My garage is Beirut, circa 1984. A tangled wasteland of cords and bottles and tools and spare parts and other household debris, very little of it organized and, on short notice, findable.

So that was today’s project: clean the garage. I started with the work bench, piled high with, well, just about everything. Forget about finding a tool there. Easier to just go to Lowe’s and get a new one.

Dad helped me build that workbench. Actually, I helped–minimally–him build it. It may be the only thing we’ve ever built together. I should take better care of it. His own work bench–verily, his entire garage–is pristine, everything in its place. I didn’t get that gene. Neither did Stu. Neither did Rick. I guess that gene is still waiting for Child Number Four, which, obviously, ain’t gonna happen apart from Abrahamic circumstances.

Well, it’s 9 pm, and I just finished with the work bench. Didn’t think it would take this long. Everything is organized nicely, and there is actually emtpy space on which, heaven forbid, actual work could be committed in the name of home improvement. The shelf below the work space is cleaned up, too. Didn’t get to the stuff clear on the bottom, on the floor itself amidst multitudinous cobwebs.

The rest of the garage is still a mess. I began the day with ambitions to make the whole place sparkle, but alas, I began and ended with the workbench. Maybe next week. Or next spring. We’ll see.