Washing Machine Repair

Looking for some fun and excitement this weekend?  Look no further than your own laundry room.  Most Americans are unaware of the untapped entertainment value of their own washing machine.  You see, washing machines combine the four elements of home-owner fun: electricity, water, grease, and  sharp edges to accommodate all of your hand-shredding needs.

My introduction into this world of joy began about two months ago, when my wife noticed a strange whine coming from behind our 1979 Whirlpool 4 cycle, 3 temperature, LHA 7680 washing machine.  I spent two weeks assuring her that there was no problem with the appliance, and so long as we could verify the whereabouts of the two cats, no one was being hurt by the whine.

Unfortunately, these types of problems rarely fix themselves, and soon the washer began refusing to empty until someone came along and manually twisted the agitator (quite adequately named, I might add) a couple of times.  This progressed into the machine’s outright refusal to start the spin cycle unless someone (me) reached around the back and advanced the ever-fraying belt a couple of turns.  Clearly, something needed to be done.

“Florence, take these clothes down to the river and clean them on some rocks.”

“Yes, Dear.”

After a week or so of watching (from the Lazi-Boy with a beer in my hand) my wife lug baskets of clothing down to the estuary of the mighty Delaware river, I was moved with pity, and decided it was time to repair the washing machine once and for all.

My first course of action was to diagnose the problem; that was a pretty easy task.  The drive belt coordinates everything that goes on in a washing machine, and the belt on ours was clearly worn.  Therefore, it had to be the belt.

I called the “Sears Parts By Phone” hotline, who operate under the motto, “We’re not just parts, we’re part of the problem.”  I was greeted by the familiar, “We’re sorry.  Both of our customer service representatives are currently busy.  Please wait on the line, and you will be disconnected in the order that your call was taken.”  They were as good as their word.  I was disconnected twice before finally speaking to Melinda.  She asked, “May I have the model number of your appliance?”

Having proudly anticipated this question, I read the number “LHA 7680” right off the front cover of my owners manual.  Melinda then asked, “What are the last two letters?”

“Huh?  What flagging last two letters?” I thought to myself.  “That’s all, just LHA 7680,” I replied.

“Well, I’m sorry, but without the last two letters, we cannot place your order.  You can find the full model number on a plate on the back of your washer.  Click.  Bzzzzz.”

It took me roughly 24 hours to cool down and move the washer away from the wall so I could read the numbers on the plate.  And sure as manure stinks, the model number was listed as “LHA 7680 WO” on the plate.  I was finally able to place my order. I subsequently waited eagerly by the mailbox every day for 2 weeks.  Still, no belt.  I phoned Sears again, and asked them the status of my order.  Mike, the customer service representative, said, “Well, since you didn’t specify method of delivery, we sent it by the least expensive means.”

“Which is?” I inquired.

“Cattle boat from China,” Mike was more than happy to inform me.

At last the day arrived!  A large padded envelope arrived from Sears in Spokane, WA which enclosed both the belt and instructions for replacing it.  Instructions indeed!  As a seasoned home owner and backyard auto mechanic, I scoffed at the notion that anyone would need directions to replace a belt.  Fortunately, my wife wrestled the directions out of my hands before I could cast them into the fiery furnace.  She insisted that she could read the directions to me while I installed the belt.

For 3 grueling hours, she read things like “remove mounting bolts (A), (B), (D), and (J) from stabilizing brackets (C), (E), (F), and (K), being careful not to lose spacer (G).”  The old spacer (G) went falling into the clutch mechanism (H), causing husband (M) to begin swearing.  Along the way, I discovered what my father must have felt like when I was a kid of 6 or 7 years old, and wanted to “help” my father fix something.  He’d ask me for a socket wrench, and I’d hand him a pair of pliers;  he’d ask me to shine the flash light on a particular part, but my mind would wander, and soon he’d say to me, “shine it on the washer, not on me.”  Wives, I discovered, are much like 6 or 7 year old boys in this respect.

We finally pieced the washer back together, and were ready to try it out.  We reconnected the hoses and power supply, and selected “normal cycle.”  To our amazement, the washer began to fill, and even stopped filling at the appointed time.  But then without warning, in what should have been the agitation cycle, the agitator (had I mentioned how apropos this name is?) refused to agitate, and instead, the tank spun.  “No problem,” I said. “The controller must simply be in the wrong position.  We just need to fix that.”  So we again disassembled the washing machine, put the control rod in the “correct” position, and reassembled everything.  This time, the agitator (this ~really~ has been aptly named) worked correctly, but the tank wouldn’t spin during the spin cycle.  Again we disassembled and reassembled it, and this time, both the agitator (well-named) and the tank spun ALL of the time.  The appliance had become, for all practical purposes, an amusement park ride for clothing.

I have no idea why the Maytag Repairman is so lonely.  He’ll soon be making a service call to our house.