20150811 Pork Chop and Windshield Glass

20150811 Pork Chop and Windshield Glass

            to do:  Thursday, Aug 13, *stop at Rolandale get tomatoes and squash plus glassware, check garden, download Psion?

            *Look for "A Novel Project" and any other names.  The Misfits club, Effie. at R'dale and home, on Psion. 

            *BUT WORK ON LHI!

            Tuesday, August 11, 2015, 4:24 PM I am walking behind a large black man all dressed in black with a large black dog.  The dog still has his balls.  And keeps turning to look at me.  At the corner, tweo cops--three cops-- with gullballs spinning have stoped a car driven by a black man with several kids in the back.  The man walking the dog and car passing both know the man who is stopped.  The man who is stopped has grizzled hair. 

            It is difficult at this time of day to get across Moross with rush hour traffic.  I wanted to leave sooner.  I wanted to do what Keith asked and check Graham's bank account to see if he's paid for that windshield repair.  I haven't been online today.  I wanted to get home and so that before KKeith got home, but I was working on my writing and needed to trasfer things and save everything properly and turn everything off properly and collect the disc and thr thumb and not forget as I sometimes do when I'm in hurry. 

            I left the tomatoes because I did not think I could carry them safely home in my backpack, they are too ripe.  And since i was leaving the tomatoes, I also left the squash, I mean, if we have to go back for the tomatoes anyway, why carry the big bag of big squasgh.  I brought the smaller bag of small squash in case I wanted to cook with them before we drive back.  I think, if possible, I will send Keith to get them, and he can also check the garden again.  Meanwhile, I will try to get on Graham's account to check for the windshield. 

            Some guy on a bike whizzes by, almost hitting me, turns back to look at me as I am scowling back at him.

            I hate to say anything, for fear of jinxing myself, but my fibro has been somewhat improved these past few days.  It had been pretty bad for a while.  The major difference seems to be my sleeping somewhat better. 

            One good thing about the improved fibro is that I can walk faster.  If it keeps improving, I might be able to run.

            Yesterday, I only walked 45 minutes.  It was partly the raina nd partly because of visiting ML in the evening.  I was still down a half hour from the walks I missed when Graham was home, but after walking to and from R'dale today, I will only be down 15 minutes.  I'd like to walk to and from R'dale more often, even if I am not down any time, because that would be extra calories burned and writing time as welll. 

            If I could jog over, that would be less time spent for about the same number of cclaories, but it would make it more difficult to write.

            A dark-skinned woman with long stright grey hair rody by on her bike a while ago.  she jsut came back this way, waved, said hello.  I thought she was riding a black bike, but it's blue.  I guess it was the guy who nearly hit me who had a black bike.

            Wednesday, August 12, 2015, 2:18 )PM  I am out walking to R'dale via the post office to finally mail the wood print to Cheri Hawley.  And Haiku to Jim Emmons.  I am sad because my hip hurts and yesterday and the day before, it did not hurt much, just a little.  It's definitely worse.  But why?  I thought I was being "good."

            It will take me much longer to walk to R'dale this way, hobbling.  Yesterday, on the way home, I did it in 32 minutes.  And that was with bad traffic and writing on the Psion.  I was walking along at a good clip for me.

            Was it all the tomatoes I ate?  What caused the problem, the pain, which I hate.  I shuld probably have put Voltaren on it.  Every time I put my left foot down and shift my weaight onto it, I get a spasm of pain in my hip.

            Deep blue sky, very dayrk overhead, fluffy white clouds, humming and buzzing cicadas, some bird chatering.  Cars pass.  Some clouds have grey bellies.  My lunch, as yet uneaten, clanks in four jars i my backpack.  I will have to leave the jars at R'dale to pick up later, because I intend to stop at Village Market on the way home.  Looking ahead to that much walking with this much pain is kind of scary.  I may have to break down and slather on voltaren and take Meloxicam etc.  Sometimes, just walking alone makes it feel better and I am imagining that the pain is slightly less now.  If it would subside, Iw ould breathe a sigh of relief. 

            I had no potato chips, no wheat or gluten that know of.  One theory is that excess sugar in the blood somehow causes the pain and that walking burns away some of the sugar, relieving the pain.  But I don't know if this is actually true.

            What I do know is this:  sometimes walking helps, sometimes it helps a lot.  Sometimes it makes it worse.  Sometimes it does both, first makes it better, then worse, of vice versa, or, at least that's what seems to happen.  Maybe the causes are something else entirely.

            It has suddenly gotten cooler, or else the wind has strengthened.  It is also looking darker, so I hope it doesn't rain on me.

            A black guy with no helmet goes by on a Harley, revving the engine.  Anther Harley guy circles around from other direction and follows the first guy. 

            My hip pain is defintely less at the moment, not gone, but improved.  Thank goodness.  I am toddling along at a slightly faster rate toward the postoffice, where I intend to mail two items.

            I pass spm.e kind of small convertible with the top down and hope it doesn't rain into it.  A little while ago, it was sunny.  It is supposed to rain tomorrow and Friday, but not today.

            The little convertible makes me think sadly of my Friend Rebecca with her Mazda Miatta, and how she died.  I miss her.  This car is not a Miatta, I don't think. 

            When I leave the post office, I see that my stopwatch is already running, but it says 22 hours, 13 minutes, and 43 seconds.  Sigh.  I stop it.  It generally takes me slightly longer to walk to R'dale via the post office, and I would have times it, but I was bummed out about how long everything too (calling about CPAP supplies, talking to them twice, and making that big stir-fry (six servings)--that may have contributed to my pain, standing there so long at the counter cutting vegetables etc.  Standing seems to bother me worse than walking, usually, especially standing and bending over.

            There was NO line at the PO, hurray, at least that went quickly.  I wanted to make one more vcard for Cheri and write one more poem for Jim, but I decided it I have time to do that, I can do it later and meanwhile, that's one thing off my plate.  A haiku about a rescued dog, a snail card printed on better paper.  For a while, the printer wasn't accepting card stock. 

            Last time I tried it, it did.  I'm hoping it will work again.  But the day was so far gone already with the making of the stir-fry and the calling the CPAP people etc.  I didn't want it to be too late when I get to R'dale and sit and eat my luch and listen to Ann Rivers Siddon and check the garden and work on Little Hog Isalnd.  I want to have time to work and still get home before K at 5 if possible. 

            And already, it is almost 3 PM and I haven't had lunch.

            I need to start keeping track of what I eat so I can see if there is any consistencey and when I feel bad and when I feel better realted to what I eat (and do?)

            Yesterday, I could jog easily across the big 4 and six lane roads I have to cross.  Today, not os much.

            My feet hurt, too, mainly my right foot.  I think that is from the weird way I ten to walk when my hip hurts.

