A bunch of people came over to the house on Thompson Street the evening of the day you died. Your friends, my friends, Megan and Marc and Mom's friends. Sort of an impromptu party, though party isn't really the right word, is it? You would have enjoyed it, though. Mom said she kept thinking you were just in the other room, and I did too.
Anyway, something came up about the basement, which is accessed off a trap door in the porch and is more of a mud pit than a room, as far as I know. Erica asked something about what it was like down there and I responded that I didn't know, as I'd never been down there. Since I grew up in the house and had been returning to it regularly for the 18 years since I'd move out, this struck Erica as odd. What do you mean you've never been in the basement? I'm not allowed to go down there, I replied.
Erica laughed, what do you mean you're not allowed? But to me, it just seems so solid a rule that it doesn't matter that I'm a 35 year old adult who sometimes runs production crews of 40 people and makes safety decisions on behalf of all of them.
According to you, the basement is not safe for me to enter, and thus I am not allowed down there. I have no intention of breaking this rule, Dad. It's hard and fast as far as I'm concerned. Here are some other things I still consider myself not "allowed" to do because of your insistence over the years:
1. I am not allowed to get a tattoo.
I've wrestled with this one, as sometimes I've really wanted to get one. But ultimately I always come around to the fact that I'm simply not allowed.
2. I'm not allowed to get any facial or body piercings.
3. I am not allowed to drive without my glasses.
4. I am not allowed to start the engine of a vehicle without first fastening my seatbelt. Under no circumstances am I allowed to ride in a vehicle without first fastening my seatbelt.
I break this one all the time in the backseat of taxis, but only in taxis. I wouldn't dream of driving a car with an unbuckled seatbelt.
5. I am not allowed to ride a bicycle without wearing a helmet.
This one is so ingrained in me that I nearly have a nervous breakdown when I spot cyclists not wearing helmets, as you always did. Driving in a car with you and passing an unprotected cyclist would provoke a reaction not short of complete horror and dismay. You would shake your head and talk about how stupid, how dangerous it was. I find myself doing the same thing all the time, Dad. It's as if biking without a helmet is the worst sin imaginable to me. (Sidenote, I always think of you when I'm traveling in a place like Peru or Morocco, where an entire family will pile onto a motorcycle with no helmets for anyone, babies hanging off the side of their mother... I don't think you could handle it, Dad, I think you would have an actual heart attack if you saw some of these sights.
7. I am not allowed to ride on a motorcycle.
I've broken this one a few times, but ultimately came around to your side of the argument a few years ago.
8. I am not allowed to curse.
I break this one all the time, Dad. I'm sorry but I do. At the least I never cursed around you (again, the horror and dismay it would provoke wasn't worth it).
9. I am not allowed to sit in your yellow recliner chair.
If I did sit in your chair while you were in the house and you decided you wanted to sit there (which was always when you were home), you would walk up to me and say "Out" or "Up" or simply "Amy" with a glare. Most of the time I just acquiesced, got up, and let you have the chair. Occasionally I would protest "But I'm sitting here." Your response, invariably: "Not anymore." Then I would groan, sigh, and mumble fine. If I took too long to stand up you'd say "Come on, come on, move!" Dad, how did you manage to be so likable while also being such a dictator?
10. I am not allowed to leave water glasses upstairs when I am at the house on Thompson Street.
We all know how good I am at following this one.
11. I am not allowed to generally do stupid and unsafe things, such as carry more things than I can manage in my arms, leave a glass on the floor next to the couch while I am sitting there (again, the horror! the horror!), take one single step with an untied shoelace, etc.
I'm sure there are other rules, but I can't think of them right now... Megan and Marc must have some to add to this.
Safety first, right Dad? Safety always first with you.
I miss you tons, thanks for always looking out for me.
A
Anyway, something came up about the basement, which is accessed off a trap door in the porch and is more of a mud pit than a room, as far as I know. Erica asked something about what it was like down there and I responded that I didn't know, as I'd never been down there. Since I grew up in the house and had been returning to it regularly for the 18 years since I'd move out, this struck Erica as odd. What do you mean you've never been in the basement? I'm not allowed to go down there, I replied.
Erica laughed, what do you mean you're not allowed? But to me, it just seems so solid a rule that it doesn't matter that I'm a 35 year old adult who sometimes runs production crews of 40 people and makes safety decisions on behalf of all of them.
According to you, the basement is not safe for me to enter, and thus I am not allowed down there. I have no intention of breaking this rule, Dad. It's hard and fast as far as I'm concerned. Here are some other things I still consider myself not "allowed" to do because of your insistence over the years:
1. I am not allowed to get a tattoo.
I've wrestled with this one, as sometimes I've really wanted to get one. But ultimately I always come around to the fact that I'm simply not allowed.
2. I'm not allowed to get any facial or body piercings.
3. I am not allowed to drive without my glasses.
4. I am not allowed to start the engine of a vehicle without first fastening my seatbelt. Under no circumstances am I allowed to ride in a vehicle without first fastening my seatbelt.
I break this one all the time in the backseat of taxis, but only in taxis. I wouldn't dream of driving a car with an unbuckled seatbelt.
5. I am not allowed to ride a bicycle without wearing a helmet.
This one is so ingrained in me that I nearly have a nervous breakdown when I spot cyclists not wearing helmets, as you always did. Driving in a car with you and passing an unprotected cyclist would provoke a reaction not short of complete horror and dismay. You would shake your head and talk about how stupid, how dangerous it was. I find myself doing the same thing all the time, Dad. It's as if biking without a helmet is the worst sin imaginable to me. (Sidenote, I always think of you when I'm traveling in a place like Peru or Morocco, where an entire family will pile onto a motorcycle with no helmets for anyone, babies hanging off the side of their mother... I don't think you could handle it, Dad, I think you would have an actual heart attack if you saw some of these sights.
6. Further to the helmet rule, I am not allowed to ride a bicycle without first installing an array of reflectors, flashing lights, and mirrors. Additionally, I really should always wear the neon yellow safety vest you sent me in the mail a couple of years ago, the one with the silver reflective stripes all over it.
Oh, Dad, I love you. But, no. Just, no.
7. I am not allowed to ride on a motorcycle.
I've broken this one a few times, but ultimately came around to your side of the argument a few years ago.
8. I am not allowed to curse.
I break this one all the time, Dad. I'm sorry but I do. At the least I never cursed around you (again, the horror and dismay it would provoke wasn't worth it).
9. I am not allowed to sit in your yellow recliner chair.
If I did sit in your chair while you were in the house and you decided you wanted to sit there (which was always when you were home), you would walk up to me and say "Out" or "Up" or simply "Amy" with a glare. Most of the time I just acquiesced, got up, and let you have the chair. Occasionally I would protest "But I'm sitting here." Your response, invariably: "Not anymore." Then I would groan, sigh, and mumble fine. If I took too long to stand up you'd say "Come on, come on, move!" Dad, how did you manage to be so likable while also being such a dictator?
10. I am not allowed to leave water glasses upstairs when I am at the house on Thompson Street.
We all know how good I am at following this one.
11. I am not allowed to generally do stupid and unsafe things, such as carry more things than I can manage in my arms, leave a glass on the floor next to the couch while I am sitting there (again, the horror! the horror!), take one single step with an untied shoelace, etc.
I'm sure there are other rules, but I can't think of them right now... Megan and Marc must have some to add to this.
Safety first, right Dad? Safety always first with you.
I miss you tons, thanks for always looking out for me.
A
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