what I needed more and more in hip-hop and indy-rock. I stuck to some classics (The Smashing Pumpkins, The Cure, The Smith's...a whole lotta "The's"), and embraced a music culture that was bigger than me and I understood it as such. My journals were not so desperate, but far more introspective.

So after watching that documentary, 20 years of a single band, I was touched and a bit emotional. I would love to be able to go back, and whisper to my younger self that things aren't that bad. Yes, there are people who are mean, who will say awful and horrible things. Yes, there is saddness and dark times. Yes, there are times even when you're surrounded by people who love you that you will feel disengaged and lonely. But overall, the majority of days will be good days, and that yes, you are beautiful, and yes, you are talented, and yes, you will be a catalyst to others. Most importantly, I would ask myself to please throw away that disgusting flannel shirt and dress with some dignity because, let's be honest, nothing says "desperate" more than a pair of fake Doc Martin's.

Sincerely,
h.

Good, Evil, and the Promise of a Better Tomorrow

Dear Readers,

On my way home from work today, I watched as the sunny sky complimented by fluffy white clouds was swiftly overcome with a wave of darkness. For a moment, there was a distinct line between the light and darkness; it looked like a photo from one of those pamphlets overzealous christians hand you on the streets to inform you in a few illustrations and words that you'll most likely be going to Hell. Already in a reflective mood, when I witnessed this strangeness in the sky I couldn't help but think of the battle of good and evil.

I studied philosophy in college (which is the reason for my great success in life, I'm sure), and wrote several papers on the concept of good vs. evil. I've read many books and articles written by far smarter people then myself on the subject. It's a fascinating subject because it's a battle being fought all of the time; as nations, as communities, within ourselves even. There is no one that is immune. The concept is easy enough to understand. Simply said, there is no good without evil, no happiness without sadness, no love without hate, etc. etc.

Keeping this in mind, I'm broaching on a touchy subject. Don't worry, it's not politics or religion or anyone's waistline. Rather, I would like to speak on the year 2011.

If the concepts I discussed a paragraph or two ago are correct, then I experienced the year 2011 so that I can put both past and future years in proper prospective. 2011 will be the year to gage my happiness and misery by. Good days will seem great when I remember "Hey, it's not 2011 anymore!" Sad days will seem not so dismal when I think, "Hey, 2011 was so much worse! You can get through this!". One doesn't gain this perspective without experience, of that I'm sure. That doesn't mean I'll volunteer for experiences like I've had in 2011; I think my perceptions are fine as they are now, thank you very much.

For the majority of the year, I have looked to December 31, 2011 as a beacon of light in a very dark tunnel. Somehow, magically or otherwise the transition as the clock turns to midnight will be like a baptism; I'll get to enter a new year as a new person. I'll leave this pathetic year and all of it's lousy sorrow behind, and be welcomed by the new year like a brand new baby into a mother's arms. A cleansed person, I will have a positive outlook every day with nothing but smiles to offer. Sweet mother of mercy what a miracle it will be! Sugar will taste sweeter, the sun will shine brighter, the gods up above will call down to me from their seats in the sky, "Heather, this year is for you!" And what a grand year it will be.

So maybe, just maybe, I'm exaggerating the possibilities of 2012. But here is the beauty of the battle, I now know how bad it can be, so it won't take much for it to be a great year. In an effort the start the cleansing process a day early, I would like to note the highlights of this otherwise dreary year. That way, if anything else, I'll end this mess on a high note. In no particular order, here are the good parts:

1. I landed my job at Northwest Lineman College. This may surprise you as much as it did me, but I have found my calling in the work force at a vocational college that trains electrical linemen. I have never been so happy at a job. The work environment is not only healthy, it's optimistic and supportive. I feel very fortunate to find myself as the official Smiley Happy Face of NLC.

2. I attended my friend Jessica's wedding. I have loved Jessica and her family for a very long time. They have always been good to me. This year, not only did they invite us to the wedding, they engulfed Shay and I in their lovely world. I can't remember a more pleasant stay in Salt Lake (and we have a few memories there, don't we Jess?). The happiness of that weekend was exactly what my broken little heart needed, and I only hope that one day I can help them in the same way.

3. I spent a lot of time with my family. Whether in Banbury, Tamarack, Rupert, or the bowling alley, spending quality time with my family (both immediate and otherwise) has proven to be therapeutic. Sometimes it's just so damn noisy I can't hear myself think, which in it's own way is a blessing. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for loving me and reminding me how lucky I am to have such an amazing bunch of relatives.