            I'd like to be working on my novel, or one of my novels, or poem,  or an artle for Cowbird, or something. 

            Can I write a haiku about a rescued dog?  The thing is, Haiku are supposed to be imagistic rather than emotional, and that image of the rescued dog in Armory square with a syracuse leash evokes an emotional response that seems somewhat cliched.  I want the dog to be safe, to be happy, to find love after difficulties.  I'm not sure the relevance of it being in that setting.

            Today, they have the other side of Moross blacked off, one lane, that is.  On the other side of the island, I wait a break in the busy traffic,  A white guy on a harkly, bald on top but with long grey side locks blowing in the wind he's generating, revs his engine so the magaphone pipes blare just as he reaches where I am standing.  Am I impressed?  If so, only negatively.  I like a nice quite BMW myself.

            I am approaching Rolandale, which means, soon I can sit down, eat my lunch, listen to Ann Rivers Siddon, relax a  little.  First though, I have to pick up trash in the front yard.  Not mine.

            Something inside my backpack stinks.  I am worried, think turkey neck, abandaned food, but it the rotten shiitakes I bought and intend to return.

            3:34 PM  I don't think this clock is right.  I completed eating lunch and finsihed side one of the cassette tape of The Outer bank, by Ann Rivers Siddon.

            Now I will go out and check the garden.  It is already so late.  Do I even have time to work on my novel if I want to walk home via Village Market and shop for food?  AK!  I rinsed off with very hot water todays 4 jars and 2 from yesterday and sett hem in the dish sdrainer to dry, but it is my intention to leave them here and pick them up when one of us comes in a car and take them home and wash them in the dishwasher.

            I don't want to carry them home in the backpack because I intend to shop on the way home.

            If I need 35 minutes to walk home and 20 minutes to shop (?), that's 55 minutes, which means I need to leave here at 4:00 if I want to reach home before 5.  I wish I knew if Keith was intending to come straight home or plans another activity, such as visiting his Mom or running errands, on his way home.

            Grrr.  I wanted to work on my novel.   WAHN!

            I got out and pick tomatoes.  I have to break some glorious spider webs to walk into the garden, sad.  I almost step on a smallish grey-brown animal, a rat?  I didn't see a naked tail.  But what?

            And already it is time to leave.  No work on novel possible.  ;{

            I have blood blisters on my arm from trying to get the backpack on over my stiff shoulder.  I leave the tomatoes and two small squash on the floor near the door.  I have to take the backpack off and put it on a second time, because of the rotten mushrooms. 

            At 4:04 on my watch and 3:58 on the Psion, I leave, but of course, my wlaking time does not include waiting to cross the super busy highways.  I make it across the first half of Moross running wildly and jerkily, then finally across the second half.  Now, because I am running late, even though I didn't even get to work on novel, I feel like I have to really hurry.

            If I get back home and Keith is not coming home, I will be well and truly annoyed that he's so unwilling to share his plans with me.  Because then I could have stayed and worked on my novel for a while.

            I suppose while I am walking, I could try to think about what I want to talk to Brian Powers about tomorrow. 

            The mushrooms in my backpack stink.  I can smell them even with the backpack zipped shut and it on my back.

            None of the things I did today were Keith's fault.  I did what I needed to do, I chose to do what seemed best to do (making a stirfry so can stay on my diet and eat relatively healthily, calling about my CPAP supplies to improve my sleep, walking what will be more than 70 minutes when I am done to make up for time I didnt' walk when Graham was here, harvesting tomatoes and squash, etc etc, NONE were Keith's fault.  I have no right to be angry with Keith.  I am feeling concerned that he may not come home at 5 because sometimes, he doesn't for one reason or another, and THEN my racing around trying to get home with materials for dinner will have been unneccesary and maybe I could have had a little time to write.  My not having time to write is not his fault (at this point).  If he fails to come home, or comes home and then leaves again, without having let me know his plans ahead, then perhaps I could be annoyed.

            However, they used to say in Al-anon, the only person you can change is yourself.  Even that is very difficult.  What could I have done or what can I do now to chnage the way I feel in repsonse to Keith's behavior, IF there's even a problem.

            The reason why I am hurrying jome is because it is his night to cook.  AND after working ten hours, I am making the assumptionI that he's very hungry and eager to eat.   Abd he can't cook until I arrive with the food.  So I am assuming that I should hurry to Village Market, get the ground round and tomatoes etc that he needs, and get home with them by 5:00 if possible so that he can prepare and eat dinner if he's hungry.

            The thing is, he's unpredicatble.  He may choose to visit his mosther (or something might have happened with her.)  He may choose to have blood drawn or do errands or get car parts or nay number of other things.  If he calls at home and I don't answer, he may not even bother calling my cell phone.  Or he may not call at all.

            I am choosing to operate an the assumption that he will be coming home planning to make spaghetti.  He may not even WANT spaghetti (but if so, he hasn't mentioned it, or not so's I can hear.  Sometimes, he tells me that he's told me something and i have no recolelction of it.  He may have told me and I forgot.  Or, I amy not of heart him.  He often talks to me when I am in the kicthe  and then the water uis running and I can't hear him.  Or he may think he told me and has not told me at all.  Life is very complictaed.

            OK, I am headed home, watch says 4:46, Psion Comfort says 4:40 And I have my groceries.  I even had to go back twice for meat and wait.  I forgot the sausage the first time, duh.  Felt bad because one of the supervisors asked Gary to wait on me.  I did not go to the deli, I'll have to do that Friday.  That often takes a long time, because they have to go in the back for turkey.

            So, if I get back and Keith isn't there, or leaves, maybe I can just work on my novel AT HOME, unless he wants me to go with him, to see his Mom or something.

            But in any case, I should be there before five.  And my hip ad foot both hurt, but not too bad.  I'm walking at a reasonably good pace.

            The little yaphank is out in his yard and barking ferociously and growling like he'd like to take my leg off, but the other day, the boy that lives there was walking him and dog came up and was friendly and let me pet him.  I don't know where the apparent viciousness  comes from when Iw alk by.

            The aforemntioned "boy" i8s actually a man, and not all that young, just a lot younger than me.  Maybe 33?  35?

            He seems young, and he apparently lives there with his father, grandfather or some other old man who looks unfriendly but always says hello pleasantly when I speak to him

            Home now.  36 minutes not counting walking around in the store.  4:48 comfort time, 4:54 watch time.

            Thursday, August 13, 2015, 12:49 Comfor Pson time, 12:56 watch time (the new watch).  I am in Brian Power's waiting room with bag of squashes and tomatoes., cameras, etc.  And my notebook.  I have not prepared for today.  I have not worked on my novel.  I did do all my exercises (that is, my standard sit-up set), prepare and eat breakfast, shower, listen to Life Before Man and read in Armageddon Summer, while using the bathroom, maybe more than absolutely necessary.

