I may as well admit this up front: I am mechanically challenged. I have survived this long in a technological age mainly because a good number of repairmen are able to correctly interpret “thingamajig” and “whatchacallit.”

My technical impairment goes back a ways. I began to suspect it years ago, when my cousin and I had to replace the differential gears in a Ford Model B sedan. When we put the thing back together, we got the worm gear on the wrong side of the pinion (something like that), so that the car went backward in all forward gears and would only go forward in reverse.

We drove the vehicle that way for a week or two, then took it to somebody who knew how to fix it.

But last week, something happened that pumped up my confidence in my technological ability. Our neighbor, an elderly lady, came to the door and complained that her car wouldn’t start. Flattered that she thought I might be able to cure the problem, I followed her home.

But with some trepidation. My knowledge of automotive ignition systems is pretty meager. All I know is, you turn the key and the engine either starts or it doesn’t. This one didn’t.

I raised the hood on her car (it only took me a few minutes to find the hood release latch) and peered into the engine compartment. Have you looked at the engine of a modern automobile? There are all kinds of wires and hoses and tubes running around in there, like a threshing-machine engine on life support.

Eventually, I located the battery. With a screwdriver handle, I pecked tentatively on the battery cables, and then tried the car’s starter again. The engine came to life, to my surprise and probably to my neighbor’s.

“I think the battery cables may need cleaning and tightening,” I told her, posing more expertise than I actually possessed. “Why don’t you take it down to the repair shop and I’ll follow along, in case it gives you any more trouble.”

We made it to the auto shop without any more misbehavior from her car. When the mechanic came out to see what needed done, my neighbor pointed at me and said: “My neighbor thinks it’s the battery cables.”

Turns out that’s all it was. The mechanic cleaned and tightened the battery cables, and my neighbor drove off, believing that I am a mechanical genius.

Her high opinion of my mechanical skill gave me a heady moment or two, but I don’t think it’s going to last. Awhile ago, our neighbor came to our door again, and I heard her telling my wife: “The sink in my laundry room is plugged up, but I know he can fix it.”

As readers know, I make a trip over to Blairs Creek at least once a year to see Zeke Dooley. Zeke gives a new meaning to the term “old friend,” being 105 now. Feeling guilty about not seeing the Dooleys for so long, I drove over early one morning to take them breakfast—and snuff for Zeke. I don’t know what I expected, but here’s what I got:

ZEKE: Well, will you look what the hounds has drug in. Perletta, step out here and tell me what this is.

PERLETTA: Now don’t pay him no never mind, Mitch. Zekel’s just ornery because the bacon from the smokehouse has run out, and the chickens won’t lay this cold spell.

MITCH: I figured that, folks, and brought you a slab, along with some coffee, some rolls and a couple dozen of those brown eggs you like.

ZEKE: Perletta and me already et, the fore part of the day.

PERLETTA: Zeke’l, it’s six o’clock in the morning. When it comes to bein’ aggravatin’ you jerk the rag off the bush. Do you want some bacon and eggs or not?

ZEKE: Well, just to be polite I might gum a little. But set down stranger and tell me who you are.

MITCH: Zeke, I’m sorry it’s been so long, but we’ve had a lot to do this winter and the time got away from me. By the way, here’s a few cans of snuff, the kind you like.

ZEKE: Well now, I’m obliged, fer I ain’t had none since the year turned over. (Here he put a big wad in his cheek and I knew I was forgiven.)

PERLETTA: Well now Zeke’l’s smoothed out, how have you’uns been?

MITCH: Why we’re fine Perletta, and how have you folks wintered?

PERLETTA: Pretty good until we begun to run out of luxuries. Then Zeke’l began to fuss some.

ZEKE: Luxuries? Since when is bacon, terbaccer and eggs a luxury, woman? Them’s staples, just like the good corn mash cold remedy I make. Which come to think of it, a horn of it would go good right now. Hunt up that jug, Perletta.

MITCH: You didn’t run out of your cold remedy?

ZEKE: Not likely. It’s what starts me up of a morning, let alone the pigs, the lantern, the tractor and the woodstove.

MITCH: Think that’s the reason you’ve lived so long, Zeke? Would you advise other people to try it?

ZEKE: Well, my cold remedy, of course, clean livin’, deer meat once a day and providin’ a service to my fellow man.

MITCH: And that would be…?

ZEKE: I don’t give ’em no advice!