4. I learned how to be a good friend. This was a hard lesson with a lot of trial and error. I haven't perfected it by any means. But I try to listen more. I say "I love you " more. I value my friendships and relationships more. And most importantly, I allow them to take care of me more. It's a fact that I lost more friends then I gained this year, but regardless the amount of love I give and receive has somehow increased in significant quantities.

5. Baking my heart out. Sometime in the summer, when I was having a really hard time, I stopped by Bricolage on a whim and asked sweet Julianna if I could bake for one of their First Thursday events. She graciously said yes, and we made arrangements for pie in November. Focusing on that one particular Thursday got me through some rough times. I know it sounds ridiculous, but there is something very calming to me about making pie, and just imagining people enjoy my fruit and cream filled creations was enough to give me some hope. After Bricolage, I moved on to Festivity, not to mention a plethora of orders in between. There are few places I'd rather be then in my kitchen and to all of those who support that part of my life, my most heartfelt gratitude is yours to keep.

Well, that about sums up the good. I'm sure there's more (Lucas learning to ride a bike, heartfelt letters and emails sent to me by strangers, dancing in a basement club in Portland, finding a friend in Boise...tell me again why it took so long Brion?), but at this moment these are the things that stand out the most. It makes me smile to read this list. So I'll cross my fingers and hope the Mayans are wrong and I'll look forward to enjoying the upcoming new year.

Sincerely,
h.

Tis' The Season: A Time to be Grateful

Dear Readers,

During the past couple of years, I've approached the Thanksgiving season with a sort of begrudging attitude. I think that's because I worked retail or for the airlines, both of which will reek havoc on your holiday spirit and your sense of good will toward men. It's funny how the holiday season will turn the general public into swarms of jackasses, eagerly spending their hard earned money on crap that will be forgotten within a month or two, or on a plane ticket to fly home and be with those loving family members that make them miserable and angry. Even now, just typing about it my anxiety level is rising and I'm beginning to feel nauseous. This year, however, is different. I'm not working at a cash register or making calorie ridden holiday coffee beverages; rather I'm spending time with family, preparing for a whirl wind of baking, and most of all learning to appreciate what this time of year represents and trying to enjoy it.

At the beginning of this year, before all of the tears and tragedy that were to come, I made commitment to myself to be conscious of my well-being. A big part of that was writing down every day 10 things that I am grateful for. Some days my grateful lists go on and on, way beyond the requisite 10. Other days, it was a struggle to think of 3 or 4. The lists vary from the obvious (friends, family, etc) to the obscure (new pair of tweezers, Don Draper, etc). Rarely are they written in the same notebook or journal; they've shown up on Post-It notes, the backs of checkbooks, written in text messages, and sometimes never make it out of my mind at all. It's a remarkable thing what acknowledging ten things a day that you are thankful for can do for your attitude. Knowing this, I force others around me to do it when they are down or struggling. Usually by the 8th item, they are smiling. Occasionally by the 9th, tears are flowing. Always by the 10th, their attitude's improved. I know how annoying it is to have someone shove this in your face when you're not in the mood for it, because my friends and family now do it to me too. But like everyone else, after listing a few things, I'm feeling a little better about life.

Finding myself in the midst of the most grateful holiday of the year, I'm conflicted with feelings of both excitement and dread. I'm excited to go home to my parents house for Thanksgiving day, something I haven't done in years. I'm excited to eat my mom's food, sit by their fireplace, gather around my grandpa's yellow kitchen table, and be in the general warmth and comfort that you can't find anywhere but the house you grew up in. I'm excited to go outside and feel the cold weather in my lungs, be reminded I'm alive by the arthritis in my hip and hands, to search for pieces of nature that will look beautiful in the wreath I'll put together in my dad's garage. I'm excited to visit my friend Monica and her beautiful red-headed family, to hang out at my Aunt Nan's where food and laughter can always be found, and to watch Rupert transform into Christmas City. All of these things are wonderful and heart warming. They come at the cost of leaving Boise behind though, and this is a very intentional move. Last year I made dinner for my friend-family, and I just can't bring myself to carry that on this year. I dread even the thought of that empty chair at my table. And my heart goes out to all of those that understand what I mean. This time of year is not only a reminder of what we have, but also of what we've lost. It's hard to imagine a holiday that won't seasoned with a few salty tears from now on. If that empty chair has taught me anything, it's to be aware of those wonderful people I have around me and acknowledge that their presence makes my life that much better.