            I wonder vaguely what to talk to Brian about.  I wiggle my knee up and down.  I must be nervous, I don't usually do that, but I feel unprepared.

            I could talk about anger and annoyance and strategies to deal with them.

            He has changed the furniture in the waiting room, different chairs.  New last time I was here.  SSomehow more sterile-looking.  But not uncomefotebale.  There is a new map.  It casts its light upward, makeing if more difficult to see the artwork.  My little book for Frankie is on the top of the pile.  Does he come out on Thursdays and put it there?

            I was agitated last night.  Upset.  I was upset about hauling everything out of the closet looking for bacitracin.  I don't believe I ever touched it, but he made a big mess.  I threw away a lot of Susan's old stuff that needed to be thrown away anyway, since none of us will ever use it.  3 or 4 jars (or more) of face cream.  Lots of other stuff, powder, fungal treatment, just stuff.  Keith threw away Graham's deodaornt.  I rescued it and put it in his room. He may not want it, but he may expect to use it when he visits.

            Now Comfort says 12:59 and the new watch says 1;06.  I should try to coordinate my watches.

            I can hear Brian bumpinga round in there. 

            2:13 PM  I am in the warming shed for the ice skating rink at Pier Park, heating my lunch in the microwave.  I intend to have  picnic.

            I read Brian Powers my story about Fara being pregant in the beggar's ticks.  But I couldn't remember what I meant to talk about.  Next time, I need jot down what I have in mind t5o discuss, what the story brings up for me, how it resonates.  Only I didn't have time, today. 

            Then we talked about Keith's stupid behavior last night.  His throwing stuff in the sink from the bathroom cabinet.  His anger, my anger, his reading, the resolution, where he asked for a cuddle.

            I didn't mention the naked man I held in my arms.  The naked man I love, but was still angry with.  It was a relief to hold him.  The anger went away then, mostly anyway.

            I am hungry.  7 minutes and 47 seconds seems like an eternity.  Well, not really, but it seems absurdly long.  I am alone in here.

            One of the things on my to-do list that I did not get to was making a list of assignments of things to work on on the Psion Comfort.

            I wonder what the name of the lost Psion was.  I don't remember.

            I obviously still have not made an assignment list.

            I used the setting I use at home, but it is too hot, too hot to carry outside, too hot to eat.  It is a smaller size, that may have affected it.  Less food.  Now I am hungry and sad to have a smaller portion.  But I can eat something when I get home.

            I wrap the food in brown paper towels and stuff it in my backpack.  The backpack is full of cameras.  It is very heavy.  I am carrying 5 cameras, plus extra lenses.

            Now I will eat.  I am sitting in the shaede of a maple on a green picnic table.  It is breezy, but something bites my legs.  Twice.  The third time, I pack up my lunch and move on.  Stable flies.  Ugh.  I consider eating in the car or in the warming shed.

            I sit on a bench in the sun.  Armies of dragonflies hover around.  I hope they are eating the stable flies, which I am sure are in league with the devil.

            2:40 I watch the dragonflies and swoooping swallows as I ate my still hot stirfry.  Then as I eat my sauerkraut, I get another bite.  I sit there waving my legs frabbtically as I toss my lunch back in the bag and walk on.  Another stavble has found me.

            Stable flies like ankles and dragonflies and swallows fly fairly high.  As I am running away from the stable flies, I see a small delicate black-haired asian or part asian girl puulling a lager chestnut-haired girl in a red wagon who appears to be texting on a phone or small tablet.  The girl in the wagon waves at me eagerly, giggling, low.  Then I realze she's my next-door neighbor, Deanna's daughter.  I am blanking on her name.  They were gone before I had time to say more than "hi."  Is she injured?  Did she win a bet?  Why is she being pulled in a wagon?  Are they taking turns?

            I brought all these cameras, but was so eager to escape the stable flies I ran past everything.  Deanna's daughter might have posed for me.

            For DSS, I need "people" (that would ahve been a good shot), "summer," (that would have been a good shot,

            The boats, the flowers, they would all be good for "summer".  But I feel like I want to work on my "novel"(s).

            Big freighter coming uplake from Detroit. The horizon sharp to the east, but hazy to the south.  Sunshine, a few clouds, very small, a fairly stiff wind.  It was supposed to rain today, the weather, yesterday.  I didn't look today.

            Another freighter coming in, they are about to pass each other.

            The wind feels good.  Some girls are trying to get the attention of people in a boat.  "Steve, Daddy!"  The guys in the boat don't look.

            They wander through the gazebo, and I take that as the sign it's time to leave, even though they're already gone.  There are 4 of them, 2 maybe 12 or so, 2 maybe 15 or so.  All slender and pretty with long blowing hair.  One is in a very short dress, but the wind doesn't seem to blow it up. 

            There are kids fishing, that might make a good DsS picture, but I don't take their pictures.  The father doesnlt seem friendly.

            I worked a little on character sketches.  Mrs. Averick and Mr. Mallain, for R&R;  I should be working on LHI.  I am bummed out by this super heavy backpack weighing me down, literallu as well as figuratively. 

            I watxh a mother duck and her tween offspring playing and bathingg and preening and gettin on and off a small platform at the back of a boat.  I should take pictures, but with all the cameras jammed in the backpack, it seems difficult to stop and dig out the right one.  I walk on, weighed down by the heavy bag.

            At the overlook platform, someone is sitting in my regular seat.  I go around to the far sdie and suck off my pack.  Did I emntion the blood blister from struggling to get the pack on with my injured shoulder?

            There are sailboats out in the wind, a tiny one, a big one whose sail looks like a burlap bag.  I wish I could send my bag of cameras back to the car.  I am in an inward mood.

            Someone's stinky perfume is blowing in my face, hint from the universe:  time to move on.

            I keep seeing "summer" pictures, a man loading his boat, a man fishing, two women reading and rocking in rocking chairs, kids in in swimsuits with twels, peaople picnicking, but it never seems rights to get cameras and take pictures.

            A litle girl in a pink dress, her hair half-wet and tangled from wimming.  3 boys sitting on the side of the dock.  kids wading into the water.  Kids playing on the sand heap, making sand castles, floating in tubes.  Mother's sunning themselves in those low chairs.  Trying to read in the wind, real books, their pages blowing.  Someone paddling a yellow kayak with yellow paddles.  By the time I got out the long lense, they'd be out of sight.  It is only the image in my mind that would be suitable.

            How about two boys, maybe nine or ten, playing chess on a bench, one with red hair and a sunburn.

            The tuubes are clear, transparent, that is.  one yellow, one yellow green.  The kids are girls, maybe nine or ten, one blond, one chestnut.  There are people sreading blankets and people folding blankets.  People are swimming in the pool. 

