I've already mentioned my writing. But that's not all. I can peel an orange in one unbroken peel. More importantly, I can pick out a ripe watermelon just by rapping on it a time or two. Once one of our neighbors saw me in the grocery store and asked me to pick out a watermelon that was as good as the one my husband his given him a couple weeks earlier. I have a knack. (It's all in the wrist.)

My children. I approached parenthood with the usual trepidation, but my boys have turned out well. They're polite, smart, and happy. We have a close family and that's more than all the money in the world.

What I did today helped me and also helped my family, though it seems insignificant. I rested. For the last two days, especially, I have been running, and I needed a day to relax. I finished reading a novel and looked outside occasionally, hoping the sun would appear. (It never did.) Tomorrow will be another busy day as I help my 13-year old and my husband prepare for their trip to Washington, DC. My son is going as a graduating eighth grader from his small school and my principal husband is going as a chaperone. They'll take off at around midnight tomorrow to catch a train--oddly, we have no passenger train routes here in Kentucky. Because I rested today, I'll be ready for the challenges tomorrow brings.

We are diverse, different in skin tone, native language, and ways of worship. Yet we are the same. We have the same needs and, usually, the same desires. We like to think of ourselves as unique, and yet those who came before us were much the same. They also lived and loved and struggle, just as we do. We hope our children will be better, and yet they are destined to fall prey to the some of the same weaknesses we see in ourselves. We can only hope (and pray) that they won't suffer too much for their transgressions. We are inhabitants of this planet, and though we see our lives as important we know that one hundred years from now only a few of us will be remembered by anyone outside our families.

My husband, the principal of a small private elementary school, and my 13-year old are in Washington DC for a special 8th grade class graduating trip. I dropped them off to meet some other students, and a chaperone, at midnight last night so they could drive together up to the Amtrak station in Cincinnati--the closest one to us. Before they left, I asked them to call me when they got there. But they did more. My husband called once while en route (but we lost the connection and I got anxious when I couldn't reach him--it turns out they were going through tunnels). I called when I thought they should have settled in, though they had just arrived. Then later my husband called me again and my son called his 16-year old brother. The two of us are having a great time, too. After years of having many kids at home, I have only one for the next six days and I plan to spoil him just a little.

My most formative years were from ages 20 to 25, and there's a very simple reason for that. Until I was 20, I lived with my parents and little sisters. I didn't cook my own meals and wasn't sure even how to do my laundry. I was held accountable for my whereabouts, and, even though I had two jobs and attended community college, I took little responsibility for the daily matters of my life. When I was 25, I married my husband. A few days after our marriage, I started my doctoral program. Less than a year later, we were parents. The children came regularly, every two or three years after that, until we had our six.

But during those five years when I was on my own, I learned how to navigate through the world--not just doing my laundry and managing a checking account but getting along with roommates and making decisions that would affect the rest of my life. I remember some trepidation during those times, but I will always be grateful for them.

If possible, I would go looking for good weather. We have had rain nearly every day for over a week, and cloudy days every day for the last week. Today the sun appeared for about two minutes. Almost as soon as I noticed it, it was gone again. They say we may have a little sun tomorrow morning, but that will probably be followed by more storms. Some areas of our state have serious flooding problems. And not only is my mood suffering, so is my right knee. I injured it in high school gymnastics many years ago, and for the last few years it has acted up whenever we have rain. I hope that soon we see the sun and have the warmer temperatures of May.

When I was young, my risks were much more interesting--climbing trees, racing down country roads, traveling to rural areas in a third world country. But my most recent risk was submitting a short story to a contest. Very exciting, right? It is, in a way, because I have been trying for years--since I was a teenager--to conquer the short story. I can write books, but short stories have always eluded me. This time, I think I may have succeeded.

Not only that, but today I started a new short story. It has possibilities. I'll go back to it tomorrow and see where it takes me.

First, and always, I pray. When I was young my parents taught me that I should pray. Prayer, and the resulting guidance or assistance, has helped me very many times in my life.

There are two people I can call on for help, depending on what I need. One is my mother. The other is my husband. Neither of them has ever let me down.

