Kathy Rohloff:
The Trials of the Washing Repair Man

I grew up in the 60's and constantly heard about the loneliness and woes of the Maytag washer repairman. He was always portrayed as your average down-to-earth American, a nice guy, just one that spent his days alone because of how good his machines were.

We don’t own a Maytag, but two years ago we did splurge and buy a front-loading, energy-efficient, dream machine guaranteed to reduce our water output, limit the soap intake, and decrease the dryer time for each load washed.

It worked and worked beautifully once you could figure out how to unlock the door if you goofed in overloading the thing.

We also bought an extended warranty. The machine is computerized, sensitive, and way beyond our capabilities of maintenance.

My daughter, Elisabeth, and her family live off the grid and weekly she will come by to do their laundry. We are able to spend the day visiting, and she doesn’t have to pay laundromat prices. Later, after her sons are in bed, the four adults engage in board games and lively conversation.

One evening after we’d had the washer for a year we were in a hotly contested game of Scattergories when the washing machine emitted a piercing, screeching noise. It sounded like roofing nails being scraped along metal.

Simultaneously, we jumped up and jockeyed for position as we headed downstairs to turn off the equipment.

Russ got there first, unlocked the door, and started to look for the problem. When he peeled back the rubber seal around the door, he was astonished to pull out nine screws complete with washers and bolts, a Cross pen, and a handful of change.

"Kathy, don’t you check pockets?" he asked.

"I check mine. The pen is yours, maybe the change, but where did the screws come from?"

"That would be the boys," Elisabeth confessed. "They’ve been helping their dad with the new decking. I can’t believe I just broke your new machine. It was supposed to last for the rest of your lives!"

"The machine is under warranty, don’t worry," Russ replied. "Now that we’ve got out these screws let’s see what happens."

As soon as he turned it on, the screeching began.

"Ok, we’ll wait for repairs," he said.

Elisabeth was kind enough (and guilty enough) to be at our house for the service call. The repairman found some screws and a really long nail. He explained that because the spin cycle was so powerful, it was common for articles to get sucked under the seal.

"It’s just a good idea to do the maintenance every year, ma’am."

About eight months later, Russ and I heard the washer replicating the noise we heard before the first service call. Russ checked the interior and was puzzled to not find any debris. When he turned the drum, the screeching continued.

That week we went to the laundromat, and on Thursday I dutifully stayed home for the repair call.

Smiling broadly, the repairman turned the drum and said, "Yup, there’s a problem all right."

He spun the drum the second time and said, "I found the problem."

"So fast? What is it?"

"Well, it’s this underwire from a bra." And then he chuckled, "Huh, huh, huh."

He handed it to me and I quickly scrolled through the menus of the excuses that I could make. Blame it on Russ? Have the ground open up and swallow me? Or raise one shoulder higher than the other to balance myself out?

I chose to thank him politely and head upstairs while he finished his call.

When Russ heard what was wrong he said, "Why didn’t you tell me you lost an underwire? I could have looked for it."

"Since it doesn’t come up in everyday conversation, I wouldn’t mention it," I said. "And have I ever discussed this subject with you?"

"Not that I can remember," he replied.

After that incident, we set up our yearly maintenance check.

This repairman was the guy who’d found the screws and nail.

"I’ll just do a check of the washer’s memory," he said.

"That thing has a memory?" I asked. "You mean I now have to be careful about what I say around it?"

He laughed out loud, "No, it just records when it encounters overflow and slow draining errors."

I was so glad it wouldn’t remember the wire episode. Now if only I could forget.