            When I walk by the building where Kristina works, I wonder if she's there today, or now.  It's late.  by the time I finsih my walk, I will have to go home.  I could leave my pack and a note for Keith and still go over to R'dale, but I won't be able to work. 

            Or I could just go home and sart cutting veggies and sent HIM over.

            It's afyer 4, 4:06 on Comfort and 4:12 on the new watch and I have walked 37 minutes and was hoping to exceed 45.  I suppose if I went straight back to the car, I could get 45 and stop over at R'dale and still be home before 5.  I haven'tt ake a single picture after packing up all this gear.  I wonder if there is also a water botten in the backpack or if I left that home on the counter. 

            Perhaps if I believed in abundance and the flexibility of time, I could do all the things I wanted to do.

            I know Kieth wants to see his Mom tonight.  After dinner, probably.  I pick up the pace, best I can, and then get back too soon and have to walk some more. 

            Of course, I did walk some earlier that I didn't count.  For whatever that's worth. 

            I did succeed in parking my car in the shade, shade that is still over it.  so it won't be too much of an oven inside, thank goodness.  I walked 46 minutes, which is certainly not much more than 45.  Maybe I can walk more later.  Off to R'dale.

            At Pier Park, I said, I can pee at R'dale; at R'dale I said, I can pee at home.  I'm home.  The grass man is in my place.

            6:42 PM I am sitting on the edge of the seat on Keith's car.  We are shortly leaving to go see Keith's mother.  He is putting together some wine and Stilton to take to her.  I have peed and brushed my teeth.

            Before that, we ate potato chips and before that, we ate dinner and before that we cooked dinner.  And before that I was at Rolandale getting the tomatoes and squash and empty jars and before that I was Pier Park.

            I have not yet been online at all today, which means I don't know if anyone has emailed anything important and it means I will lose my streak at Daily challenge if I don't get on and do the challenge.

            We're driving away.  Someone else is in my parking spot.  The temperture, according to the cat is 84.  Earlier, the back yard thermometer said 86.  I was hot when I got home.

            We had hamburgers and stir fry.

            7:55 PM we are walking out behind ML's rehab after visiting her.  She had trouble staying awake, though she seemed lucid.  I wonder if she would be more alert earlier in the day.

            Well, I did get a little extra walking, not a lot, but some, didn't time it.

            Friday, August 14, 2015, 4:17 PM am walking to PO then Village --I wrote a note to K and the forgot to put the time on, what a dunce I was trying to hurry.  ;{

            All day I kept changing my plans.  I wanted to walk to R'dale and back, water the plants, work on Little Hog Island.  But then I relaized I had to shop for food and mail a letter.  Thought I could so one on the way, one on the way back, like I did Wednesday.  But I was having trouble organizing everything, wanted to get some thank you cards made, but running out of thank you cards.  Thinking I might walk to VM, then drive to Rolandale and walk there.  Farting with art for cards and with the printer and then ate the lunch I was going to take to R'dale and then farted some more with the printer which won't feed photo paper and the next thing I know it was after 4:00 and Keith is coming home ar 5.  He may be working tomorrow and coming home at 3. 

            Friday afternoons is the worst time to go to the postoffice, too.

            I did not even write a letter to Tom, I made him four cards and put them in envelope.  I had written a letter to him a while ago, and never mailed it.  Rob, too, never downloaded it to something I could print from.  It's may or may not be downloaded into the Psion section of Harry Potter.  I don't even remember now whether I wrote it on Comfort or Aamira or what.  Sigh.  I could write a letter to him on here annd mail it separately.

            What I wanted to do today is write, work on LHI, which I intended to do at Rolandale while watering plants etc.

            I made the mistake of working on my to-do list and worrying about my thank you notes etc.  Doing one each day seemed reasonable, if the printer has cooperated.

            I want to send cards to Sara, Heidi, Mubin, Linda P etc, and to Tom.  And others.

            I also wanted to walk or drive on the way to R'dale to Jo-Anne Fabrics and get more cards.  But there's not time now before Keith c omes hoem from work.  I am chastising myself.  Should I have bnot tried to print new card images?  Should I have not tried to make a second set after the first set of four, since I needed more than 4.  Should I have stuck to plan A and walked straight to R'dale as soon as I got dressed?

            4:33 I am at the Post Office with my package of cards for Tom which does not include the new one.  Which means I may write to him again, with a letter and the new card.

            Over the post office windows, there is a sign that says, "Window section, as if we can't tell.  The two women as the desk look very much alike,, slender, with long straight chestnut hair. 

            4:37 Comfort time, well, that was a quicker line than usual for a Fridat afternoon.  So now I am headed to Village.  Don't think I cna make it home by 5, but I am sure going to try.

            5:04 PM Comfort time, headed home with a bag of groceries.  That is, a backpack full of groceries.

            I was hoping to get home before Keith, but I may not make it.  All the cars coming out of the parking lot must be in hurry--they zoom out in front of me, rathert han waiting.

            I think I see Keith coming, way at a distance.  I also hear thunder.  It's definitely Keith and is supposed to rain, but I still have 15 minutes to walk.  Maybe I should so now, before the rain starts.

            5:12 PM after a hug and walking a short ways with me, Keith took the groceries in so I could at leats hopefully get 45 minutes of walking before the storm hits.  I am now on 35:47

            I am walking around twoard the back side of the block.  The wind is freshening and the grey cloud approaching rapidly and the thunder getting closer.  I hope I can my minimum walk in before it rains.

            The clouds are impressive looking.  But nothing is happening yet. 

           

            Earlier, when I was walking to the PO, I saw three kids, spoke to one of them, and now, I see them running on the street behind our street.  The tallest one waves.  Smiles.  He is not the one who spoke to me earlier, but I spoke to him.  I think they are running from the coming storm.

            If I end up walking just 45 minutes, I will try to walk more later if reasonably possible.

            Saturday, August 15, 2015, 2:29 PM I am off like a turd of hurtles to do some errands--Shit goddamp dogs poop I think I forgot the cards and will have to go back and I alreadyed a block on the other side of the street, don't even know where they are. Okay now that I've walked a block back the other and nearly got run down by a speeding car going way faster than 25 mph which is the speed limit, I discovered that I did in face have the cards, GAK, and here I am trying desperately to hurry because there is no way that I can do everything on my errands list, Post Office, Jo-anne, and VM before Keith gets home at 3 and he may want to go visit his Momn to see how she is earlier in the day and maybe find someone to talk to.

            Anyway, I'm off again.  I have NOT been online.  I did NOT do my exercises.  The first thing I did when I got up was work on Little Hog Island, the section for the next Ewald meeting, whichI've been wanting to do.  And haven't had time.  Apparently, to have time to do my work, I have to skip everything else. 

