I do not know if it is still the case, but up until the end of the eighties, in southern Italy youngsters were supposed to spend part of their summer in a craft workshop. My grandfather was a woodworker; so it’s normal that I was attempting to learn his art. His voice saying “Arricetta!” came as a relief as well as an annoying signal. The work day was over. Or better said, almost over. Before leaving, I had to see to a last, puzzling, duty. Somebody had to deal with all the tools, the screws, the nails, and the jars of glue left on the work benches, as well as all the wood leftovers and the sawdust scattered all around the workshop. Nothing seemed dumber to me. The next day, I started over, the same messiness having arrived again. Among all the tools to take care of, while doing that nonsense activity, there was one that I really liked: the marking gauge.