I don't remember seeing so much carpet. I don't remember it being anything more than a drab shade of blue and brown. Trying to do so means that, in my mind, memories of our time as toddlers appears on a perfectly white carpet, a carpet that has never existed in this house. That is what happens when I try to remember the carpet as it once was. It's either what it is now or what it never was.

I also remember the sound. It was a jolting sound. The sound that tells a kid that things can break.

Dad was in the play area. My brother and I were in the living room, just across from it. Dad was upset about something. I think that there were toys on the floor. Why he didn't expect the toys in the playroom to be on the floor I don't know. But he was scolding us for something like that.

He picked up a truck. A toy truck. Big, bulky, wooden thing it as.There were two, one for each of us.They were the toys we didn't swing around as much. I don't even remember picking them up, though we no doubt did.

Dad had said something. It might have been the usual phrase of "If something falls: Pick. It. Up." Not that these toys would have fallen, of course; a kid was more likely to just leave them there after playing, but I guess he didn't think of that. I don't know if he was thinking in that moment when he tossed the truck towards us.

He didn't throw it /at/ us. He didn't even hit us or anything. But it did land hard. Loudly. A clunky rattle, the sound of a foot being put down on rickety playground piece. One of the axle's popped out and flew off, the truck appearing almost crippled.

I only remember that we were frightened by that. Otherwise, the memory goes blank after the sound.

There are shelves all around the house; at random moments we would get the idea to clean one of them up. The earliest occasion of this happening was a small shelf located in the corner of the play room. We used to use it for holding onto children's books. Then other people started putting any kind of book there. Then any kind of object. Then it wasn't a usable shelf anymore. but my older brother decided one day to organize it. So of course he began by throwing everything on the shelf on the floor.

This confused me at the time, so I asked him about making a bigger mess to fix a smaller mess. he just insisted that it was the best way to do it. i insisted that it wasn't, mainly because I didn't like being condescended to. But I didn't particularly care about that shelf anyway. So I left him to it.

The mess on the floor was not picked up for a very long time, however.

My dad was a race car driver. it both makes perfect sense while also being hard to believe. He's definitely the type to be into that, and not just because he actually enjoys watching those things drive around in circles over and over. He's definitely the Midwestern type, and knows more about engines than the average person.. At the same time, so much of the house is dedicated to something aside from race cars, or cars in general. You might find a scarce poster of a motorcycle, or an old racer jumpsuit. otherwise, everything i some other tool, item, knickknack, etc. Something that might be useful someday, or something that might be valuable someday, or something he might want to try someday. Tools upon tools upon tools I don't even see the purpose of. Board games that will eventually be vintage. Beer brewing kits, parts for pine cars, radios tuned to random frequencies.

As I grew up I felt very sick of it. Partly because everyone else was. Whenever Mom stepped on something, or found something she needed out of reach, or couldn't access the washer because there were boxes stacked on top of it again, she would say "Never, /ever/ grow up to be like your father." I I never fully absorbed that, but I had no intention of doing the opposite. Life was set out for me. I just had to pick a field, stick to it, and hold onto a comfy life.

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