            So I did that and had breakfast and lunch, went over that section multiple times on the computer and once after printing it once, then printed it for Keith to go over.  I also read ahead a ways and did some minor editing there, as well.  Everything takes so long.

            One of crazy guys who walks and talks and mumbles and shouts is walking on the other side of the street.  Talking, ranting.  I haven't heard his story, hope it's not as awful as they other guy's, the guy that rides a bicycle. 

            He just crossed over in front of me.  Oh my, I think he is wearing the isentical shorts that I am wearing, grey camo cargo pants.

            There is a cicada on the sidewalk.  It is on its back.  I think ut is dead and try to pick it up thinking to take it home.  Paint is gold.  Put it in an assemblage.  But flutters violently.  Can't seem to get its footing, so I carefully, after several tried, poke it over to the grass and turn it rightside up.  It fights me going over, but once on the grass, lies still.  I wonder if something is wrong with it. 

            The ranting man walks faster than I do and pulls ahead, farther and farther.  At the corner of the next block, he stops for what seems and inordinate amount of time as I slowly catch up.  Finally he moves on.  I do not wnat to be bbear him because he frightens me, though he seems harmless.

            2:46 PM Cormfort time.  I am at the post office.  It took me 17 minutes to get here, including the stupid walking back and forth.  Keith will come home, and I won't be there.  I left a note.  I told him he could call me and pick me up whereever I was if he needed me, eg to go immediately to ML's.

            The line is longer than yesterday and moving slowly, despite there being three open windows.

            2:52 PM the thank you cards to Sam and Joan are mailed and I am back out on the hot street, watching a recumbant bike pedal by with two flags, low among fast moving cars, the Amercan flag on top weathered and tonr into shreds at the edges.  How to win friends (not) and influence people.  By which I mean the abundant republican rednecks.

            On the other hand, if the flag is that beat up ad he's still alive, maybe he's safe.

            I am headed through the alley behind Jo-anne's now, past Wendy's.  I never know anymore of the gate at Wedny's will be locked or not.  I used to cut through there before I found it locked.  Today, it is mostly closed but not locked,, but I amready here.

            I forgot to time the walk from the PO to Jo=anne's was walking fast, for me.  If I time going back, I can add tthat time in. 

            3:13 PM I cut through Wendy's not-quite-closed gate and head back for VM, after stopping in front of Wendy's at their big brick sign to load my purchases into my backpack:  Tow pacakes of blank cards, total of 100 cards and envelopes, a package of cards to put under the art or photos, a 3-pack of double stick tape, and some letter stamps for Frankie.

            I put them in the smaller puch.  One would think that after just shopping yesterday, Iw ould not have that much to get, but in fact, I do, because I made a large stirfry yesterday (last night) and used up all the broccoli, Brussels sprouts and baby cut carrots. 

            Oh, look, I am approaching the post office.  I will check my stop watch.  It says 23 minutes, which means it probably took me about 6 minutes to walk from the PO to Joanne's and I can add six minutes to my total time when I finish. 

            I think about reviewing what I have written below for R&R, but there are so many cross streets I have to navigate that trying to concentrate on what I am writing could be difficult, and reading even more so.

            3;41 PM shit that took a long time.  :{  I am headed for home.  I have a very heavy backpack and one extra bag, making if difficult to write.

            4:06 PM I am out on another walk.  I forgot to stop my watch when I got home.  I calculated that I walked 44 minutes, not counting walking around inside Jo-Anne and Village Market.  So probably alogther at least 45 minutes, but since I could be certain, and since Keith is paying bills, I'm walkinga ain, just to be sure. 

            Monday, August 17, 2015, 4:17 PM, I am headed for the library to return Maragaet Atwood's Life before man.

            My hips hurt , and I had a two-hip collapse 20 minutes ago or so.  I sadly decided that since I need to walk and it hurt too much walk, to take pain pills and Meloxicam, Aceteminophen, and put voltaren on my hips.  Ugh.  I wonder why.  Too many toatoes?  Poato chips, dunno.  Here I am, trying to be "good" and failing miserably.  Apparently.

            4:45 I forgot to start my watch when I left home, I was in such a hurry!  So Istarted it leaving the library.  I did write down the Comfort time shortly after I started, so I ahve that as well.  4;17 I started.  Thatw as comfort time.  It was 4:48 when I got to the libary, but that was wtch time, I thing they are six minutes apart, I really should coordinate them.  Comfort says 4:47 now and I am a block from the libary, it just turned to 4:48. 

            It usually takes me about 25 minutes to walk to the library, but with bad hips, even though I was trying to walk fast,  half an hour is proabbly fairly accurate.  Because though I was trying to walk fast, I was also reading and writing.  And stopping occasionally to make some correction.

            I am readin Hush Hush, now. 

            down below, I wrote about meeting a boy and his dog.  There us a dead baby bird on the sidewalk.  Keith will be arriving home soon and I won't be there, but he will have to put away his bike, check the mail, put away hiis backpack, and pee, all things that do not involve me.

            5:10 Comfort time, 5:15 watch time   walked 53 minutes.

            Tuesday, 3:23 PM Comfort time, 3:30 watch time--WOW 7 minutes difference, so what time is it really.  3:28?  Or?

            Anyway, I am out walking to Village Market around the block the long way with the cicadas buzzing and humming and the sun shining.  Yahoow eather said it was 72, but I think it's warmer.  However, it doesn't seem too humid, even though it rained earlier. 

            I walk past the green apples on the ground.  I don't want to put them in my pocket for fear someone at VM will think I stole them.  A lot of them have bite marks in them. Some may be human bite marks, but many are clearly squirrel bite marks. Good that someone or some thing is getting some use out of them.

            An "older woman" (my age maybe), with sloped shoulders, overweight, limoing a little, passes me.  She says into her cell phone, I ironed for over two hours.  WHAT?  Really?  She looks old, fat and uncomfortable, but she's walking faster than I am.  Of course, I am old, fat, uncomfortable, and writing on a compuuter while I am walking.  I think that may slow one down more than talking on the cell phone.

            She's way ahead of me now.

            5:59 PM I am out walking again, walking to the 15 minute tree and back, after going to Rolandale, watering the plants, harvesting squash and tomatoes and a little broccoli (most of the broccoli isn't ready yet).  I didn't download the Psion because it had gotten so late. 

            Keith worked ten and is home but I asked permission to go walk so I wouldn't have to do it after dinner.  He has to get up at 2 AM tomorrow morning, so has to go to bed early.

            I wonder if that means he'll be home early.  No, it does not.  He has to go see Scrogin. 

            I wrote about LHI and then moved it to it's own section below to keep ut together. 

            I was thinking that it's ironic that when I had dogs, I wished for a fenced-in yard, for years, now I have a fenced in yard at R'dale and no dogs.

            When I get home, I cannot take my pants off and relax, because is home.   I like not being restricted by tight waistbands and pockets full of crap. 

