Here it is Monday again and yes, it's still raining, left over from Sunday (I know it Wednesday when this is posted, but it's Monday as I write it.

And this lady (me) does not much feel like writing today, but I will try.

Bolo (remember my clown, my jokester) is down today, sitting at the bottom of a deep dark hole, and even McDonald's doesn't have its usual cheering and galvanizing affect. His uncle was shot Saturday night in Albany. He was DJing at a party and was shot and killed.

You have to realize that Bolo does not live with his parents. That's a forbidden subject we never discuss, his lives with his much beloved grandmother. His uncle from Albany is a link to his dad, and Bolo speaks proudly and often about his uncle from Albany. It's "My uncle from Albany is coming to pick me up today" or "My uncle from Albany brought me these shoes" and so on and so on.

Last week at Quest, he was very hyper and, yes, even a little annoying, so when he called me today, the first thing I asked him was if he was going to be less noisy today. There was this silence for a while, and this small little voice spoke up and said "I'll probably be quiet all week." I was all set to tease him when he added "My uncle was shot on Saturday."

Sometimes you can never find the right thing to say; this was such a time. There was a long, protracted silence, and then I said."Bolo, I'm going to give you a choice: Would you like the day off, do you need to be alone, or shall I come get you and you can ride along with me?"

Again, a long stillness, and then "Could you come and get me? I'd like to sit and ride and talk to you."

And so it was, once again the Quest van rolled on, carrying someone's life and story as its precious cargo. We rode the streets, eating McDonald's, sharing the sights and yelling at and waving to people we knew.

Bolo and I, two mismatched cowboys of the Hill, hitting the streets and just being together, no questions asked and no answers given, until finally, Bolo said, "You can let me off here." Being quintessentially a Hill male, he said, "I'm going to shoot some baskets and work off some steam." And so I stopped the van, he got out and I drove on.

I drove to pick up Ann, whose teeth were hurting, so I drove her to Hometown Health because I could see the pain was wearing her down, tearing her apart. We had her two children with us, and the question was the best way to handle this.

Ann has been having issues with her wisdom teeth off and on for about eight months. She would go to the dentist, he would give her a prescription, she would go home and take her pills. The last time, June it was, she didn't use up the entire script, so she was hoping just to go to the health center, fill the remaining sections and in doing so get some relief for the pain.

Inside, a very impertinent person told her "No, this prescription is too too old, come in tomorrow morning and see the dentist, and don't forget your $20 co-pay."

Ann came out almost hysterical with pain and embarrassment, the tooth had cracked and was bleeding and was split right to the gum line.

"I know just what will happen tomorrow" she wailed. "I've been through this twice already. He'll say the teeth need to come out, here's the address of three local dental surgeons, but bring your money when you do, they will expect cash when they do the work."

Ann has barely scraped by, workeingas many as three jobs at a time and is now facing getting her power turned off. I guess we all know the end of this story. Some antibiotics, some pain pills - just enough to clear things up temporarily, until the teeth become infected again. The choices have to be for family here, not an individual. And Ann loves her family.

I drive her to work, take her children with me for iced orange juice and I think of all the stories my van holds. It is a running (not walking) encyclopedia of Schenectady's mostly hidden lives. The lives of the poor, the sick, the lonely.

We stop by Creesha's house. "Are you still pregnant?" I stop and she comes over, she is so full of baby she waddles when she walks. She's 4 1/2 centimeters dilated, and she has been experiencing mild labor pains. She looks very pretty today, wearing the new scarf I gave her last week and laughing.

"I want this baby to come out," she laughs. "I'm tired and hot, and I just want to see what this child looks like."

We give each other hugs and I drive on. Creesha was my oasis in an arid dry afternoon.

I drive by Jerry Burell Park - all quiet over there, not many kids, I think. The streets are pretty empty, an occasional boy shoots by on his bike, a small child is chasing or being chased (it's hard to tell) by someone. Even the dogs have ceased barking and are mostly lying totally still, just listening to life as it goes by.

Kayla interrupts my reverie. The phone rings. "I'm ready for ballet," she says. "Come pick me up."

And I do. Her mom is there as I arrive and we stop for a moment and talk. It seems a girl was raped and stabbed in the parking lot of Auto Zone on Saturday night.

"Look," Jane says, "the police tape is still up."

And so it was. On a rainy Saturday night some girl's life changed forever in a corner of a seedy parking lot in Schenectady. How did it happen that these lives are minute dots on the large map of humanity? How did they just become another "Oh well" in the life of a small city?

24% of all children in this city have been homeless at least once in their lives. "Oh well."

98.6% of all children who go to Pleasant Valley are eligible for free lunch. "Oh well."

All three middle schools in Schenectady are failing. "Oh well."

Driving my car, I see drugs brazenly and openly passed from hand to hand. A young man, maybe 15, drives by me. His shirt flaps open, and there is a gun tucked in his jeans.

9 o'clock, 10 o'clock,11 o'clock at night - 3- and 4-year-old children wander the streets, barefoot and alone. They are the Hansels and Gretels of the Hill. Sometimes they even hold each other's hands. Often they are locked out of their homes and wait patiently for someone, anyone to open the door and simply let them in.

I see 5-year-old children in charge of younger brothers and sisters, hungry and dirty, living like refugees in the city of their birth.

And always I am powerless, me and my car, observers of a day and a night that makes my very soul weep. And I think of Julian of Norwich, not "Oh well," but "All shall be well and all manner of things shall be well."

And rest, I tell this grimy melancholy night, for tomorrow is another day. It will be Tuesday, and maybe it won't be raining.