In a time when everything made seems disposable, knowing how to fix stuff can still be a valuable skill.
Approx. 2250 words; 12 minutes read time
I grew up in a working-class household with four kids. Things were tight, and it was important for my family to stretch a dollar. Thankfully, my parents were resourceful folks. Pop was the carpenter, mechanic, and repair whiz. Mom was the gardener, maker, and saver extraordinaire. Between the two, they embodied a trio of life skills rare these days: Know your stuff. Take care of your stuff. And be able to fix it when the time comes.
More than an exercise in frugality, theirs was a philosophy for life. A philosphy that embodies self-reliance, value, and respect. But today the postmodern world is hell-bent on doing away with this way of life. At the risk of sounding like a curmudgeon, most products today are either disposable or "trashable."
Sub-optimal or weak materials and impossible-to-repair designs limit the lifespan of devices. Other limits are psychological and take advantage of consumerist desires for the newest, greatest, biggest or best next thing. These both achieve a common goal - planned obsolescence. These are products that are replaceable, not repairable.
About three weeks ago, I came face to face with planned obsolescence. My washing machine broke down - it was only three years old. My upbringing dictated that I should try and fix it. But complicating matters, it failed the Friday before my planned Monday website launch. I was finalizing web content and drafting my first blog. I wanted to fix the washer myself and knew I should, but I didn't have the time.
I was pre-soaking in dilemma, you might say.
The machine in question was like new. It's one of those front-loading things with a heavy, bulbous clear-glass door. It looked like a spaceship part and cost as much - about 550 bucks. For a washing machine, I guess you'd say it's fancy. At the time of sale, I sprung for the name brand with lots of features expecting to keep it for years to come. It was also well-reviewed, so I had confidence it was a good buy. But like anything complicated – the more features, the more likely something will fail. I knew this from experience. Even so, the space-age appeal seduced me.
My future would be clean and bright as I watched my whites get whiter through that glass door.
Most new washing machines (and most modern appliances) have rather sophisticated computers. They help save water and energy, and this embedded technology makes them safer. But at a cost to durability. The ecological benefits are suspect as a result. What they do well is spit out cryptic error codes when something goes wrong. These codes are often nonspecific and hard to decipher.
My machine wasn't draining, so it shut down and locked my clothes inside, along with a deep pool of dirty water. It did not display why other than a flashing code: F3E1. The code meant the machine was not draining. That was obvious, but why? Answering this would have to wait. My immediate concern was not the code – it was the sopping wet, dirty clothes inside.
The only way to open the door in this situation is to remove the top cover and manually depress the lock mechanism. But with the drum half full of water, and being a front-loader, I had to go about draining it first. So much for the clean future my fancy washing machine would bring.
I was about to get dirty.
Draining it required removing the back panel and reaching under the drum to open the filter plug. I emptied the water into a small pan I slid under the pump assembly. All told, it took ten pan-fulls and 20 minutes to drain. With the initial diagnosis and work, I spent well over an hour before starting the actual repair.
Next, I performed the obvious potential "quick fix" checks. I looked for blockages in the drain hose and made sure there wasn't any obstruction in the filter housing or impeller pump. I even unplugged and reset the machine's computer to make sure it wasn't a software glitch.
Unfortunately, none of these was the culprit.
After searching online, I decided it was one of three things – a faulty water level sensor, a failed drain pump, or a mad Appliance Control Unit (ACU). The ACU, the machine's computer motherboard, is the most expensive by far. The other two parts much less so. Cost notwithstanding, these parts are all pretty easy to get and replace. And I being my father's son, was not concerned about doing the work. But figuring out which part it was still eluded me.
Most appliances have a "hidden" service manual stashed on them somewhere. My machine's, under the top panel, states rather clearly, "Danger! Warning! FOR SERVICE TECHNICIAN'S USE ONLY." I disregarded this and proceeded to run the diagnostic program detailed inside.
The test was all electronic. After hitting a series of buttons in the prescribed order, the test began. The machine first locked and unlocked its door, then went to test the drain pump. It failed, of course, and stopped there. The test told me what I already knew – it was either the sensor, the pump, or the ACU. The book then detailed how to check each component. I tested the sensor as instructed by detaching a pressure hose. The drain pump didn't turn on, so I was on to the pump itself. I used a multimeter and tested current resistance . If the motor was functional, the reading should be "approximately 16 ohms." Mine read 15.8 ohms – two-tenths of an ohm difference is pretty darn close, so it passed the test. Crap, I thought.
The book then instructed that if it wasn't the sensor and the pump tested fine, then it was the ACU and to replace that. Double crap.
But really? I wondered. That's it? No other option? If the ACU was faulty, would the diagnostic test have run at all? There seemed to be a lot missing in this evaluation.
