It all started with a single drop.
Then another…and another. Before I knew it, there was trouble. Right below the sink in the elbow that acts as a catch basin.
Don’t ask me about the technical terms. I’m no plumber.
I noticed a trickle that flowed into a steady drop, followed by a drip that turned into a running stream. With my trusty wrench in hand, I decided to give it a slight twist.
“Probably just a loose connection,” I assumed.
Granted the plumbing fixtures were old, maybe as old as the house itself when we first settled here about 40 years ago. Couldn’t be any harder than replacing a light bulb, huh?
Intuition told me to disengage the connection and perhaps replace the washer. After all, they don’t last forever. Off came the pipe and a UFO came springing out of its hole.
“Whoa, what’s this? Maybe a washer. Perhaps it’s seen better days,” I thought.
Off to the hardware store I dashed, just before closing. Without giving it a second thought, I was directed to the plumbing aisle. Decisions! Decisions!
Selecting a washer is like trying to find out which cold remedy will work. Suddenly, I was in a quandary. Was it plastic? Rubber? What size am I looking for?
Heck, it was cheap enough. So I opted for both kinds, hoping one would work. Standard size looked like a 1.5” washer.
Now what? There was a sink tailpipe washer and poly washers. Beveled washers and coupling washers. How about a slip joint washer? All within a $3 range.
So I bought one package of each, thinking I’d cover all bases. I could always return the extras.
I brought the goods home and tried every possibility. Nothing worked. Couldn’t connect the pipes with what appeared to be overlap. Meanwhile, the upper pipe connection decided to betray me.
“What seems to be the problem?” came a voice from the kitchen. “Your steak’s on the table.”
My nerves were being shattered. The trial and error turned into error all the way.
“I’m no plumber, but it looks to me the washers you selected aren’t the right fit,” the same voice insisted.
Back I went to my friendly hardware store.
“It’s all about size,” the clerk pointed out. “Try the 1.25” variety.”
Anything that advertised that size was retrieved from the shelf. My mind shifted to that fateful day when I tried repairing a leak and wound up getting a new sink. Another time, a pipe burst under the house and I nearly caught fire trying to maneuver the torch.
But a washer? C’mon. I was determined to have this puzzle solved—by myself.
In and out went the different washers. As luck played out, I got one that seemed to work okay, except for a drop or two. And then it happened. I overexerted the next twist and splash! The entire trap came undone, like the ruins of Pompeii.
Every single joint became disgorged. I felt like taking a sledgehammer to the whole thing and putting the sink out of its misery once and for all.
After mixing myself a highball, I decided to do what comes naturally. Call a plumber. He talked me into a new sink, decided the plumbing was outdated, and ran me up a hefty bill.
The lesson appeared well intended. Plumbers are specialists in their field and get paid for performing their craft, much the same way writers are compensated to be journalists and lawyers are hired to maintain justice.
Problem is, a do-it-yourselfer is always repairing things around the house to the best of his inability. He may be able to fix anything a handy man does, only he does it well—and he does it now. I happen to be handier with a checkbook.
Try getting a plumber to your house for a leak. Most would rather work a construction site.
I had a brother-in-law who was a Mr. Fix-it. The guy could repair anything. If you had car trouble, you would call Arthur. It you needed an electrical outlet installed, Arthur was your man. He would build you a shed, get your snow blower working, and put a bike together with no leftover parts.
I hated calling the guy for every little mishap but the only time he ever failed me was when he died. He followed my brother who graduated from aeronautical technician school. He fixed jetliners. A faulty drain could be handled with a blindfold.
I suppose I could go to trade school and take evening classes on plumbing. Part of my problem is, I don’t read directions well.
Tom Vartabedian
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