            My hips hurt, and my foot and shoulder.

            Thursday, August 20, 2015, 12:58 PM  Comfort time, the new watch says 1:04  I am in Brian Powers' waiting room.  I drove the wrong way on on one-way street trying to avoid a blockade of trucks, ak, and the Washington, the way I normally go was closed.

            4:03 PM Pier Park, I am running late because of going to see Sydney and help her after seeing BP who kept me almost a half hour late.  A big black cloud has come up.  And a big wind.

            A man arrives with two little girls and is going to get a cart.  The grils want their own wagons and dump their backpacks and stuff in their wagons and the three set off for the picnic area and choose an area and the man is pushing tables tother.    It was so perfect. 

            I like the water, one can see so much sky and horizon from here.  More than I can see the edges of if I face the center of the open water.  (More than 180 degrees.) 

            The horizon is a black line, which turns paler as it moves toward shore.  The water reflects a mix of blue sky, white and grey clouds, and sometimes, sparkles of sun.  The wind is strong, variable and erratic in the sense that it doesn't always appear to be coming from the same spot. 

            The sun peeps out, then fades.  All the aluminum sailboat masts are bonking out tunes.  Two people are fishing, a young blond woman and a grey haired man.  "You've got to come over to my house," the woman says, "I've got some great worms."  She may be his daughter, she's smiling fondly at him, or that's how I interpret it.

            The wind whisles in the rigging of the sailboats.

            I'm going to talk about Bria Powers, which I was going to do below, but maybe I will copy the relevant parts below, in the LHI section. 

            Keith will come home at five and I will not be there.  We haven't been to see ML for a while.  K's been on ten and Wednesday, he got up at 2 AM and then was tired, and Tuesday went to bed early and of course, I had Ewald last night.  I'd like to sit and relax, but I didn't walk at all last night.  I mean yesterday, because I worked on my novel all day. OK, I chaned my mind, I will write this below.  In the LHI section.

            What I was going to say is, or maybe I already said it, that I'd like to sit and rest and relax a little, but I also need to walk and hour and need to get home.  I want to walk an hour to start making up for missing a walk yesterday.

            4:41 PM I walked 30 minutes and then sat on the observation platform and wrote about LHI.  Now I want to walk another 30 minutes.  I hope Keith remembers that he can call me on my cell phone.

            I'm carry the 30D but haven't taken any pictures.  The windsock is totally horizonatl.

           

                        *          *          *          * EJ End Journal EJ EJ

            *          *          *          *          *BS/ journalling re LHI LHI

8-18-15            And I have my Novel-writing group at Ewald and am very sad about my novel, LHI.  Keith doesn't think the central act of the novel is feasible, and without that, the novel falls apart, at least at this point, unless I can figure out a whole new premise for it and thatw ould require extensive revsison. 

            Keith suggested the premise is fictional and everything we have learned is unture.  But if so, there has to be an alternate premise, what really did happened, that has to fit everything else.  If everyone is living a lie, why the lie?  And how can all the frangmebts be explained by the new central truth (rather than lie)?

            Very confusing and upsetting. I'm not sure what do do and tomorrow is the day.  I started workinge arly and thought I was all set.  I've been so happy working on the novel, reading and editing, and to think it is all for nothing, perhaps.  I love my chateracters.

            What chocies do I have?

•          find a way to prove that the origainal central fact of the novel could actually have happened.  gather evidence and prepare to present it.

•          find an alternate scenario that would explain the things I have written about such as:  the babies are not all Billy's, Billy was "nice" as everyone things and actually was messing with all the girls at once. 

•          Put the novel aside, yet again, and work on a different one. 

8-20-15            I took out the part of the novel that was in the section I was going to read last night, which was about the rape of Ami and the girls by Billy Owens, and moved it later in the novel, although I will have to rewrite it and everything a little to make it all fit again.

            I went over it again, made some very minor revsisons and corrections, and took it to Brian Powers today, as the topic of cour discussion.  I was gratified to learn that he was supportive of what I had written and felt that is was important and timely and relevant and real and that it could have happened that way, absolutely.  I think he was serious and not just being "supportive."

            He believes, or says he believes, that a lot of factors influence the body's reaction to sexual stimuli, and the body does not always do what one expects.  Sexual stimuli, peer pressure, and so on could cause an erection, especially in a teenage boy, and he says that he believes Billy could definbitely impregnate all those girls.  (He did, however, agree that I should do further research.)  (Which I intend to do.)  He thought it was valiant and important that I am exploring this, because I had told him of a situation where I was being sexually assaulted and was terribly upset and guilty because even though I did NOT want the sexual assault, I still had an orgasm.  He said that was the bodes natural response to that kind of stimuli.  (I still find it upsetting, but in my case, I broke free and escaped and was not raped.  This was before my acttual rape.)

            I want to write this story during the time when Dana explores the possibilities of Billy's having raped all four of the girls.  I want to write my story and give it to Dana or Dorothy or Peggy or Rheta or Ami or Clara or Ella or Nan.  I'm not sure who's going to tell that story as a sort of confirmation of the possibilty.  But one of them will, and the Dana will say, "Yes, I've had an experience like that, too," and tell the story of the guy who twiddled her off in the crash pad or the crowd (there could be three such stories, or more), "But," Dana said, "it's one thing for a female to have an orgasm in the situation and another for a guy to have both an erection and an orgasm."

            Nan or someone calls a gyn, no, a urologist or someone.  (Write Hal Phillips, etc), and asks them and reports their answer, but before I have them confirm it's possible for that to happen, I'd better be sure that it is, in fact possible.  It doesn't have to be common, but it does have to be possible.

            "So, it was one of the first orgasms I ever had, at least that remember.  I'd stayed late for biology club and was walking home and it started to rain, then hail, big hailstones the size of mothballs.  They really hurt."

            "That's a weird things to consider erotic!"

            "Shut up and listen.  This is a little embarrassing.  Don't make it any harder.  So anyway, I ran up the steps of the methodist church, you know, where the overhand is, because the door is kind recessed there?  Anyway, a whole gang of boys, maybe six or seven of them, ran up behind me and crowded into the doorway.  Itw as Brignad, Finley, Fred, and bunch of their cronies.  They were laughing jabbing at each other because some one of them had cut a huge fart in Detention and stank the whole place up and Raymie Wadsworth, who was in Detention duty that day, had to open all the windows.

            Then Finley said, hey, look what that cat drug in, and they all pointed at me.  Hang onto her, Brigand, Finley said, I want to see what her tits feel like.  Brigand squeezed behind me and pressed his crotch against my butt.  I could feel his penis--his hard-on--I didn't actually know much about hard-ons then--pushing against my butt.  I was trying to beat Finley away, he was unbuttoning my blouse, trying to reach into my bra, and Brigand was reaching up under my skirt with one hand and all the other boys were reaching and grabbing and making kissing noises and saying bad words. 