I called a local appliance parts place. The sales guy informed me that a new ACU was about $350. That's only 200 bucks less than a whole new machine. When I voiced this, he said the cliché thing I was thinking: "They don't make 'em like they used to."
Mother $%&!#@& crap.
It seemed to me there should be one or two different options to consider. Having to change out the [costly] brain of this thing felt like a last resort, not the third in a series of short tests. And if it was the $350 ACU, wouldn't it be best to get a new machine? One with a new machine warranty? I wouldn't be the first to make this choice if I did.
And there it was, staring me in the face: Planned Obsolescence.
Home appliances are a "mature technology" where there's little room for innovation. Product turnover is thus an effective way for companies to keep sales up. Durable enough to last a while, but then sooner than later they fail. At which time it becomes more cost-effective – and less hassle – for the consumer to buy a new one. Manufacturers play a tricky game. Manufacturers create products good enough to sell and that last long enough. But no longer.
The repair industry has suffered in the internet age, confounding matters. Do-it-yourselfers like me have shown that fixing this stuff isn't rocket science. With a little knowhow, a YouTube video, and Amazon.com, many repairs are downright easy. For those who still go with a repair service, high costs become the real problem. The few professional repair services left have to charge more to stay in business. This turns would-be repair customers away, looking for cheaper options. All because washing machines are designed to fail.
What results is that more and more consumers opt to buy new appliances. And I too was considering it now. Yes, I was resourceful and could fix it, but I had stuff other than washing machine repair on my mind. Yes, I was bowing down to the appliance gods, wallet out, hand extended in humility.
I felt as dirty as my half-washed clothes.
But what about this otherwise perfectly good machine? The thing itself weighs about 200 lbs. That's a lot of steel, plastic, wires, and glass to discard for a new model, I thought. There must be more I can do.
Pndering my options, I had a moment of clarity.
No! I would not be taken to the cleaners over a washing machine. My dad and mom and the planet were all counting on me. I would fix it. Fix it. FIX IT!
Setting the diagnostic manual aside, I decided to do another test of my own. First, I unbolted and removed the pump assembly. Even though it tested fine, I questioned the result. So I decided to do what seemed more obvious – supply some power to the thing and see if it would spin.
I wiped some remaining water off the pump assembly, double-checked for obstructions, and mounted it on my benchtop vise. After safely rigging up a couple of wires, I supplied 110 volts AC and…nothing happened.
I took this as a good sign. It was a pretty simple system – a standard AC electric motor with only two wires. I was 99% sure the motor was dead.
I took a short trip to the local parts store where I had spoken to the sales guy earlier. The place was awesome, a real throwback to the 1980s and a story all its own. After a lengthy wait for no clear reason, and fifty bucks handed over, I had my new pump assembly and headed back home. There, I doubled checked my "testing method" by hooking up the new pump to my vice and power supply and…whirrrrr!!!! It started up like a champ. Problem solved.
Reassembly was a piece of cake. Only a few bolts and a few clamps to put back on. Confirm that everything was sealed and locked down tight. Throw away the extra screws and run a test cycle.
Everything worked fine, so I tossed in my half washed clothes from before and finished the job.
My world was once again clean.
In all, it didn't take too much time. A day of running around and futzing about to get it all done: it went well, and it was an easy fix in the end. As I already said, anyone with the willingness to watch a how-to video and get a little dirty could do it. But diagnosing the problem was more hard than it should have been. And that makes me wonder why. It felt deliberately vague, making my repairs harder than need be. I fear the machine was in some way designed to fail from the get go.
That is the trouble with planned obsolescence. And its genius too. If done deftly, it works for the manufacturer. And consumers by and large seem satisfied, based on sales and other market trends. I don't care for it, and I do question the out of control consumerism that results. But like many things in this postmodern world, fighting it has its share of costs and rewards.
In working through this, I've grown to like my washing machine even more, not less. After fixing it and learning about its flaws, I know it better now and can take care of it. If something goes wrong again, I have a good start on how to address it. I will save some money each time I do. Better still, I fight a system that otherwise makes me consume and use up the planet's resources.
Good feelings aside, I admit that I was tempted to cave and simply replace the machine. This temptation is powerful and is why planned obsolescence works so well. Knowing this, I feel all the more fortunate that my parents taught me a valuable set of life skills. These are arguably more useful now than ever before. When much of the world is designed to fail, knowing how to fix things is a real strength.
It was a simple washing machine repair. But it reminded me to be grateful for what I know and what I can do. Know your stuff. Take care of your stuff. And be able to fix it when the time comes. What a satisfying way to live. Thanks, Mom and Pop.
Until next time.
Science. Fiction. Create.
JRC
