Some things about Gunsmith's folks; they're both gone now, too young ...
No matter what ya said about keeping house to his mother, her response was, "well, you could have ten bathrooms" to clean. Yeah, not much comfort there, but thanks anyway, Bev.
Gunsmith's dad's given name was Sigurd. Nobody called him Sigurd, they called him Sonny. Sonny was an ironworker his whole life and when the man tightened something down, you needed to blast it off. After he passed away, G. was awarded his gas-powered weed-wacker. *Sigh*. A while before Gunsmith got so pissed off at it stalling, tore it off the sling around his neck and hurled it across the yard (he don't have much of a temper, but when he lets it rip, run awaaaaaayyyy) it needed the spool of plastic line replaced. Yah, good luck with getting it off. We finally happened upon a Black man with enormous ham-hands in a hardware store who led us out to his truck and he wrestled off on his tailgate. To our everlasting (until the hurling) gratitude.
It seems Gunsmith has inherited the tendency to over-tighten every blasted thing on the place now. I worry about the lugnuts on my truck should I have to change my own tire, so I check, "did Sonny tighten these down?"
