Monday, July 17, 2006

Column.

I'm going to try to start posting my William Smythe crap here so that Admin Worm viewers have something to see.

COLUMN OF THE WEEK
I’m not mechanically inclined.

To further clarify, I’m not mechanically inclined in the same way Israel isn’t inclined to tolerate kidnapping.

And much as the Middle East currently erupts in plumes of smoke and flame, so does any mechanical project I attempt usually result in fountains of motor oil, sparks or noxious gases.

My dad died a year ago and I’m sure he passed with some regret about having never seen his youngest son fix anything. I’m not talking “wimpy chores;” the type that can be accomplished by silicone-enhanced hostesses of home-improvement shows without breaking a sweat. No, I’m talking bona fide repairs, like having a non-functional automobile roar to life after hours of intensive labor.

An opportunity to test my mechanical mettle presented itself in the form of the duplex my wife and I recently began renting. It’s a beautiful place, historic and well-maintained, but like many places of similar vintage it has some mechanical quirks.

The washing machine, for instance.

One night I put a load of laundry into the machine and upon returning 45 minutes later, discovered that not only was the load not done, but the tub hadn’t filled yet. It took nearly three hours to complete a single load of laundry.

I realize that with World War III brewing half a world away, a slow washing machine is near the bottom of the world’s priority list. Still, I was miffed.

My landlord was reticent to address the problem. “Sure, it’s slow,” she admitted, “but it works, doesn’t it?”

Well, technically, yes, but in the same sense that government “works;” slowly and inefficiently to the point where it might ultimately prove more time and cost efficient to simply generate a report explaining why it shouldn’t have been attempted in the first place.

Not wishing to spend 20 hours per week doing laundry, I requested my landlord’s permission to tinker with the machine, and to my amazement she acquiesced. I fully disclosed my lack of mechanical skills, warning her that she might soon discover an unwanted indoor pool where her basement used to be. Still she agreed.

I grabbed my toolbox—yes; I have tools, all in their original packaging—and set to work. My first act was to remove two brackets I assumed must be removed in order to get at the machine’s “guts.” The washer’s lid promptly clattered noisily to the floor. Thus I learned to distinguish between brackets and hinges. Once they were reattached I found that the top of the machine is designed to lift open like a car hood. It’s pretty slick.

Then the troubleshooting began. I dissected the machine, carefully labeling each removed part—remembering my father doing the same—to ensure that they returned to (roughly) their original locations. “This doohickey clamps to the green thingamajig near the rubber deal,” my notes read. Dad would have winced, but I’m comfortable working within my own limitations. For good measure I labeled several parts “solenoid” because I heard dad use the term frequently and it never failed to impress. I’ve long suspected that “solenoid” is Latin for “I don’t know what this part is.”

The process of elimination revealed that the water pipes feeding the machine were fully operational. The hoses were unobstructed. The culprit appeared to be a small but imposing-looking contraption which, upon closer inspection, mercifully revealed an embossed identification number. I then used my favorite tool—the Internet—and found that the part was readily available and affordable. I drove to Sears, purchased the part, sped home, attached the part, re-assembled the washer, rolled up my pant legs, shielded my eyes and held my breath.

The machine roared to life.

While packing up my tools I reflected that the rusty old machine could—and probably should—have been replaced with a more modern, efficient model, saving me a lot of labor and stress. What’s more, we’re renters; it’s our landlord’s responsibility to address such issues and she probably would have, with prodding.

It was clear, however, that the dysfunctional washing machine was my white whale; an opportunity to prove to my father—albeit a year too late—that I was paying attention after all.

A ghostly, comforting silence enveloped the basement; the sound of dad finally resting in peace.

With newfound confidence, my mind reeled with other projects I could tackle. Maybe it’s time to give oil changing another shot. Perhaps now is the time to address the wobbly table leg that’s been driving my wife insane. I may even attempt an electrical project.

On second thought, nothing electrical. I miss dad, but not enough to hasten our reunion by sticking a screwdriver in a toaster.