I'd like to close this blog with my grateful list for today. And if you're feeling a bit under the weather about the upcoming holidays, I encourage you to write your own list. It's doesn't have to be hard, just heartfelt. I think you'll be amazed at the results.

1. Shay and Lucas, my sturdy little family.
2. My parents, sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, who taught me what a family should be.
3. Everyday that I spent with Loren Reed, up until his last one.
4. Chris, Jenny, Jason, PL, Saratops, Aaron, Andrew, Catie, Tyler, Courtney, Jessica and countless others who I call friends and love like no others.
5. My kitchen appliances, which allow me to bake every day.
6. My iPod.
7. My books, particularly those written by John Steinbeck.
8. Boise.
9. My blog. I don't know who reads it really, but I'm glad that someone does. I hope it's as enjoyable for them to read it as it is for me to write it.
10. Northwest Lineman College. I love my job, and they seem to love me. It's a pleasure to work there.

Sincerely (and Gratefully),
h.

Lucas Turns 8, great Great GREAT!

Dear Readers,

This coming Saturday marks a very important and significant occasion. As of 10:00am November 12, 2011, Lucas turns 8 years old. I know your first thought is, "Wow! I didn't know Heather had a baby when she was in high school!" Although I'm flattered by your suggestion that I am much younger than I am, this blog is about my son, not me.

Yesterday he and I were driving to my sister Kate's house for Sunday dinner. We were having a conversation about his upcoming birthday party when he said something (for the life of me I can't remember what it was) that sounded just like something Loren would have said. I don't know how I've missed it until now, but it occurred to me that he has come into his own personality and it's spiced and sweetened with the personalities of those who have been around him most. I got a little choked up at the thought of him getting so big, and even more choked up in considering how fortunate I've been as a mother to have such wonderful people around to help in the raising of Lucas. Here are just a few examples:



The above picture is of my Grandma Hazel and my Grandpa Cal. Unfortunately they both left this Earth before Lucas joined it, but they are influential none-the-less. Lucas' middle name, Calvin, is after this great man. He set a benchmark example in compassion for me, and in turn for Lucas. Without a doubt, Lucas is one of the most loving and compassionate people I've ever had the pleasure to meet, and I would like to think it comes from his Braegger DNA (not to mention the Badgers, the Rices and the Plummers). He definitely lives up to his namesake.





Lucas has some of the best grandparents a kid could ask for. Grandma Kristie, Papa David, Grandma Paula, and Papa John have been important and constant figures in his life since day one. He loves to visit Rupert to visit King's and go on outdoor adventures with the Grandparents Badger. Riding motorcycles and finding other ways to freak out his mom is a favorite pastime with Papa John. And any minute spent with Grandma Paula is amazing and looked forward to. You can see any and all of his grandparents in Lucas, and he knows just how lucky he is to have such a loving bunch of them.





On any given day, Aunt Andrea or Aunt Kate (my sisters) will take credit for raising Lucas. Both would be right. Lucas loves them both very much, and loves to spend time with them. He inherited Andrea's love of marshmallow milkshakes and Kate's scorn for anything stupid. When asked which is his favorite aunt, he is very diplomatic (and very much like his Grandma Kristie) when he says he loves them both the same. Uncle AJ is always down for a good excuse to play video games, and Lucas is always happy to oblige.



I carry a little guilt over the fact that Lucas is an only child. I think back to my days of fighting incessantly with my sisters, and can't help but think that maybe he's missing out on something. Then again, where Lucas lacks in siblings, he gained in cousins. Sam, Elise, Jack, Lucy, Annie, and especially Max have filled what would otherwise be a sibling less void in his life. They laugh, they fight, they get into crazy mischief and usually end up in some sort of trouble together. He is lucky to have such a great group of cousins to learn the ways of the world with. If anything else, Lucy has taught him a very colorful vocabulary indeed.






