Published: June 29, 2009 12:12 am         

The Off Season: After a good run, ‘Mr. Fix-It’ hits the wall

I should have known when I sat down at the kitchen table one night last week to use our old typewriter on an application — just for a name and a few sentences on one of those pre-printed forms — that the whole thing was going to blow up in my face. We seem to be in the same rut right now that all homeowners face from time to time: Everything we own is falling apart. Anyway, I rolled the form into the typewriter and started on my name: M-i-c-h-a-e-l L-u-s-f-o-r-d … no “n”— the “n” wouldn’t work…

I either had to become “Mike Lusford,” and live in “Idiaa” or fill out the form in long-hand.

The curse actually began about four weeks ago when my son drove our old lawn tractor up the driveway after an afternoon of mowing, only to tell me that the creaking relic was running rough and had a problem.

“Let’s take a look,” I said in an uncharacteristically optimistic mood, considering the topic was both mechanical and potentially costly. I guess I should also mention that the mower is 23 years old. From experience, we both suspected carburetor issues. So we cleaned that up a bit, emptied the gas tank, blew out the fuel line, and spruced up the spark plug. A few minutes later, she fired up and ran as smooth as silk.

That’s when I made my big mistake. I washed up and promptly went inside to tell my wife that we had solved the dilemma. “We didn’t spend a penny, and it runs like new,” I said.

I felt good; I felt like a self-sufficient pioneer, a “Mr. Fix-It.” What an idiot…

Joanie promptly said, “That’s great, and I hope you’re as good with dryers; ours won’t heat up.”

Still reasonably upbeat, seeing that I was coming off a solid mechanical triumph, I said, “OK, I’ll look at it tomorrow.”

After a trip to the appliance parts counter the next day, I pulled the dryer out into the kitchen, dismantled it, cleaned every inch of its entrails, including the drum, belt and motor, replaced the large heating element that spirals around its back firewall, and reassembled it. By the time my wife got home from a trip into town, a load of damp towels was tumbling toward fluffy bliss.

“You did it!” Joanie proudly said. “Now, do you think you can do anything about the water heater? It just won’t give me enough hot water when I shower and wash a load of dishes.”

I suspected a bad heating element, and since I was already 2-for-2, I went for it, although not without mumbling a few serious questions about the real purpose of my existence. I thought that perhaps I should start having name tags sewn onto my shirts.

I can happily report that I did, in fact, replace the bottom heating element, a job that requires disconnecting the power, draining the tank, scraping a few tons of crud that resembles poorly cooked oatmeal out of the bottom of the heater, screwing a new element into place, and refilling the thing.

We now have enough hot water to put in a steam room, but, oh my, did my hot streak end after that repair.

In a succession of miserable failures, I then attempted to fix my chainsaw after it croaked while cutting down a dead pine tree; it went to the repair shop. My son’s weed trimmer came next. “It runs a little while then just dies,” he said. I tried to find the problem, but didn’t find the tiny pinpoint hole in a gas line; it went to the shop, too.

Within a week, knowing that my son’s truck needed tires, we had a new set installed at a local garage while he was at work. The bad news came when he went to pick it up. “They said it needs a new ball joint,” he told me. I used to work on my own cars years ago — have replaced starters and alternators, even brakes — but cars and trucks are, for the most part, a mystery to me now; I got out the checkbook.

It was at about that time that the television in our kitchen went on the blink; it’s just old enough to be past warranty, too. Televisions have never been my forte, but instead of a trip to the repairman, we’re just going to wait for its total collapse and replace it. We had to have our family room television worked on last year; it took six months and a lifetime of phone calls before a local electronics store finally got it fixed.

Within the week, a front tire on our car blew out, so we replaced the front pair of those since they were, according to the mechanic, supposedly defective anyway. We needed new brakes, too; why not get both done at the same time?

Late last week, I noticed our clothes washer was making an odd noise; “It’s been doing that a lot lately,” Joanie said. We both at the same time saw water leaking out of the bottom of it…

The washer had to be replaced. Apparently the brand we chose a scant four years ago was plagued by transmission issues. A salesman told us that some of that model hadn’t even made it a year before breaking down. Ours, as we were painfully aware, was well past warranty time, and its repair costs exceeded its initial price. To add insult to injury, we ripped our vinyl flooring as we tried to slide the new washer into place; we’ll have to fix that later.

If you think that’s not enough, we can discuss the rust repair on our family van. “Hmph,” the dealership repairman said. “This thing’s not that old.” By the way, we had the passenger side window motor replaced at the same time the rust was fixed; the window ceased to roll down last month as we drove through a fast food restaurant.

That nearly concludes my sad tale. The fact that the cord on our clothes iron has a short in it, that raccoons tore up my wife’s hummingbird feeders, even that our computer desk chair literally fell apart with me in it a few nights ago, is all just minor stuff. We just have to roll with the punches and accept the fact that if we’re going to own stuff, we’d better get used to repairing it. We’re on a losing streak right now, that’s all.

Things could be worse. I just got a letter in the mail that informed me that my truck needed to be taken to a dealership for a recall repair. It was just another hassle, but I came away grinning: I got to keep my checkbook in my back pocket that time.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an “n” to work on.

You can contact Mike Lunsford at hickory913@aol.com, or by regular mail c/o the Tribune-Star, P.O. Box 149, Terre Haute, IN 47808. Visit Mike’s Web site at www.mikelunsford.com. He is currently working on his second book, due to be released in the fall.