danemodsandy
Well-known member
The One That Got Me...
...Was from my mom, a.k.a. The Appliance Killer. One visit a few years back, she told me the dryer wasn't "doing right," which alarmed me no end, because by the time she figures out an appliance isn't happy, it's usually nearly dead, or dead beyond all hope of repair. Sensitive to appliance needs she is not.
Upon questioning, I finally got the information out of her that "things were taking forever to dry." This was imparted to me between laments about the high cost of everything, gossip about every relative I have, and a rundown on a movie she'd seen on TCM the other night, not that she could remember its name, who was in it, or half the plot. But we finally got down to it; slow drying was the problem.
Knowing who I was dealing with, I didn't waste much time worrying about heating elements, limit switches or anything else. I went right for the lint filter, and voila! - my suspicions were confirmed. It was caked solider than solid, about the thickness of a Sears Christmas catalogue, too. So, I cleaned it, and started the dryer.
I could tell right away something wasn't right, because the door wouldn't stay latched. I looked at the latch; it was, for a wonder, unbroken. It was almost as if the door was being blown open. It took me only a moment or two to realise the door was being blown open. From the inside. From air pressure. Which not only explained the heavy boxes of old magazines right in front of the dryer door, it meant -
Pulling out the dryer and looking at the vent pipe confirmed my suspicions; it was packed with lint right at the opening. I reached in and pulled out the lint to find that there was more lint behind it. And more lint behind that. In fact, about seven feet of duct were snotted up solid with hard-packed lint, all the way to the vent cap, which was also packed so that the door couldn't swing in either direction.
Slowly, laboriously, I picked and pulled and sweated and strained until I got all the lint out of the pipe. Normally, I'd have wanted to replace everything, because it's faster than clearing a blockage that bad and because you get smooth new pipe that doesn't lint up again as quickly. But, knowing how futile explaining that to Her Madge was going to be - and being most unwilling to pay for it myself - I settled for a good cleaning. Including the inside of the dryer cabinet, which was a lint fire waiting to happen.
Finally, I got everything clean, even the vent cap's little door; I had a 13-gallon kitchen trash bag packed full of lint when I was through. I reassembled everything, tested it, found it was working exactly as God and Sears intended. Glowing with triumph, I got Mom to come look and see that everything was okay again.
"How did that happen?" she asked, meaning the problem, not its resolution; she couldn't care less how something gets fixed as long as it does get fixed and she's not the one who has to do it. I told her that it was due to not cleaning the lint filter, and that she'd need to clean it in the future.
"How often will I need to do that? she asked, with the same distaste in her voice that Victorian virgins used to use when their mammas broke it to them that their husbands-to-be had certain needs that would need attending to periodically. I told her that tending to it each load would be best.
"Every time? Oh, I can't believe it!" she said, by now working up to the aggrieved tone Southern women use for things like telling Dr. Meade they want him to stop attending to those silly critically wounded soldiers because they want help delivering a baby now. I assured her that every time would be best, and told her I had to be going.
She saw me to the door, and as I was heading up the driveway to my car, she delivered the coup de grace: "Well, I'll try, but I can't promise I'm gonna remember to do it every time!" Which meant, of course, that she wasn't going to remember to do it ever. "You may have to help me with it again!"
HELP?
I have not inquired as to the health of her laundry appliances in some little time now. Fortunately, since my dad's retirement, he keeps an eye on things like that.
...Was from my mom, a.k.a. The Appliance Killer. One visit a few years back, she told me the dryer wasn't "doing right," which alarmed me no end, because by the time she figures out an appliance isn't happy, it's usually nearly dead, or dead beyond all hope of repair. Sensitive to appliance needs she is not.
Upon questioning, I finally got the information out of her that "things were taking forever to dry." This was imparted to me between laments about the high cost of everything, gossip about every relative I have, and a rundown on a movie she'd seen on TCM the other night, not that she could remember its name, who was in it, or half the plot. But we finally got down to it; slow drying was the problem.
Knowing who I was dealing with, I didn't waste much time worrying about heating elements, limit switches or anything else. I went right for the lint filter, and voila! - my suspicions were confirmed. It was caked solider than solid, about the thickness of a Sears Christmas catalogue, too. So, I cleaned it, and started the dryer.
I could tell right away something wasn't right, because the door wouldn't stay latched. I looked at the latch; it was, for a wonder, unbroken. It was almost as if the door was being blown open. It took me only a moment or two to realise the door was being blown open. From the inside. From air pressure. Which not only explained the heavy boxes of old magazines right in front of the dryer door, it meant -
Pulling out the dryer and looking at the vent pipe confirmed my suspicions; it was packed with lint right at the opening. I reached in and pulled out the lint to find that there was more lint behind it. And more lint behind that. In fact, about seven feet of duct were snotted up solid with hard-packed lint, all the way to the vent cap, which was also packed so that the door couldn't swing in either direction.
Slowly, laboriously, I picked and pulled and sweated and strained until I got all the lint out of the pipe. Normally, I'd have wanted to replace everything, because it's faster than clearing a blockage that bad and because you get smooth new pipe that doesn't lint up again as quickly. But, knowing how futile explaining that to Her Madge was going to be - and being most unwilling to pay for it myself - I settled for a good cleaning. Including the inside of the dryer cabinet, which was a lint fire waiting to happen.
Finally, I got everything clean, even the vent cap's little door; I had a 13-gallon kitchen trash bag packed full of lint when I was through. I reassembled everything, tested it, found it was working exactly as God and Sears intended. Glowing with triumph, I got Mom to come look and see that everything was okay again.
"How did that happen?" she asked, meaning the problem, not its resolution; she couldn't care less how something gets fixed as long as it does get fixed and she's not the one who has to do it. I told her that it was due to not cleaning the lint filter, and that she'd need to clean it in the future.
"How often will I need to do that? she asked, with the same distaste in her voice that Victorian virgins used to use when their mammas broke it to them that their husbands-to-be had certain needs that would need attending to periodically. I told her that tending to it each load would be best.
"Every time? Oh, I can't believe it!" she said, by now working up to the aggrieved tone Southern women use for things like telling Dr. Meade they want him to stop attending to those silly critically wounded soldiers because they want help delivering a baby now. I assured her that every time would be best, and told her I had to be going.
She saw me to the door, and as I was heading up the driveway to my car, she delivered the coup de grace: "Well, I'll try, but I can't promise I'm gonna remember to do it every time!" Which meant, of course, that she wasn't going to remember to do it ever. "You may have to help me with it again!"
HELP?
I have not inquired as to the health of her laundry appliances in some little time now. Fortunately, since my dad's retirement, he keeps an eye on things like that.