The laundry is piling up at my house

If there is one thing I’ve learned about appliances, it’s this — if it’s broke, don’t fix it.

Don’t even try.

For those who know me well, that mantra likely comes as no surprise. But if you’re just tuning in and all you know about me is that I come from the mountains, then it may come as something of a shock. My people have lived here for generations. They were among the first Europeans to settle in my part of the Central Appalachian region. They know how to fix stuff.

Take my neighbor, for instance. In the spring, he took my broken down old lawnmower off my hands after I finally got fed up with it. He spent the afternoon tinkering with it, got it running again and gave it away to a family that needed one. He’s good that way.

My brother isn’t afraid to crack things open just to see how it works, either. Fixit know-how comes naturally to him. He’s a woodworker — a builder of furniture and whatnot made from wood reclaimed from ratty old barns and homes that are being refurbished or even torn down. My mom’s side of the family, the uber-mountain side, would say “he’s a worker,” the highest praise they could bestow upon anyone. I don’t want to know what they would say about me. Nothing good, probably.

Anyway, for a moment this week, it looked as though I might answer the call of my…