Write a *thank you* letter to someone whom you wish to acknowledge.

Describe an ethical dilemma that you have faced.

How tall are you... and how has your height shaped your experience of the world?

"Trouble is a part of life, and if you don't share it, you don't give the person who loves you a chance to love you enough." ~ Dinah Shore Share your troubles on the page.... 10 minutes. Write.

What has been wasted?

"There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered." ~ Nelson Mandela Describe a place that you've returned to... and reflect on how you've changed since the last time you were there.

What are you in the process of creating?

Choose a milestone in your life (birth, wedding, funeral, etc.) and identify the most important moment from that event. Now slow down time and write about that moment in specific detail.

The day Rich and I were married, August 9, 1986, was a beautiful sunny day in Southern California. Not a cloud was in the sky. Our wedding took place in the fenced-in backyard of our rental house in Hawthorne as about 30 of our closest friends and relatives looked on. We stood facing each other in front of the minister, under a white iron arch intertwined with pink roses, white spider mums and white carnations. I was wearing a sheath dress with a white peplum top and a pink skirt. I wore the pink quartz necklace and earrings that Rich had given me for Christmas. Rich was in a light gray suit with a pink shirt and a gray, black, and pink striped tie. Rich's best man was his friend Ed, my best friend Sue was my maid of honor, and Rich's 5-year-old daughter Brianna served as our flower girl. We held flowers of the same varieties that decorated the arch.

I don't remember anymore exactly how we chose the minister. Since neither Rich nor I were members of a church, I literally may have picked him out of a phone book. It just didn't seem to be a very critical decision for me at the time. We were having a small, informal wedding and all we cared about was that he or she was a licensed officiant. I do know that he didn't meet with us ahead of time and he knew nothing about us personally. I don't think I was aware that he was a Baptist minister until a few moments before the ceremony began.

As he started speaking, I realized that perhaps we should have given a little more thought to the minister selection process. And as he warmed up, his sermon took on more and more of a "fire and brimstone" flavor. My "chauvinist radar" went up when he spoke of the need for the wife to be faithful to her husband. I detected a nuance that the woman is subservient and found myself wondering why the man doesn't need to be faithful as well? The mninister also employed the phrases "the two become one" and "forsaking all others," words which, in my mind, seemed to diminish the importance of a partnership between two distinct individuals.

As the sermon went on, Brianna showed signs of boredom as she began swinging her flower basket, and I was cognizant of the fact that the high heels on the women were probably sinking into the grass as mine were doing. Rich's nerves were starting to take over and his lips were visibly twitching. Just about that time, I noticed the young boy from next door poking his head over the fence to see what was going on. I was reminded of the "Kilroy was here" caricature. His unabashed curiosity lent a slice of Americana with a dollop of Dennis the Menace to the seriousness of the moment. I managed to suppress a chuckle, but I just had to smile. That young boy provided comic relief for me at just the right instant. Whenever I think of our wedding, I will always recall the humorous sight of that inquisitive, freckle-faced boy with a sprig of hair standing straight up peering over the fence.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. And sings the tune without the words and never stops at all. ~ Emily Dickinson What do you have hope for?

Write about the last time you had a sleepover (read: spent the night at someone else's house!).

It wasn't the last sleepover I've been to, but it was certainly the most memorable. When I lived in California and my daughters were still young, I belonged to a neighborhood bunco group. We were all mothers in our late 30s and early 40s. Once a month, about 15-20 ladies got together on the premise of playing the dice game. In actuality there was more snacking, drinking, and chatting going on than dice rolling. We rotated spending bunco evenings at each other's homes but because there were so many of us, I only hosted the group once. Husbands and children, while not actually banished from the premises, wisely chose to make themselves scarce. Those were some loud, wild evenings!

Joann, one of the ladies in the group, decided to have a pajama party one winter Friday night and she invited all the bunco ladies. We were instructed to arrive in our pajamas and slippers and bring a snack and a beverage of our choice, either alcohol or non. Since nobody was leaving or had to drive, we were all free to indulge and the former choice was more in evidence. We wore a crazy conglomeration of pajamas and an even more amazing array of kooky slippers. Mine were giant pink furry monster feet complete with purple glittery toenail polish. A couple of the women even rolled each other's hair with those old-fashioned foam rollers.

Only about half of the bunco group could make it, so we had maybe 8-10 women at the party. Someone entertained the group by telling an embarrassing story that happened to her that day, and we were off and running. We decided to have everyone tell their most embarrassing story. Then we all told about the craziest thing we did in high school, the funny things our toddlers had said, and so on. Of course the more we drank, the more hilarious the stories became. As the evening rolled along and the cocktails flowed, many of us felt the need to stand and act out our stories, a hilarious sight in our flannel jammies and fuzzy slippers. We were all behaving like giggly teenagers who were out from under our parents' watchful eyes for the night, and it was a fun evening of leaving our cares and responsibilites behind.