I'm late answering this question because yesterday was red and I was busy and alert all day (and into the night). My husband and son came back from DC and I wanted to have the house a little nicer for them, along with a warm meal waiting for them. The trouble is that their train didn't pull into Cincinnati until 2 a.m. and then it took nearly two hours for the drive (another parent went to get them) back to Lexington. I "hit the wall" somewhere around 1 a.m. but my 16-year old was up--usually I have to tell him to get to sleep--and he managed the phone calls. There was no nice welcoming dinner because by the time we walked into the house everyone was exhausted. Oh well. They got home safely. That's what's important.

Home is the place that feels the most like home. I have lived many places since leaving home to attend college back in 1976. Many of those were apartments, some much better than others. There were one or two duplexes in there somewhere. This is the second house we've owned, not rented. We left the first behind when we relocated, missing the house but not the city.

I really like this house. When we decided to move to Lexington, we came down here on a Monday while my husband and kids were on spring break. I had already communicated with a realtor, and she began showing us houses almost immediately. We nearly made an offer on a different one, but before signing the papers I looked through the details on each house we'd seen and knew this was the one.

We have a large back yard, which is great for my husband, the gardener, and peaceful for me. Our kids don't spend much time out there, except when it snows (we have a nice little hill for sledding), because they're older. I can't wait until my granddaughters see it, though.

It's not too large and not too small. Everything is convenient, including the location, and it suits us very nicely. After so many years of drifting from place to place, I am finally home.

Many years ago my husband told me that I was his mirror. I didn't quite understand what he meant at the time, but it has become clearer with time and maturity. This is his approach. It's not mine, though I do sometimes see myself (good and bad) in my children.

I don't usually run anymore. That was the younger me, the me who raised six boys while holding down a full-time teaching job, the me who made breakfast, packed lunches, and put dinner in the crockpot before 8 a.m.

Once in a while I still have to hustle a little, but in general I have slowed way down. I have a knee that acts up when the weather is damp--I injured that knee in high school gymnastics many years ago. I can't get by on less than six hours of sleep, and usually need a full eight. I can't stay up much after 1 a.m., no matter how hard I try. And I don't run. I keep on moving, slowly and steadily, just like the tortoise, knowing that I will eventually reach the finish line.

Either there's nothing I deny or reject about myself, or I'm so deeply into denial that there's no way for me to recognize it. Hmm.

I always want to be me, and the most authentic me I can be.

There's almost nothing I wouldn't like to explore. My curiosity runs deep and I love research. My only limitations are time, energy, and money. But I do my best to overcome these. Life is short, and we must live it enthusiastically.

This question, if answered thoroughly, could take me all night to answer. I'll give a few highlights instead. From my paternal grandfather, I inherited a love of knowledge and an insatiable curiosity, as well as the passion of the Greeks. From my maternal grandmother I inherited just a dose of practicality and a strong work ethic, as well as the stubborn consistency of the Germans. My parents have given me love and the ability of love. They taught me to be honest. They also passed on the values of hard work, delayed gratification and, as my father always reminded me, an attitude of "no excuses."

We don't choose our families. I was very blessed to receive the one God gave me.

Yes, I do have a hard time asserting myself, and I think it has a great deal with the times in which I grew up. I'm a baby of the Eisenhower presidency and started going to school when little girls still wore starched new dresses, shiny black shoes, and anklet socks. (I don't think I wore those to school, but I'm sure I had to wear them every Sunday.) Children were to be seen and not heard in those days, and, especially since I was the oldest, I often got into trouble for arguing with my sisters or making mischief in public. A little girl was a young lady who knew to say "Please" and "Thank you" and sat properly. In the later 60s, while America was exploding, I was still an elementary parochial school student being reminded how good Christian girls and boys acted.

In the 70s I began rebelling just a little--writing anti-war letters to President Nixon and lobbying for the right to wear jeans in our public high school--but the lessons of childhood never left me and I always had to remember to be a good girl.

I have already surrendered some things. Several years ago I realized that I would never be able to keep the house exactly as I wanted, not unless I spent all my waking hours doing housework. So when my boys do the dishes they throw the larger serving items into the large cabinet in the most haphazard way imaginable, and I no longer clean it up after them because I don't have the time or, frankly, the energy.

For many years I surrendered my time to my family. That changed in 2002 when my oldest gradated from high school and I decided to fulfill my dream of writing. They still get quite a bit of my time, but sometimes I ask them to surrender to my wishes. Last weekend I took off on a trip to a book festival with my mother, and although I didn't sell as many books as I'd hoped, and it was very cold, we had a good time. My husband and the boys (two still left at home) can live without me once in a while.