For most people friends come and go. For the Plummer's, they stay the same. Chris, Loren, Jason (not pictured), Aaron, Andrew, P.L., Jenny (not pictured), Saratops, not to mention a few others throughout the years (that means you, Drew and Lacey) have been some of the biggest influences in Lucas' life. He's learned valuable life skills from them, such as how to survive a street gang attack, the proper handling of a bull whip, and the sweet satisfaction of beating a bunch of adult men at Battlefield. He's also learned the importance of friendship by watching the camaraderie between us grow, and recognizes this group of extraordinary people as family. His snark, his sense of humor, his sense of responsibility, and his ability to order his mom coffee at Dawsons and his own bagel at Alia's has all been derived from his friend family. And at least once a week he says to me, "Boy I sure do miss Loren.", once again demonstrating that sweet, compassionate side of him.



Lucas has the most amazing imagination, and usually chooses to show it through drawing. He gets that from his dad. Lucas can convince you that he's listening, and then shake his little head and ask, "What were you saying?". He gets that from his dad. Video games, fascination with science fiction, Star Wars, and the biggest little heart this side of the Mississippi, all of them attributes of his father. Calm and patient, loving and thoughtful, soft spoken and a critical thinker, all indications that Lucas is Shay's son. Really, he couldn't ask for a better dad, and we're both lucky to have him.



As for me, well, I'm not too sure what I've given Lucas besides my eyes and an extra tender heart. But I know that he has given me a few things. I didn't know I wanted to be a mom until he was born, and at that I point I realized I could never imagine not being one. He's taught me the value of taking your sweet time. He helped my heart to grow to an unprecedented size. Lucas has instilled in me a sense of devotion and loyalty that knows no boundaries. Everything in my world shifted when he entered into it, leaving it a far sunnier and fun place to be.

So I ask you, dear readers, to join me in wishing young Lucas a superb and memorable 8th year of life. May it be as sweet and fun and as wonderful as he is.

Sincerely,
h.

There's a Song in My Heart (and it's Probably From the Nineties)

Dear Readers,

Music has been on my mind a lot lately. Literally. I've had my iPod plugged into my head for hours on end, wondering what tricks I can use to make Animal Collective play louder, or being caught rapping along with Dr. Dre. Occasionally I pop one ear bud out and tap it into Lucas' little ear and have an impromptu dance session in the living room. I've even been streaming my favorite classical piano music, pining away for a keyboard to play on. Day and night I've got a beat in my head and I just can't seem to get over it.

Now, please understand this is not a negative place for me to be. Between Shay and I we have over a months worth of music. Can you imagine? We could go through the entire month and never hear the same song twice with our stereo going 24 hours a day. Take out the dub step and some of the other crap Shay tries to pretend is listenable, and you're guarenteed at least 25 days worth of good music. So I have taken on this insatiable craving as a challenge to listen to songs and bands I'm not familiar with. And you know what I've found? Some real gems, like Pretty Lights and CocoRosie. I also included some blasts from the past like The Talking Heads and a few old PJ Harvey albums. Fantastic stuff. And if you haven't listened to the new albums out from Bjork or the Beastie Boys you're missing out.

At this point you might assume that I'm going to tell you what a music snob I am; that I have albums that no one has ever heard of. That I will mock your taste in music regardless of what name you drop. Unless you're my sister Andrea, I assure you that's not the case. In fact, I've realized that I am stuck in a music rut. Despite my recent exploration of our music library, I pretty much listen to the same albums and bands over and over. So, in no particular order, here is the list of the top 10 albums I've listened to consistently for the last few years:

1. Radiohead: In Rainbows
2. Radiohead: Hail to the Thief
3. The White Stripes: White Blood Cells
4: Handsome Boy Modeling School: White People
5: The Shins: Chutes to Narrow
6: Badly Drawn Boy: Have You Fed the Fish?
7: Simon and Garfunkel's Greatest Hits
8: The Beatles: The White Album
9: LCD Soundsystem: Sound of Silver
10: Seu Jorge: The Life Aquatic

You can tell just about everything you need to know about me from this list. The only thing more revealing would be my reading list, but that's an entirely different blog. Also, there are individual songs that I listen to over and over, like a teenager newly in love or with a fresh broken heart, depending on the day. Loren's song "Honce" is played almost every day (and with a sip of PBR spilled on the sidewalk in his honor). Hot Chip's "My Baby Said" is consistently stuck in my head. Why's "Gemini" is a gift from the heaven's and never gets old.

