Oh, God, the memories.

My mother was like the muddlier people discussed in this thread, and I grew up in a great big house so choked with stuff that it took me the better part of 10 years to get rid of the excess after my mother died. Books, papers, furniture, china -- you name it; the woman never threw away so much as a doorknob. One of the biggest fights we ever had (and we had some doozies) exploded when I was home on leave from Germany: I bundled up the newspapers stacked hip-high in every corner of the dining room and put them out for the garbage collection -- in the rain. She never forgave me for ruining them.

My mother died in September 1980 and my father sold the family house soon after, but didn't close the deal until July 31, 1981 -- that's how long it took to sort the shit out so he could actually move. I vividly remember the day I cleared out the cellar -- the job was too big for me (and I was a real tough declutterer by then), so I hired two men with a truck, who tried to quit after their fourth trip to the dump but I wouldn't let them. As I swept the floor after they finally finished (six trips to the dump), I realized that I hadn't seen the cellar floor since 1965.

Neatness is a blessing that one never appreciates until one has had to live without it. Fortunately, I am married to a well-brought-up, understanding soul who grinds his teeth and smiles tolerantly when I start nagging him to put things away; lesser men would have barricaded themselves behind defensive works of library books and newspaper stacks long since.