Is my life really that boring? The only decision I can think of right now is whether or not to drive forty miles on Friday to pick up my son from college. I would like to do it, but my right knee hurts--an old high school gymnastics injury that sometimes flares up, especially when it rains--and I'm not sure I want to make the drive. I make ask my husband to do it.

There were times when I was deciding major life issues, such as which university to attend, what my major would be, which man I would marry, and where we would live. At certain pivotal moments I have made key decisions that affected everything else. Now my life centers around a sore knee and an ancient injury.

One day I hope to decide to live in Europe, but that will have to wait until our youngest finishes high school, at least. For now, the mundane is all I have. (Though I am planning to go to DC in July for a convention, and I'm excited about that.)

I'm not a secretive person. I do have at least one secret, only one I can think of actually, and it's not very large. I'm able to keep the secrets of others, but only by forgetting them. My face and my voice usually betray me, so secrets and I don't get along very well.

If I'm in denial about anything, it's my teeth. I hate, despise, detest, abhor, and absolutely do not like going to the dentist. So I drag myself there maybe once every ten years and in the meantime I pretend that my teeth are fine, and hope that they are, without official verfication. They've served me well thus far, and I hope we have many more years together.

If this next week goes the way I hope it will, then every day will be as sunny and clear as today is. My knee will be fully healed. I will have finished my short story and submitted it for the anthology before the deadline. I will have gone back to my novel, which I set aside weeks ago for other, more urgent matters, and begun making progress. All of difficulties will be solved and I will be able and ready to enjoy the waning days of spring.

I would like my husband and sons to ask, each day, "How can I help you?" or something like that. And they would really mean it. If I didn't need any help that day, it would still be so nice to hear.

My days are fluid, and usually without a set schedule. On a good day, I write quite a bit. On a not as good day, my writing declines. I find other things to do, both inside and outside the house.

For so many years, when my kids were younger, my days were highly structured, and I did have my favorite 15 minutes--usually on weekends when I ate breakfast early in the morning, before the kids woke up. But now my time belongs much more to me.

I can tell you my least favorite 15 minutes of the day. That's the time I realize I have to go to bed soon and I begin to wrap up my life for another day. If I could, I would stay up all night--that is, after all, the best time to write. But I'm a mere mortal who must get my daily sleep.

I know how to play the piano, though I haven't tried it in years. For a short while, in middle school, I took flute lessons, but at that time I still had buck teeth and the flute does not go well with buck teeth. I once had a guitar that I really wanted to learn how to play. There was no one to teach me, though, and I didn't have enough natural talent to learn it on my own.

When I was younger, I wanted to learn how to play the violin. But now I think I would like to go back to the guitar and try once more.

A writers' group to which I belong is putting together an anthology of short stories. I've already submitted one story, and plan to submit another before the deadline at the end of this month. But the organizer has asked for weeks for a 200 word bio from each author and, for some reason, I'm dragging my feet on that. Also, I need to finish my second story very soon. Today it was gray and, later, raining, and I simply didn't feel like writing.

Also, I really need to pay the bills.

My knee. Usually I'm more patient with these kinds of problems, and also better able to stand the pain. This time, it has really gotten to me. In case I haven't already "enlightened" this group with my knee story, it started when I was in high school. I was vaulting over a "horse" in gymnastics, my left leg outstretched and my right leg tucked underneath me. Unfortunately, my right toes got caught on the "horse" and I pulled a muscle. So my mother took me to the doctor and he told me to stay off of it for a while, which I probably didn't do because I was 15 or 16 and didn't like sitting still.

Over the last few years my knee has acted up once in while, especially when it's about to rain. I laughed about my built-in weather system. But this May has been awful. We've had about 50% more rain than usual, and my knee began swelling early in the month after days of rain. I may also have pulled it a little, walking up and down the stairs or up and down the hill in our yard to hang clothes. I don't know. At first I pushed myself, but for the last two weeks I've tried to rest my knee back into shape. That's not working either, at least not on rainy days--we've had two in a row. These last two days, my knee has been tight and even more painful.

I don't want to see a doctor, because there are many treatments I simply won't do, but I'm about at that point. This morning I found a doctor of osteopathy in our area who might be able to help me. The problem is that I need a referral. I don't have a primary care physician in this town, though I do have another specialist. I guess I'll have to give her a call.

If only it would stop raining for a week or so, I think my knee would get back to normal. But it doesn't look like that's going to happen.