It started with cleaning a window.  Then it was four, and the curtains had to go in the wash.  Now the winter clothes are in the washing machine, the dishes are whirring in the dishwasher, and I've started reclaiming my elder son's room from the swamp for upcoming guests.  Hanging up the pile of (I think) clean clothes which he left on his bed before dashing back to college, I found two things which amazed me.  The first was that (after about half an hour) his closet still has a floor.  The second was The Red Cape.

Made from the skirt of a dress I adored and which I wish with all my heart (but not enough to exercise) would still fit me today, I cut and hand stitched this bright red wool cape, complete with cord ties.  It was originally part of a Bionic Bunny costume when Son Number One was about four years old.  It never actually got put away after that.  In a normal home the room off the kitchen would be the den.  There's a television, and DVDs, and a reasonably comfy couch.  In our home it is and has always been known as "The Pirate Room" from the days when Fisher Price cannon balls sailed across it day and (k)night.  There were castles and cannons, pirates and dragons all over the place.  These now reside in the attic waiting for the next generation.  I couldn't bear to give them away.  But there is still a coat rack in the corner of the room with a bowler hat, one of Himself's old suit coats, canes, and various other props for dress up.  If you ever need a quick costume, I am your "go to" girl.  The red cape hung on this hook for ages.  I haven't seen it in what feels like a century.

There it was, on the floor of the closet, buried under the Star Wars bath towel.  I had a vague memory of his having taken it to college with him last year for some really obscure costume, but I haven't given it much thought since them.  And here it is, like an old friend.  It heartens me that it's still part of his arsenal of "important stuff" which just doesn't get put away.  Ever.  Underneath that stubbly beard, deep voice, and swaggering gait, my baby is still in there someplace.  Hallelujah!  Like the dress that became a cape, it's all one piece.  We're all one piece.  We change and mutate, but it's still all in there, somewhere; our histories, our whimsies, our joys.  They're never really lost.  Sometimes you just have to move the Star Wars bath towel to find them.

It's not exactly a "lazy Sunday" today.  I still have a reading to do at Mass, and a house that looks as though there were no survivors in some sort of horrible grenade explosion.  The grass on the lawn could be braided, except it's too wet out there to attempt that, so mowing will have to wait for another day.  Or maybe it will be scything....  Still, after a week of doing both jobs from ten in the morning until ten at night, it is sheer heaven to sit here with my cup of tea and tap away.

It is now officially autumn, whether we like it or not.  Although after doing the research on how many Weight Watcher Points Plus are in a Dunkin Donuts pumpkin latte that is no longer one of the delights of the season for me, I'm still waiting for Harpoon's "Winter Warmer" to make its appearance on the shelves of my local "packie".  I can cope with this.

Closing out the registers at the boutique the other night, the three of us discovered our math skills were rusty at best, so in trying to figure out by what percentage we had increased our "UPT" or "units per transaction" I did the only sensible thing.  I called my Physics major in Cleveland who solved the problem in approximately twenty seconds.  It was a moment of humility and pride all at once.  I bow before the master.  I discovered a long time ago that I don't actually need to know anything.  I just have to be able to figure out whom to ask.

Tomorrow is a day off.  Neither job requires my attention.  The possibilities are making me giddy.  I was hoping to use the gift certificate for a massage, but they couldn't fit me in until next Tuesday.  Perhaps there is a "mani-pedi" in my decadent future.  More likely, I'll be up in the attic dragging down the winter clothes for a wash and getting the house ready for company which will be wending their way hither in October.  That suits me fine.  It's time for gathering in front of the fireplace with a good friend or two and a cup of cocoa (or a Winter Warmer) and taking stock of my blessings, which fortunately number much higher than the Weight Watchers Points Plus in a Dunkin Donuts pumpkin latte.

It's actually cool this morning, and although I feel as though I totally missed summer this year, I'm OK with that.  The sound of the school bus, the turning leaves, the ridiculous amount of fake foliage in my living room (it was time to put away the forsythia, I guess) make me long for pointy pencils and new composition books.  Why is September New Year for me?  I'm not even Jewish. But "Shanah Tovah" to those of you who are. 

The thought of shoveling does not excite me, but I can get more done in this weather.  Summer makes me lazy and cranky. Autumn fills me with unfounded optimism.  Possibilities seem endless.  Every day feels like a new chance to get it right.  In writing that I realize that every day is a new chance to "get it right".  Every day is New Year's.  So go out there and try to be kind to everyone you meet today.  Be their messenger/angel and see them.  Too many people are invisible; the cop on the corner, the guy at the newsstand, the signalman in the subway.  Let them know you see them.  Smile at them and wish them a great day.  Thank them for the job they do.  They will think you're nuts, but it will give you a warm, cozy feeling inside.  And on a day as cool as this, that's not a bad idea.

I am not, by nature, a big cemetery goer.  While the Corporal Works of Mercy invite us to "visit the sick and bury the dead", nowhere is there anything about "visiting the dead" so I just tend not to do that, although I carry those I love and have lost with me all the time.  But when I was recently in Elmira, New York, I found myself drawn to the graveside of one of my favorite writers in the world, Samuel Langhorne Clemens, A.K.A. Mark Twain. 
Himself and I had just come from visiting the study Twain's sister-in-law had built on her property for him.  It's a glorified gazebo and now sits on the lawn at Elmira College and gives the local high school kids a job for the summer as they greet visitors and hand out pencils.  It was lovely, but it didn't move me the way his very simple burial place did.  While there is a large monument, erected by his one surviving child in memory of Twain and of her husband, the basic setting is very humble and sweet.  Twain lost two daughters and his beloved wife before his own death, and the inscriptions on their tombs, written by the heartbroken father, cut to my heart. 

Nestled in amount the trees with his girls by his side, he is just "Father" and all the hoopla about the amazing characters he created that have become part of the American fabric disappears.  I don't know what I was expecting, but the humility of the man, the solid grasp of what actually mattered has had me praying for his soul ever since.  I hope the reunion was a happy one and that his anger has been transformed into joy.  I only wish I had had the opportunity to buy the guy a beer and listen to him talk.  Well, maybe one of these days I'll get the chance yet.

It's one-thirty in the morning and I've just changed my Face Book address to Paris, France because, hey, why not?  Why do they need to know where I live?  And if I'm going to lie, I figure I should lie with style.

The coffee at lunch was a mistake.  At least the second (or was it third) cup certainly was, and I should know by now that I REALLY need to order de-caf.  I can't taste the difference anyway, so why do I put myself through this?  Some of us just never learn.  If the kids were still home I'd have plenty of company since they never sleep anyway.  The zombies stay up until what Uncle Jim used to charmingly call "sparrow fart" and I have no idea how they manage to maintain such good grades with the habits they have, but you can't argue with success.

This combination of exhaustion and hyper-activity is interesting.  I listen to the hum of the fan and wonder why it's not as soporific as I usually find it.  In fact, it's getting borderline annoying, but it's too warm to turn it off.  So I'll sit up long enough for the little blue Tylenol to kick in and count my blessings, which are myriad.  Meanwhile, "bon soir" from gay Paree....or is it "bon jour"?