Well, it is here. The month we’ve all been waiting for!
And no, I’m not talking about back-to-school. That big day was a few weeks ago when our oldest started middle school, and our brand-new kindergartener joined her brother in elementary school. After eleven years of childhood chaos, it does feel impossible that the house can be this quiet, but overall, the change has felt joyful. The kids are excited and happily marching forward. I’m proud of all their growth.
So that brings me to September. We’ve had a day circled on our calendar for a few weeks now. And not because of some special vacation or party. No, it is, for a reason, far more exciting.
This month, after years of fighting with an on-the-fritz washing machine, we are getting a new washer and dryer.
To understand the magnitude of this purchase, I want to take you back to July 2020. Back when stores were closed, supply chain shortages were affecting almost every industry, and the thought of letting a repair person into your home was unheard of.
It was during these uncertain times that our washing machine first gave up.
I still remember seeing those flashing red lights for the first time, and the error code was different than the usual, “You might have a clogged sock.”
“What do you think is wrong with it?” I asked my husband.
He Googled the code. “A motor control error,” he said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
I frowned, then researched our options.
Most of the new machines were back-ordered. And we were hesitant to bring in someone to fix it. The only hope seemed to live on YouTube in a number of videos from people who’d experienced the same error.
So my husband, who had no experience with anything mechanical or electrical, took apart the washer. For the next week, various components lay scattered in our upstairs hallway as our laundry pile grew. Every evening, he would watch videos and then try something new. Nothing worked.
Still, he soldiered on even as his hands became raw and cut, a film of grease trapped under his nails. He was determined. He would not give up.
Instead, he dug deeper, watching more videos and studying each part for weaknesses. He started testing various components by ordering replacement parts off eBay and replacement part websites. As the weeks dragged on, I repackaged and mailed back the parts that didn’t solve the problem. And when the kids started complaining that they had no clean underwear, we began cleaning our clothes in the bathtub.
“It’s laundry soup!” The kids exclaimed. “We need to stir the pot!”
Which they did, helping me slosh around their clothes and then wring them out by hand.
Together, we all laughed as we cleaned our clothes in the tub and talked about what life was like before washing machines. And part of me couldn’t help but feel proud we could teach our kids this small lesson about how lucky we were to have so many modern conveniences.
And yet, as the weeks dragged on, I began to miss our washing machine. Around this time, a small bubble wrap envelope arrived in our mailbox. Inside were two small components that looked like ink cartridges with metal prongs attached to the ends.
“What are these?” I asked my husband.
“Motor carbon brushes,” he explained. “When the metal prongs wear down, the electrical connection is severed, and the machine can’t spin. I think our old ones are worn out.”
Impressed by his knowledge, I nodded and prayed as I prepared the kids for the playground.
An hour later, he called me.
“It’s working!” he said.
“It’s working?” I said.
“Yes!” he said.
I began to jump and down. The laundry crisis had ended!
And with its end came a newfound respect for our supply chain and YouTube and a deep understanding of how our washer worked. This was important because while our machine was working again, it seemed the surgery had taken a lot out of our poor patient.
Over the next few years, we continued to experience many new and returning problems, which my husband continued to repair. As washers flooded the market again, he remained committed to keeping our old machine alive. He learned how to remove clogs from deep within its pipes. He replaced the motor brushes another two times.
Repairing the washing machine became, if not a hobby, perhaps a quest. A puzzle he was determined to solve, often with the kids by his side. I loved watching them peer over the parts, my mind envisioning future electrical engineers as he taught them all he’d learned.
Until this summer, when I ran a load, the machine started to rock so hard on the spin cycle that I feared it would propel itself into outer space.
“Do you want to try to fix it again?” I asked my husband.
He looked at our old machine, its outer case a little cockeyed from stripped screws we’d never replaced, the little door that hid the detergent feeder still lying on the ground, uninstalled from the last repair. He sighed. I could see the sadness. I could see the relief.
“You know, I think it might be time,” he said.
I nodded.
The kids, now sick of unexpected laundry soup days, cheered.
So now, as I write this, we are waiting on two new machines for our closet. And while I’m not sure I will shed a tear when I watch the old ones go, I know I will never forget all those machines taught us.