I don't think everyone crashed until about 3:00 am. The next morning our hostess made pancakes at about 9:00 and we had some seriously hungover women sitting around the breakfast table. Every once in awhile, someone would begin snickering, remembering a particularly funny moment from the evening before. After breakfast, we all scattered to our respective homes to resume our responsible lives and our roles as efficient wives and mommies once again. But it was really a memorable evening of bonding and letting our hair down that I'm sure we all remember to this day.

"We all have big changes in our lives that are more or less a second chance." ~ Harrison Ford Describe a time in your life when you were given a second chance.

Write about an experience that took place in a waiting room.

Write about a "thank you" letter that you didn't mean a word of.

Well, it's not that I didn't mean a word of it. It's just that it felt forced and contrived, and probably read that way as well.

The university library where I work is named after a well known journalist and newspaper executive in the Atlanta area. He graduated from the university, was a member of the Board of Trustees, and a generous benefactor. There's even a room in the library set up to replicate his office, sometimes referred to as "the shrine" by the more saracastic employees. When he died in 1999, his widow picked up where he left off in his role of benefactor. We soon got word of an endowed fund which provided generous donations for unprecedented quantities of new books for several years to come. When the widow's next birthday rolled around, all of us employees were instructed to write her a thank you letter.

Say what? OK, I felt like a grade school girl again being forced by my parents to write a thank you note for a Christmas or birthday gift. Mind you, I'm not anti-thank you by any means. The gratitude expressed in a thank you tells us that we are valued and shows us that we're not being taken for granted. When I write a thank you note, it ensures that I actively appreciate a kindness done on my behalf. Who could argue with that? I religiously wrote my thank yous as a child, and as an adult I did my parental duty by impressing their importance upon my daughters and making sure they wrote them as well. But to me, a thank you is a personal acknowledgment of gratitude. I've never had to write a thank you note before for something that didn't benefit me directly. Does a thank you lose all meaning when it's written out of duty and obligation, rather than inspired by genuine, spontaneous appreciation? I think so. And in this case, it also seemed like a rather transparent vehicle designed to say, "Keep those funds coming!"

Well, I wrote the obligatory thank you letter and hopefully managed to make it sound halfway believable. I put in a little bit of personal information about myself; told about my job in the library and how long I had been employed there. It wasn't a huge deal in the scheme of life, but being required to write that note did make me feel childlike and led around by the nose. It was definitely one of the most unusual requests I've ever received from an employer.

Describe the last time you were stopped in your tracks by beauty.

It's a wonderful thing to witness beauty so breath-taking you're literally stopped in your tracks. It's happened to me a couple of times recently, and I'm torn as to which sight was most awe-inspiring. They were each magical in their own way.

My husband and I had the privilege of seeing full double rainbows very late one afternoon as we were driving around the lake to visit a friend. I think it's the only time I've ever witnessed such a thing in my life.... two rainbows side by side, with both of them beginning and ending at the horizon. Their brilliant colors were enhanced by the arrival of dusk. Of course I didn't have my camera, and it never occurred to me that I could have used my phone. The picture below was taken by my friend and co-worker as she looked out of her window at Mercer. The second rainbow barely shows up, and the picture hardly does justice to the spectacular sight. But it serves as a reminder of that remarkable afternoon--such a gift it was.

The second beautiful vision that stopped me in my tracks was the sight of my granddaughter sleeping. Aubree likes to sleep under the soft light of her toy seahorse, and she's the image of peaceful, pure, angelic innocence. Occasionally her eyes flutter and a small smile crosses her face, and I wonder what she's thinking about. Maybe she's having a wonderful dream. A sleeping baby is definitely a heart-melting sight.

Sleeping Beauty

Think about a reunion you've either attended or are planning to attend... Write about the emotions it evokes in you.

Meeting my long-lost family members. Back row: Hazel and Paul.

Front row:  Sharon, Iva, James, Laverne, Imelda, D'Wayne.

I started researching my family tree in 1996 and two years later I had the opportunity to attend my first large family reunion. It was held in Nacogdoches, Texas and was organized by a lady named Reba, a very outgoing person who did a fantastic job of rounding up family members from across the United States. At the time, I was living in California and Reba kept us all informed about who would be attending and a little bit about their backgrounds.

From Reba's emails, I knew that a Texas sheriff was scheduled to attend. "A law enforcer in our midst will make sure that we don't get too carried away with the festivities!" she kidded. But what I didn't know until right before the reunion was that Sheriff D'Wayne was a long-lost member of my own branch of the family. Our grandfathers were brothers two years apart in age, both born in the 1890s. They had been close as boys and young men, growing up in Texas and then moving to New Mexico with their parents and other siblings. It wasn't until they were adults in Portales, New Mexico, that the split occurred in the family. My grandfather, Tom, was the sheriff of Portales and his brother, Frank, was accused and convicted of incest with one of his daughters.