Regardless, I feel like I have finally become old enough that I have a hard time believing that music is going to improve over what has already been made. It's a ridiculous concept, I know. Of course there will be new amazing artists and songs. But I just don't care anymore, not like I used to anyway. I can feel my arthritic self settling into this next phase of life where my interests and cares are shifted from pop culture to other distractions, like tea or crocheting. No longer will I lay next to my stereo speaker, listening to Led Zeppelin like I was the first person to discover them. Never again shall I come face to face with my rock idol and say "I love you!" like a complete jackass. There are only a handful of bands that I would pay over $50 to see live. And festivals that go on for days remind me of some sort of torture.

So I'll just settle into my rocking chair with my cat on my lap and my iPod on shuffle, enjoying the sounds that take me back to a time when I spent all my money and time on the music that's still pumping through my headphones.

Sincerely,
h.

And Here We Have Idaho

Dear Readers,

I had the honor and the privilege of attending my friend Jessica's wedding in Salt Lake City this past weekend. The sunset ceremony overlooking the Salt Lake valley was beautiful, the food and dancing were divine, but spending time with Jessica and the Knickerbocker family and their friends was the most enjoyable part of the weekend for me. I haven't met a whole lot of people from New Jersey in my lifetime, but I now have several New Jersians (yes, I just made that word up) that I can call friends.

These new friends of mine got a lot of pleasure out of making fun of Idaho. You know, the usual potato jokes (or the corn jokes for those who confused us with Iowa), or the wondering of where Idaho is geographically located, and the genuine surprise that we were normal, functioning people who don't have thick country drawls or bib overalls. After the novelty wore off, however, I was able to convince at least one or two of them that Idaho is a wonderful place and "...if you would only give it a chance you would fall in love with it!"!

12 years ago, I moved back to Idaho and was making my plans to move away from it again soon. Obviously, my plans fell through. At the time, I didn't have a good word to say about it. Still bitter and resentful of my experience growing up in a small town with some awfully small minded people, I wasn't able to recognize how unique and fortunate I was to be from Southern Idaho. As I've grown and matured, my love and affection for my home state has become more and more obvious and a part of me. It's no wonder, really; I'm part of the 4th generation on one side and 3rd generation on the other to be born and raised in Idaho. My family has been in this state before it was called one. They were the first to work the land they lived on, they helped to build and make mines profitable, and they were some of the earliest workers in the sugar industry that still contributes greatly to the state's economy.

My Grandpa Jack was born in Stanrod, Idaho, right on the Utah border. My Grandma Donna was born in Burley, Idaho near where the courthouse stands now. My Grandpa Cal was born in Malta, Idaho. And my Grandma Hazel was born in Rigby (also the birthplace of television). Both of my parents were born in Rupert, and my sister's and I were all born within 2 1/2 hours of it. I guess you could say, this state is a part of my family heritage. Our roots run deep here, and although I didn't realize it until just the last couple years, there's something to sticking close to your roots.

Beyond the sage brush and farmland of southern Idaho, when you drive the stretch of freeway between Rupert and Boise (known for it's peculiar stench, wacky roadside attractions like the now defunct "Jet Ski Pond", and long empty space between Mountain Home and anywhere else), you follow the pathway of my heart. Although my family keeps me connected to Southern Idaho, my heart and mind rest in Boise.

Boise and I have been through a lot together. Growing up I'd look forward to my week long trips to my Aunt Ruth's house on Desert Avenue more than anything else. I've viewed every inch of the city from the top of Table Rock, to the highest peak at Wild Waters and back down to the end of Hill Road. I've watched friends come and go and then come back again (it's a hard lesson to learn that life is life no matter where you go, but life in Boise ain't that bad). I got married here. I had my son here. I've watched my nieces and nephews be born and grow up here. I've made a solid second family of friends here. I've witnessed the power of community, the kindness this city has to offer, and have first hand experienced the love the city offers in both tragic and joyous situations.

Beyond Boise's borders, I have to give shout-outs to the rest of the state: Stanley and all that beautiful land they call the Sawtooths, your beauty is as breathtaking as your lakes are cold; Northern Idaho where your enthusiasm, whether it be for white supremacy or scenery, helps to make this great state unforgettable; to the rivers and lakes, the snowy peaks and lava flows, to every ski hill and pile of manure, I salute you and I sing your praises. I hope to represent Idaho well. For it is, in my mind, the greatest state in this nation. Even if it is as red as the day is long.

Sincerely,
h.