I could call a car.

At a time when my age rhymed with teen, I knew a car when I saw one.

I could tell the model of a car three miles away.

“That’s a 1967 Pontiac Catalina,” I would state confidently about a dot appearing on the road’s horizon.

On a clear day, I was able to perceive a Cadillac forever.

Notice the use of the past tense?

Now I can’t Dodge the fact that I cannot tell a Toyota from a Ford or a Honda from a Chevrolet. A Buick no longer looks like a Buick to me.

I have become a vehicular illiterate. I study cars from a distance, but differentiating them is like calculus to me. I don’t get it. I can’t tell what kind of a car it is until I see a name on it.

I have walked from a supermarket and tried to open the doors of cars that are only vaguely similar to mine. I’ve pressed the keyless entry remote repeatedly before noticing a booster seat in the car and remembering that I had no booster seat in my car. I am thankful that in all these futile endeavors, I did not set off a single car alarm.

I can tell a Hummer from other vehicles. The Hummer is the size of a Perkins restaurant and because of that, it sticks out like a sore, often orange, thumb. The Brobdingnagian vehicle requires a rock star parking space. I can spot a diminutive Smart Car; it sticks out like no thumb. I can identify the odd car, but overall, I am automotive challenged.

I have been an enthusiastic waver all of my life. My father was a proactive waver. He waved at everything he met — car, truck, tractor, bicycle, combine, horse, motorcycle or pedestrian. His hands were stationed at 10 o’clock and 2 o’clock on the steering wheel, at the ready for some wave action.

I occasionally listened to the Beach Boys when I was a lad. Because I lived on a farm in Minnesota, I didn’t understand the thrill of all that surfing they were doing in California. But when they sang about catching a wave, I could identify with that. I had caught a number of big waves from other drivers. I recall getting a license that allowed me to drive solo. I had worked on my wave before becoming a licensed driver so that I would have a signature wave. On that first day of driving alone, I was a 15-year-old who waved happily at all I encountered. Before the world tamed me, I had driven blissfully onto an endless stretch of road and entered a new wave into the world’s collection.

Not being able to tell one vehicle from another is a definite handicap when it comes to the important skill of waving. The lack of effortless auto identification causes me to be a bad waver. It’s not in the execution of the wave in which I struggle. My mechanics are good. I wave well. Waving is a simple feat. That’s why it has never become an Olympic event despite the campaigning of the group, “Waving Your Way to Health and Wealth.”

I can do a number of waves, including the difficult Ernie Johnson cross-armed double-thumb wave with a pinkie finger chaser. Ernie was a waving fool. When it comes to waving, I have other problems. It’s hard to wave if you don’t recognize an oncoming car soon enough. I am unable to distinguish an auto as one driven by a friend or family member. I know there are people who are able to discern one car from another, but I am no longer one of those people.

“Do you know who never waves?” a friend asked.

“Who?” I asked in return.

“You,” he answered.

That was wrong. I’m a friendly guy. I wave.

“I wave,” I sputtered. “Look in your mirror. I have a tendency to wave late because I don’t always recognize the automobile as belonging to someone I should be waving at.”

It’s difficult to do much waving on hard-surfaced roads. Each vehicle is like an envelope without an address. During rush hour, the only way to change lanes is to buy the car next to you. Traffic is heavy in both directions with just as many coming as going. Waving at everyone would be impossible.

Waving is no problem on gravel roads. I wave at everyone I meet on gravel roads. I do my best waving on gravel roads because those who travel gravel tend to be wavers.

I suppose I should start waving at everyone.

But first, I need to practice the Ernie Johnson cross-armed double-thumb wave with a pinkie chaser.

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.