As you can imagine, the chasm created within the family was wide and deep. Portales was a very small town back in those days and the scandalous headline was splashed across the front page of the newspaper. It was a shameful and embarrassing time for the whole family. Frank's wife divorced him and isolated herself and their seven children from the rest of the family. My dad was a little boy at the time and didn't understand what had happened. My grandfather was under constant pressure from his parents, who also lived in Portales and didn't believe that their son was guilty, to "do something" about getting Frank out of prison. They refused to believe that there was nothing he could do--that Frank had been tried and convicted and had to serve his entire sentence. When my grandfather's term in office was up, he moved his family to Santa Fe, leaving his parents, the ex-sister-in-law, and the estranged cousins behind. Frank served his prison term and was remarried. Both brothers died in the 1970s.

So that was the sad story of a relationship that ended on a bad note between the two brothers and two sets of cousins. The older family members never did explain what had happened to my dad, and he got the definite feeling that it was better not to ask. He only knew that Frank had gotten into a great deal of trouble and had spent time in prison. It wasn't until I started researching the family and dug up the old newspaper articles about exactly what had occurred that we were able to put the pieces together.

Flash forward 65 years to the Nacogdoches reunion. I was excited and yet at the same time I had some trepidation about representing my side of the family and bringing together the two "factions" after so many years. I had no idea what D'Wayne would know about the past events, or what he had heard about my grandfather. D'Wayne brought his wife, his mother, his sister and brother-in-law, and his aunt and uncle to the reunion.

I needn't have worried. We all hugged and felt an immediate kinship. The close ties of so many years ago when our grandfathers were brothers were somehow carried forward to the current generations. The tender feelings I had upon meeting them still puts an inexplicable lump in my throat. I was astounded when I first laid eyes on D'Wayne; he has an uncanny resemblance to my grandfather, which is even more ironic considering the fact that they both were sheriffs. Then I met his Uncle Paul, Frank's son, who, with the exception of his gray hair and mustache,  is a shorter version of my dad right down to the cleft in the middle of his chin. We all had photo albums and shared pictures; of course D'Wayne was especially interested in the photos of his look-alike, my grandfather.

It turned out that they all knew the story about what had occurred so many years ago. D'Wayne had shown some interest in his family tree, and his aunt (the girl who had been molested) told him that there was something he should know if he was going to start researching. It wasn't a secret in their family. Paul told me the story of living way out in the country with his mother and siblings after the divorce; they all almost starved to death out there. His mother was a strong woman who stubbornly refused charity from others, and somehow they managed to scrape by. She later learned to speak fluent Spanish at the age of 40, became a missionary in Mexico for 35 years, and started a church there. She was known far and wide as "Hermana Mabel."

I couldn't wait to tell my dad about meeting his long-lost cousins, and he was excited and anxious to get together with all of them at a future reunion. Unfortunately, he passed away before that ever happened. D'Wayne and I have stayed in touch ever since. It was really a remarkable feeling to connect with that side of the family again after so many years. I think my grandfather was pleased and was smiling down on me that day.

"Without work all life goes rotten." ~ Albert Camus What's the value of the work you do?

This is a very good question. Unfortunately, I'm usually consumed with thinking about what I don't like about my work and the annoyances of my job. Rarely do I consider its intrinsic value. But everyone needs to know their work isn't pointless; that it has a positive impact. If I take my humble salary and a basic lack of recognition out of the equation, I can still find some nuggets of value in my work.

Most obviously, my work contributes toward education by making resources available, whether those resources are of the electronic or print variety. I'm responsible for gathering, organizing, and describing these learning materials so that they're easily accessible to students and the general public. Less visible but just as important is my role with student assistants. Their library jobs are often the first time these students have ever worked. They learn to establish a work ethic; to be accountable and responsible. As employees ourselves, we serve as role models to our student assistants. My work also has some historic significance; the library archives preserves pieces of history important to the University, the Baptist community, and beyond. For example, I had a role in organizing and making accessible the personal papers of ex Attorney General Griffin Bell, which included correspondence from several U.S. Presidents and other foreign leaders.

It's so easy to get lost in the frustrations of the job. When my work-a-day world gets me down, I need to remind myself of its inherent worth. My work gives me the opportunity to contribute to two causes I believe in:  education and historic preservation.

"One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple." ~Jack Kerouac Now use simple words to describe something that deeply matters to you.

Simple words. I love this quote and the concept. It isn't necessary to hide the true meaning of what you're saying behind a mountain of words. As Jack Kerouac explains, complicated, complex words lose people whereas simple words "shine like beacons of light."

