One week ago today my washing machine went belly up, silently and in a plume of smoke. There was much teeth-gnashing, hand-wringing and curse-wording. When the thing did not resurrect itself after my string of threats, pleas and prayers, I admitted defeat and bade it farewell.
For those alert readers who remember, we ended up bringing in a 1945 Maytag E2L wringer washer for everyday use. (Maytag actually made this model from 1945 to 1983, and our particular one could be from 1950 or thereabouts.) The thing is somewhere around the 60-70 year mark, but still works well enough for our needs.
Is it fast? No. Is it convenient? No. Is carting the water to the kitchen sink fun? NO.
Is it cool looking? Hell yes. And it works. Bonus!
Over this past week, we—and by “we” I am of course using it in the Royal setting and actually mean “my husband”–have replaced a few things to make it even more
useable awesome. The hose was so old and brittle that it was cracking and spraying water hither and yon, so the man bought a new length of hosing and replaced it. Huzzah and hurray! No more unplanned showers!
The thing has been leaking oil something fierce, so my live-in handyman tipped it over and conducted a thorough inspection. He found the source of the leak and fixed that (although we still need to figure out how to get oil into the thing), but also decided to replace the old, brittle, insulation-cracking-and-peeling-off plug wire. Because, you know, fire bad.
“We” used an old computer plug cable, which fit perfectly and worked like a charm. The washer is now perfectly grounded, with a properly insulated cord that does not fill me with dread and fear should I forget to unplug it after I finish my laundry. (See above re: fire and bad.)
Eventually we may find a replacement motor for my recently deceased washer, and I shall return to the modern era of clothes washing. But until then, I will use my antique washer with pride. And give thanks it wasn’t the dryer that went kaput—this time.
I’m watching for you, gremlin.