My grandfather on my father’s side was a pack-rat welder with a huge garden. He could build anything and grew the best tomatoes I’ve ever tasted. He spray-painted all his tools red. Every single one. We used to make fun of him for that, but now I think it was a brilliant way of making sure he didn’t leave a tool off in the yard somewhere. When he passed away, his children were left to deal with his labyrinth of a garage. It took them weeks.
My father is very organized, but if there’s a tool that he needs for one of his hobbies, he has it. Vertical sausage stuffer? Clearly, a life essential, and I dare you to suggest otherwise.
My grandfather on my mother’s side was a military man. He moved the family so many times while my mom was growing up, she’d attended 18 different schools by the time she graduated high school. As you’d expect, their household was efficient. The kids were trained to clean to “white glove inspection” quality, and taught the mantra “a place for everything, and everything in its place.”
My mother doesn’t keep anything around unless she uses it regularly or enjoys it aesthetically. (Unless it belongs to my father, and even then, accidents have been known to happen.)
Out of this combined genetic heritage: me.
Garage-labyrinth reality, white-glove inspection sensibilities.