I've stated previously that I love being a grandmother with all my heart. But I feel that I need to expand more on this feeling--to try and describe it in simple words.

When I love my baby granddaughter, I invest a piece of myself in future generations. The affection and values I instill in her will carry forth after I'm gone. That's such a gratifying feeling.

My granddaughter Aubree doesn't judge me. She doesn't suspect ulterior motives, search for double meanings, or try to read between the lines. She doesn't care if I'm rich or poor, cute or homely, klutzy or graceful.

Aubree loves my songs even when I sing off-key. She smiles at me even when my jokes are corny. Her eyes light up when she sees me even when I'm wearing sweats and a T-shirt and having a bad hair day.

To my granddaughter, it doesn't matter that I'm not the smartest, the prettiest, or the most popular. I give her love, attention, and protection from harm. That's all it takes to be perfect in Aubree's eyes, and the feeling is mutual.

The moment you have in your heart this extraordinary thing called love and feel the depth, the delight, the ecstasy of it, you will discover that for you the world is transformed." ~ J. Krishnamurti What do you love with all your heart?

Hey, this prompt is an exact repeat of the prompt given on January 15th. Even the quote is the same. So in the interest of time (and, OK, I admit it--laziness), I will defer to my previous answer. It hasn't changed. :-)

Think back to a song you used to love as a child... now write about it.

I spent a lot of time with my Grandma as a child, and she loved to play the piano and sing. Mostly they were "parlor songs" from the late 1890s and early 1900s, which was when she was a young girl. Her mother probably sang them to her as a child. I knew the words and could sing along to "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," "Bicycle Built for Two," and "Love and Marriage" soon after I was able to string sentences together. The ragtime music that she played was lively and happy. I loved all her songs, but as an adult I realize that some of them had horribly politically incorrect messages, and remembering those in today's climate is highly uncomfortable. There was one song in particular that she used to sing frequently and I loved the tune. Musically it was delightful, but even back then the words disturbed me, particularly the chorus. Embarrassing as it is to recount, it's part of my past and is still etched in the childhood compartment of my brain, so here are the lyrics:

Stay in Your Own Backyard

Lilac trees are bloomin' in the corner by the gate
Mammy's at her little cabin door
Curly headed picanniny comin' home so late
Cryin' cuz his little heart is sore.

All the children playin' around
Their skin so white and fair
None of them would ever let him play.
So mammy in her lap took the weeping little chap
And crooned in her kind old way

Now honey, you stay in your own backyard
Don't mind what them white chile do
What do you supposed they gwine to do
To a black little coon like you?

So stay on this side of the high board fence
And honey, don't cry so hard.
Go out and play just as much as you please
But stay in your own backyard.

What a miserable lullabye! And how very sad that the beautiful tune is tainted by these painful lyrics. As a little girl, I remember loving the image of the lilacs because we had a giant lilac bush growing beside the back door of our house and I'd sit on the back stoop and smell its perfume. I also remember feeling terribly sorry for the little black boy whose heart was breaking, and angry with the white children who wouldn't play with him. But most of all, I remember being disappointed and let down that his mother instructed him just to play in his own backyard.

Of course, as an adult I recognize these lyrics as a thinly veiled message of racism and segregation. I guess all music is representative of the prevalent beliefs held at the time it's composed. I doubt the song was written with hatred as its intent, but instead it was an unconscious reflection of an intolerant and insensitive society. As much as the lyrics make me cringe today, they're historically a part of our past that can't be denied. I guess they serve to remind us how far we've come.... and at the same time open our eyes to how far we have yet to go in eliminating racial prejudices and stereotypes.

What is your favorite number? Tell me the story behind its specialness.

My favorite number is 19. I love its oddness, its primeness (is that a word?), and the fact that it just misses the precision of being 20--a round, even, perfectly divisible and boring number. Yawn. 19, on the other hand, stands firm in its indivisibility and uniqueness, refusing to be compromised.

I can't remember exactly when 19 became "my" number, but I know it was deeply entrenched as my favorite by the 4th grade. At the end of the year, my teacher, Mrs. Hoyt, had all of us pick a number between 1 and 50. The student who guessed the number closest to the one she was thinking of would win the classroom wall mural we had created over the course of the school year. We all poured our 4th-grade hearts and souls into that mural, so it was quite a coveted prize. I won the mural. Mrs. Hoyt chose 19 because it was our room number, but I never thought of that. I just liked 19.

At age 19, my last year of being a teenager, I was a sophomore at Michigan State. It was the year I met my best friend Sue;  I was dating Bob, my first true love; and I went off to spend a fantastic summer working in Glacier Park. Life couldn't have been better. Yep, 19 was a very good age and a year of great fortune. It will always be my favorite number.