You know, people have commented on my organization before.
A place for everything, and everything in its place.
As I pack up yet again for another move (we take ownership of the place in Pigsbird Thursday), I put everything in a little box with a label or obvious purpose and I realize, I'm not really that organized.
It's just that if I ever want to find anything again, I've gotta do something.
My mother was an organizational dynamo. She should have been one of those consultants who goes into someone's house and whips them into shape; when I was a kid, she used to save up all sorts of food containers as craft supplies, and even THOSE were organized. (Washed, nested in stacks, on a shelf in the corner of the basement.) My brother and I both got the organization skills sort of by default. You couldn't live with the woman for more than five minutes - let alone be RAISED by her - without figuring out the basics.
When I'm in school, I'm always well known as the person who is always on time, who never lacks a pen and pencil (and spares for classmates), who can repeat what the professor said on the first day of class on the last day because of her notes. When my brother was in the Marines, he was always the guy in the platoon assigned to any organizational chore, because he was the guy they knew would do it, and do it right. One thing the military does is make sure all packs are packed the same way (ammo in one pocket, medical supplies in another, etc); that way, in the dark, with hell breaking loose, you can find what you need in ANY pack. My brother was the guy who made that happen in his platoon.
So now I've got a ribbon box. And a fiber box. And a bead box. My kid has one big plastic bin for art supplies. Another holds all her Little People animals.
And the organizational skill passes on to another generation, even though my mother's been gone for nearly a decade.