            "Suddenly, I just kind of melted and waves of heat and pleasure, pleasure of all thing, went through me.  I was having an organasm, and I didn't even know what it was.

            "Look at that shit-eating grin," Finley said. 

            "I was furious, totally furious.  I ripped away from them and dashed into the rain and ran and ran and ran.  I thought they might be after me, but they weren't.  The sudden hail had stopped and rain had dwindled and I stopped under another overhand, under Hendrick's Drugs, and quickly rearrnaged myself, buttoning the buttons and tucking things back in. 

            "I didn't want to have sex with anyone, let along Brigand, Finley, Fred, and there stink-fart friends.  I wasn't asking for it.  It wasn't intercourse, but it sure was an orgasm.  I didnt' ask for it and I didn't want it and I was ashamed of my body having taken such pleasure from such a dusgusting and unwanted event.  But it did.  I never told anyone about it before, I was so ashamed, even though I dont' think I did anything to provoke it.  I eman, I was NOT asking for it, and was not even wearing a short skirt or anything.  Back then, we had to wear dresses or skirts before our knees, and if we didn't we go sent home to change and detention."

            "I had an experience like that, too.  I was on a field trip to Boston (?), and we were riding the MTA, and it was at rush hour, and were crammed in like sardines, and this man was pressed up against me . .  . uh . . .like you said Brigand was, you know, I feel his excitement.  I didn't know him.  He stuck his briefcase between his feet and inched one hand into my pants and the other into my bra.  I was holding on to the railing up above with one hand and had my backpack in the other hand (Phip said not to wear it on out backs because of the pickpockets) and I tried to clutch the backpack between my knees and push his hands away, but he was strong and it was so crowded and I was too embarrased to ask for help and then it happened, you know, an orgasm.  I was mortified.  And he was grinning and chuckling.  I wanted to slap him, but instead, I crowded through everyone until I was standing next to Phip. The movement of the subway kept pushing my body against him, making me so embaraased, but I couldn't move away.  Every time I bumped against him, I said, I am' sorry, I'm sorry, and he said, it's not your fault, and I was hoping he meant everything, that none of it was my fault.  But of course, I didn't say that and didn't really believe it, either.  Sometimes, I still feel ashamed." 

            "I had an experience like that, too," Dana said, "but is it the same with guys.  If they don't like some say ugly woman and she's rubbing their crotches, will the get a hard on?  Could she make them come?"

            *          *          *          *          end BS/ journaling re LHI

            *          *          *          *  Margaret Atwood's Life before man

            Margaret Atwood's Life Before Man.  I have read this before, at least once, maybe twice, but I had forgotten the details.  I enjoyed the book, though it is pretty depressing.  I enjoyed Margaret Atwood’s perceptions and depth of feeling even though the feelings were often uncomfortable.  I like Margaret Atwood a lot, but this is not my favorite book of hers.  I found it disheartening.  The characters were reasonably likable, but very flawed (aren’t we all) and kept making choices that were upsetting to me.  The book is about marital infidelity and life in general.  But it seemed to be all the downside of things without a balance of up.

            *          *          *          *  end Margaret Atwood's Life before man

            *          *          *          * R&R bS  Brainstorming for Rema and Romula (R&R)

            I really liked the character sketch that Sydney did for Andrei's father.  It included a lot backstory detail, injuries and their affect on him, hobbies. Attitudes.World view.  Secrets.   It occurs to me as i am writing this, that it would be better if Alan Mallain studied Limnology rather than Marine biology, considering he's in Detroit, near a big lake and lots of small ones, but no oceans.  What I started to say was, I'd to create that kind of depth with my character studies.

            I wonder if my Mrs. Deitrich was German or Jewish.  That is, if she was just German (or ???) or German and Jewish.  When I was a kid, I was unaware of Jewishness.  The original Mrs. Dietrich, I mean.  I wonder if she is still alive.  If so, she'd be very old.  Probably not.  I wonder how old she was when Iwas in 8th grade.  My perception of the age of adults was soemwhat skewed by being a child myself.  Whatever the real Mrs. Dietrich was, MY fictional Mrs. Dietrich is something else.  She's what I make her.  However, she doesn't appear in thsi book, necessarily, at all.  But is important in other books.  And as Mrs. Averick's "sister". 

            At one point, I was going to write separate stories about Argiki, Effie, Keisha, Kylie etc.  A whole series of separate novels with each of them writing their own.  That's extremely ambitious, considering all the projects I already have going, and unfinished.

            I am thinking that there needs to be two library groups, so that the kids don't all meet right away, one at Ewald and one elsewhere.  The Woods Branch?  (Note:  Is the Woods Branch called Parnell Or Parcell? as Keith suggested, check this out.)  Would those kids go to North? (YES) So they wouldn't know the other kids?  Small groups.  Very small.  Two teachers, a man and a woman, Mrs. Averick at Ewald and Mr. whom?  Should it be Mr. Averick?  Mrs. Averick's husband?  Or Mr. Mallain, the only black teacher at North?  They could call him "Malign."  Or "Villain."  I need a name, though, that has a possible more postive meaning.  (Like Maverick for Averick.)  Or, if I can't think of something that would work for Mallain, can I think of another name?  He could be called "Ling Ling" because of her semi-double name (Alan Mallain).  (Question, why do I feel that having a good name for nicknames is important?)    (((Monday, A 17, I blond boy walking a big poodish dog just came toward me in a bathing suit with wet hair.  The dog was damp too, the kid wearing only a bathing suit and flip flops.  Lckily, the dog was friendly)))

            What if each group of kids has only 5 kids?  To keep the number of characters and various stories small.  And the reading aloud time at the meetings manageable.  Because already, we have the stories of Rose Red and Louise Ann or whatever her name is, Louey, and Julie Grant, and Cary Greco, Keisha, Kylie, Effie, Argiki, Antoine, Melody, and their various partners, Jam etc)

            Mrs. Averick is 50-ish, a little bit frowsy and dumpy, but wonderfully smart and great with the kids.  Mr. Mallain (or whatever I decide to call him) is big and fairly black and muscular, but smart and cheerful.  In English lit, he majored in a dual major of Early American Literature and Black literature and the same time, did both creative writing and marine biology.  He has two master's degrees and is very smart.  He attended Wayne State and the Center for Creative studies.  Mrs. Averick went to SU. 

