ByHeather Steadham

Three of the following four statements are true: Heather Steadham, a writer of primarily creative nonfiction, currently studies at the University of Central Arkansas, hoping one day to earn her Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, then move to New York where she will seek her destiny of becoming head writer at Saturday Night Live; Heather Steadham, a married mother of three, just returned to Arkansas after living for four years in Naples, Italy, where the fertile volcanic soil contributed to the birth of a post-vasectomy baby; Heather Steadham, a former teen pageant queen, has worked more than 25 jobs, ranging from Toys R Us peon to nonprofit theatre director to sexual abstinence educator (none of which she enjoyed so much as her one-time stint singing and dancing onstage with the Beach Boys at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas); Heather Steadham likes asparagus.

  1. We drive two hours. I trot my husband and three children in to see my old family friend, the man who played Santa Claus every year at the Girls Club Christmas party at my mother’s insistence. The man whose voice velveted the radio waves for years and whose confidence in me fortified my own. George hasn’t seen my boys in years, hasn’t even met my baby girl. He smiles. He hugs. And in a holster…