Peter McKay

This past week, I finally decided to do something about our washing machine. I don't remember its age, but I do recall that we couldn't afford it when it was new. Our previous washer came with the house, dating from an era when appliances came in ugly green or yellow shades but lasted forever and a day. When the washer finally gave out and it came time to get a new one, I convinced my wife that we should opt for the most expensive machine we could find — one that could handle big loads and would last for a long time. Just to be certain, I picked one that had a really classy silver royal-looking badge on the front.

I don't want to name the company that made the washer, but it is suffice to say the repairman ain't nearly as lonely as the ads make him out to be. I haven't kept good records, but I believe that in the years since we bought the washer, it has broken approximately a gazillion times. The only part of the washer that seems to have held up well is the fancy badge on the front, which still looks like new.

The washer has broken down so many times that I've developed a variety of ways to deal with it. Sometimes I call a repairman. Other times, I get out my tools, open it up and spend hours poking things with a screwdriver, trying to diagnose the problem, before finally giving up and calling a repairman. Sometimes I just bump it — hard — with my hip till it starts spinning again.

A few months ago, the washer stopped spinning fast and started making annoying creaking, squealing and moaning noises. The noises are hard to describe exactly, but they were the kind of sounds you would hear if you twisted an old lady's arm behind her back really, really hard — repeatedly. (I've never done that and don't plan on it, so I am really just using my imagination. As you should.) As time went by, the washer also started slowing down to a crawl and leaking regularly from the bottom end.

(Here, out of a sense of decorum, we need to abandon any old-lady metaphor completely.)

I agonized over how to deal with this situation. I could get the old washer fixed yet again or I could buy a new one. Buying a new one would involve getting the washer into our basement, a chore that involved either taking apart our back deck or trying to wedge a full size washer down a set of basement stairs. To make matters worse, our back deck has been covered for weeks by the remnants of a massive snowstorm. On top of the deck is a metal and canvas square canopy that provides shade in the summertime, but isn't such a good idea in the winter. During a recent massive snowstorm, the canopy inverted like a cheap umbrella. Filled with around 800 pounds of snow, it's not only a disgrace, but it's also a 9-1-1 call waiting to happen.

Buying a new washer, though, would mean not having to worry about strange noises emanating from the basement stairs. And getting the old washer fixed could mean paying almost as much for a new washer, taking time off work, and in the end having the same old washer, with other parts that might break at any minute.

I'm not the most decisive person in the world, and I fretted the entire day away Sunday trying to figure out which way to go. Finally, Monday morning I called the repairman, who came right away. He stomped into the basement and informed me that we just needed a new pump ($225 bucks, thank you) and we'd be fine. He pushed the button to start it. No squealing, no moaning, no leaking. I sighed. For once, I'd made a good decision.

Wednesday evening, I walked in the door to find my wife in the kitchen with suspiciously wet feet. She just shook her head and pointed to the basement. I raced down the steps to find our recently fixed washer gushing water in every direction, a half-inch of water covering the floor.

I let out a cry that's hard to describe. But if you could locate an old lady, flip her around and twist her arm behind her back, hard, it'd be just like you were there.

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