            *

            Character Study, Mr. Alan Mallain:  Mr. Mallain (or whatever I decide to call him) is big and fairly black and muscular, but smart and cheerful.  Age 33.  Long braids which he usually wears pulled back in a pony tail.  In literature, he had a dual major of Early American Literature and Black literature and the same time, did both creative writing and limnology.  He has two master's degrees, a MS in Biology in Limnology and an MFA in creative Writing novels, and is very smart.  He attended Wayne State and the Center for Creative studies.  He lives on the lake and has a boat and often takes students out.  He is married to a white woman named Maryannah who works as a nurse at Henry Ford Hospital.  They have three children, Alan Jr, called Junior, Beth, and Tracy.  He teaches English at North High Scool in Grosse Pointe, and in addition, teaches a special class im Limnology during the summer. It is because of this Limnology class that the Novel or Novella course meets in the evenings at Woods Library. Character strengths, smart, cheerful, excellent teacher, organized, positive, strong, character flaws and weaknesses: bossy, sometimes rigid, restless, needs to move around, has a temper, which he mostly keeps under control but occasionally explodes.

            Character Study, Mrs. Delores Averick, called Avarice and Maverick by her students.  Mrs. Averick is 50-ish, a little bit frowsy and dumpy, but wonderfully smart, funny and great with the kids. Her curly black hair is greying.  Character strengths:  She is cheerful, smart, kind, generous, sometimes to a fault, character flaws:  shy, retiring, avoids confrontation, (But sometimes has a great deal of backbone when pressured).   Sometimes cranky when her arthritis flares up.  Loves cats, has a Siamese named Juliet (or?) who has kittens and she gives one to Keisha and Kylie.  Mrs. Dietrich is her sister.  (?)  (Or could be, why not?) 

           

            Backstory for Mallain and Averick:  they meet at a writer's conferince at Oberlin College in Ohio.  They've met before,, but only briefly, casually.  There they meet Mrs. Deitrich of the Novel Project, and she tells them of the state and Federal grants available for working with kids.  They apply and win a grant for teaching novel writing, something they are both interested in.  Each of them has written at least one novel, neither has yet been published.  Doing this workshop (and the publicity surrounding it) brings them to the attention of a local publisher and both their books get published by the end of the novel, or accepted anyway.  Maybe just accepted.  I wonder if the kids might discover their novels (or novellas?) and read them. Perhaps excerpts are read at some libary event and published in the paper. Maybe it's a novella workshop.  A collection of novellas would fit better in a novel-length work (mine).  Or even short stories.    Maybe the publisher publishes Averick's and Mallain's novellas or short stories  along with the kids (or vice versa).  Maybe they met the publisher at the same conference, a novella conference, and she offers to publish collections of novellas.  Or novellas and short stories?

            The things is geting away from me again.  The main story is about Rema and Romula.  Then, there is the Misfit's club, which is basically the combined two writing groups, because each of the kids has some things they feel sets them apart from everyone else, even Melody.

            Meody is a white girl.  She's pretty.  She's smart.  So, how does she fit into the misfits club?  In reality, nearly everyone is some sort of misfit.  But forgetting that for now, how precisely does Melody fit? 

            I can't have her be anything that I can't write about.  In other words, she can't have been raised by a black family in Detroit, because I can't talk black talk.  ((I don't want to walk behind a running car, either, so I turn back before I want to))).  Melody could abused, she could have been raped, she could have fibromyalgia, she could have a brain tumor.  She could have diabetes.  She could have been lost in the mountains during a blizzard and been the only survivor, or the only survivor of sailing accident that killed everyone else.  She could have had a boyfriend who died tragically or stupidly.  Her boyfriend and her uncle or father or mother or sister could have been in the sailing accident or in the blizzard in Colorado.  She could have been the only survivor of a bridge collapse.  Or a school bus accident that killed her best friend.  She could be the sole survivor of a school or school bus shooting.  She could have been visiting the twin towers at 911.  Dang, I had some more ideas, but in rereading what I'd written, I forgot them.  Her mother could have committed suicide and her father died of some rare disease and she could have come to live with Uncle who has since abandoned the family.  (Or chnage the sexes of all of those.)  I like that one the best, but have already used it in another story or two. 

            Character Study, Melody Ellen Langston.  Melody is (however ever old the other kids are ??).  She is very pretty, blond hair, wavy, bright blue eyes, shapely figure, very smart, friendly and cheerful on the surface.  But she has a deep well of sadness because her father committed suicide and her mother died or a rare blood disease.  She was adopted by her aunt Margeuax French, who is currently having an affair with her car machanic and is seriously considering leaving her family, all four of her biological kids and Melody.  Or taking them away from Horace, the cuckolded husband and beloved father, even of Melody (her uncle and "father" both).  The car machanic is short, has 2 long braids like an indian that he ties back when he's working on cars.  He has two years of college in car mechanics at at community college and is attractive, younger than Horace, works out with weights, as very athletic.  Horace is an insurance saleman who does very well, a dancer, and likes to arrange flowers.  He is sweet and loving and gentle and dotes on the kids, including Melody, and his wife.  He is very forgiving and wabnts his wife back.  Melody is caught in the middle of all this.  Her anunt Margeaux is her biological relative, and basically a nice person, but it is her Uncle Horace that she loves best.  She does love Aunt Margeaux, too, but is angry at her for cuckolding Horace, angrier than Horace.  Melody has another secret.  So far, she has told no one the entire story and her role in it.  When she was on the bus from Pocatello Idaho, where she lived with her biological parents, she sat with a sweet, but overly talkitive old woman who kept kindly asking her questions.  Melody was grief-striken and frozen from the shock of her mother's unexpected death.  She had died of complications of an experimental procedure that was supposed to help with her rare blood disease.  The doctor had seemed so sure she would be much improved by the procedure.  Instead, something had gone wrong and she had died.  Died!!  And this woman had somehow pried that out of her and was offering syympthy and offered to hold her while she cried and Melody had started howling and jumped up and ran to the back of the bus and locked herself in the bathroom.  The old woman had followed her back and was apologizing when the bus stopped suddenly because of a sudden fender bender in front of it and had been struck from behinnd by a semi pulling a tilerload of iron bars.  The old woman who had been kind to her was killed.  Melody herself was splashed with terrible effluvium from the bus's toilet, who's holding tank had split in the collision.  She'd been banged up, sprained a wrist, but was otherwise unharmed.  She felt that it was her fault that old woman had died.  Hell it fucking was her fault, as none of the passengers around where they'd been sitting were seriously injured, and she'd come back to try to console Melody.  Melody had heard her out there saying, sweetheart, it's okay to mourn, and stuff like that.

            The cops had talked to everyone and Melody had said she was in the bathroom, which was true, and obvious from the filth on her.  (How was this handled?)  She was taken to a Y nearby where she showered and put on Fresh clothes fromk her baggage --she thre the soiled ones away, including her favorite sneaks, because she couldn't think how to get them clean and she was traveling alone.  This happened two years earlier, but she still hasn't talked about it.  She keeps dreaming not only about her dead parents, but about the woman who died trying to comfort her.