Musings on home appliance repair

A revised version of "Life skills, planned obsolescence, and the fate of a disposable washing machine"

Friday! Today, one of the first stories I published here. It was a little rough before, and I’ve since cleaned it up. Fitting perhaps, for a story about washing machine repair. ~JRC

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Do try this at home.

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A previous version of this story was published on February 25th, 2020.

Life skills, planned obsolescence, and the fate of a disposable washing machine

When everything seems disposable, knowing how to fix stuff can still be a valuable skill

Growing up in a working-class household with four kids, my family always knew 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 increasingly rare these days: Know your stuff. Take care of your stuff. And be able to fix it when the time comes.

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More than just an exercise in frugality, theirs was a philosophy for life – one that embodies self-reliance, value, and respect. But today, it seems the postmodern world is hell-bent on doing away with this way of life. At the risk of sounding like a curmudgeon – many things made today are either outright disposable or destined to be thrown away because they won't last.

This built-in lifespan limiter, termed "planned obsolescence,” is often accomplished through sub-optimal or weak materials and, as often, impossible-to-repair designs. Other means are psychological and take advantage of consumerist desires for the newest, greatest, biggest, or best next thing.

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About three weeks ago, I came face to face with planned obsolescence. My washing machine broke down - it was only three years old. I was torn with what to do.

My upbringing dictated that I should try and fix it. But complicating matters, my washer decided to fail the Friday before my planned Monday website launch. I was madly 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.

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The machine in question was like new. It's one of those front-loading jobs with a heavy, bulbous clear-glass door that looks like something off a spaceship. It cost about 550 bucks. For a washing machine, I guess you'd say it's fancy. At the time of purchase, 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. Nevertheless, I was seduced by the space-age appeal of that glistening glass door.

My future would be clean and bright as I watched my whites get whiter through that door.

Most new washing machines (and most modern appliances) are controlled by what I would say are *overly* sophisticated computers. They are advertised as helping to save water and energy, and the technology also makes them safer. But at a cost to durability. The ecological benefits are highly suspect as a result. What they do unquestionably well is spit out cryptic error codes when something goes wrong. These codes are often nonspecific and, in my experience, rarely identify the problem conclusively.

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My machine wasn't draining, so it shut down and locked my clothes inside along with a deep pool of dirty water. It revealed not why and only flashed a cryptic 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.

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Draining the machine required removing the back panel, reaching under the drum, and opening the filter plug to release the water. The water had to empty into a small pan that would fit under the pump assembly. I thus drained the drum one pan at a time. All told, it took about ten pan-fulls and 20 minutes total. Along with the initial diagnosis and disassembly, I had spent well over an hour - just to get my still dirty clothes out before starting the actual repair.

Next, I performed the obvious potential "quick fix" checks. I looked for blockages in the drain hose, ensured there wasn't any obstruction in the filter housing or impeller pump, and even unplugged and reset the machine's computer to ensure it wasn't just some software glitch.

Unfortunately, none of these was the culprit.

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After a little online sleuthing, I determined the problem was one of three things – a faulty water level sensor (an easy fix and not too expensive), a failed drain pump (slightly more challenging; about the same cost as the sensor), or a toasted appliance control unit (ACU) which is the machine's computer motherboard (a little more challenging still, and way more expensive). 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 I was worried about which component was ultimately responsible for this dirty little mess.

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Now back to the diagnosis. 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 entirely and proceeded to run the diagnostic program detailed inside.

The test was all electronically controlled. 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. This told me what I already knew – either the sensor, the pump, or the ACU was bad. The book then detailed how to evaluate each component. The sensor I tested by basically detaching a hose which simulates the pressure change needed to activate the pump. But it didn't turn on the drain pump, so I was on to the pump itself. The book recommended taking an Ohm meter and testing the current resistance across the main power terminals. 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.

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The book then instructed that if it wasn't the sensor and the pump tested fine, then it was the ACU - 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? It seemed a lot was 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 precisely the cliché thing I was thinking: "They don't make 'em like they used to."

Holy dippity-do-da crap.

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I was befuddled by the lack of other diagnostic pathways. It seemed to me there should be one or two different options to consider before having to change out the [costly] brain of this thing. And if it was the $350 ACU, wouldn't it be best to just throw in the extra two hundred bucks and get a new machine? One with a new machine warranty? I certainly wouldn't be the first to make this choice if I did.

And there it was, staring me in the face: Planned Obsolescence.

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Home appliances are considered a "mature technology" where there's little room for improvement or innovation. Product turnover is, therefore, a good way for companies to keep sales up. Durable enough to last a while, but then sooner than later, they fail. It eventually becomes more cost-effective – and less hassle – for the consumer to buy a new one. It's a tricky game for manufacturers to play – the product has to be good enough and last just long enough, so the consumer maintains enough confidence to buy another of the same brand.

The suffering repair industry has faltered in the internet age, making matters worse. Do-it-yourselfers like me have shown that fixing this stuff isn't rocket science. With a bit of know-how, a YouTube video, and Amazon.com, most can do many different repairs. For those who still go with a repair service, they're slapped with exceedingly high costs. All of this is part of a cycle where machines are designed to be replaced, not fixed, coupled with more people trying to fix them anyway, and the few professional repair services charging more and more just to stay in business. All because washing machines suck.

What results is that more and more consumers opt just to buy new appliances. And I, too, was considering it now. Despite my childhood training and my inherent resourcefulness, 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.

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After all this run-around, 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 just discard for a new model, I thought. There must be more I can do.

Just then, a moment of clarity came over me.

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No! I wasn't about to 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 and 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 or other obvious failures, and then mounted it on my benchtop vise. After safely rigging up a couple of wires, I supplied the needed 110 volts of alternating current, and…nothing happened.

For once in this saga, "nothing" was 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.

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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 apparent reason, and fifty bucks handed over, I had my new pump assembly and headed home. There, I double-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. Just a few bolts, a few clamps. Double-check 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.

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In all, it didn't take much time - a day of futzing about and running around. It went relatively smoothly, really, 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 it wasn't easy, and that makes me wonder why. It felt deliberately vague. The process seemed designed to thwart my repairs. And I fear the machine was in some way intended to fail from the get-go.

That is the troubling nature of planned obsolescence. And the genius of it, all the same. 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 actual costs and potential rewards.

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Oddly enough, I've grown to like my washing machine even more after this. After working on it and learning about its flaws, I know it better and can take care of it now. If something goes wrong again, I have a good start on how to address it. I will save some money each time I do, and better yet, I fight a system that makes me consume while using up the planet's resources in the process.

 Good feelings aside, I freely admit that I was tempted to cave in and replace the machine. This temptation is powerful and is why Planned Obsolescence works so well. Knowing this, I feel more fortunate that my parents taught me a valuable set of life skills. These are arguably more useful now than ever before. Working around inherent weaknesses is a strength, especially when much of the world is designed to fail and be replaced.

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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.

JRC