Thinking in Public: The canary in white enamel

In days of yore, people spent a very long time trying to figure out exactly what was happening and why it was only happening in “yore.” Even now, in the post-yore era, there remains a good deal of confusion about the exact timing of this period in history. While some experts place the time of yore at around the early 1970s, other scholars insist that the early ’70s was the disco era and had nothing at all to do with yore. Regardless of the exact historical timing of the yore era, it is at least as ancient as, say, Willie Nelson, a talented and well-known fossil who almost certainly predates the yore period.

Boy, this one ran off the rails in the very first sentence. What I was going to get to is forever lost now, so let’s talk about major appliances, shall we? I’ll start.

As in many homes, ours had a clothes washer and a dryer. Unmatched brands and ages, they worked for many years as designed. Until one of them didn’t.

The washer had a maddening tendency to twist the contents of its load into one long hawser suitable for safely mooring a Royal Caribbean cruise ship. Maybe two. The machine operated flawlessly for many years, faithfully twisting shirt sleeves, pant legs, towels and, yes, sheets into industrial marine equipment. I hated that machine, but it wouldn’t die. For nearly 15 years we spent hours untwisting load after load of wet laundry so it could be dried.

Then, one day, the clothes in the dryer were still wet after spending an hour or so flopping around in there. Here was the opportunity to make a decision that would eliminate at least one bothersome thing in our lives. The dryer could be repaired, of that I was certain. When I considered the cost, it made more sense to replace it, and as long as we were going to get a new dryer …

Good guess, gentle reader. As I was saying, in days of yore, one could go to Sears, buy a Kenmore anything and have an appliance that would last for generations. Heck, some old Kenmore washers have become family heirlooms. No digital lights and buttons, no Bluetooth, just a simple machine that worked every time it was asked. I wanted one of those simple machines again, but without the twisty feature. I just want a normal, agitator-powered, no-frills, top-loading, analog-controlled machine to clean my stuff.

I know, I know — save the tongue-lashing about the benefits of impeller-designed washing machines. Here’s the deal-breaker on those wrong-headed contraptions. They are designed to clean by rubbing the tub contents — your clothing — together using water motion rather than the mechanical thrashing provided by an agitator. Did the washing machine impeller engineering department bother to test their design with real clothes like long-sleeve shirts, jeans, bath towels and bedsheets? Did they toss in a few dainty, strappy things as well? Talk about a brainteaser. You could spend hours untangling that load.

Duh, I get it. Impeller designs are said to use less water, have greater tub capacity, and spin faster so clothes come out less wet, requiring more time in the washer but less time in the dryer. Yada yada, blah blah.

Even if true, I don’t care one whit about any of that. The added security in knowing I can whip up a first-rate, high-tensile-strength hawser in just one rinse and spin cycle is priceless, but no thanks. I don’t believe Bailey Island is on the Star of the Seas’ list of ports of call. Even if it were, it isn’t likely that the chief bo’sun onboard the Star of the Seas forgot to bring a decent line with which to tie up a quarter of a million gross tons of fun at Cook’s. Frankly, I’m not sure the Star could get any closer to Garrison Cove than Halfway Rock anyway.

One more thing: As it turned out, we were fortunate in that the old dryer performed like the canary in the coal mine, dropping dead before there was a real disaster. Because we replaced both appliances, we saw the beginning of what could have been a complete disaster lurking under the washing machine.

The center of the plastic catch pan under the washer had melted, apparently from the heat of the impeller motor located directly over the 6-inch-diameter melted spot. If you harbor one of these fiendish contraptions, I’d like to suggest that you have the damned thing inspected for evidence of overheating. Not the pan, silly, the washer.

In the end, we opted for commercial appliances with analog controls and lengthy warranties. There is no syncing with anybody’s cellphone, no Wi-Fi connections, no passwords, no demands for location tracking, and no list of people I might know and with whom I might share my laundry trials.

The first load in the new washer consisted of queen-size sheets, seven pillowcases (don’t ask — I live with a woman who has a pillow fetish), two pairs of socks and a little strappy thing I couldn’t identify. The washer completed its task in 30 minutes flat without a single tangle or snarl.

The new dryer performed equally impressively, getting its load ready to go back on the bed. Like its predecessor, it takes great pleasure in hiding socks and slinky lady things in the corners of the fitted bottom sheets.

Now we are back in business. Laundry day is less like a Highland Games event and more like the joyless drudge it always was. And we thank our Lord for the canary in white baked enamel.