Here’s to my departed stepdad, General Electric, and Robert Pirsig, for helping fix our electric furnace during this winter storm of snow, freezing temperatures, and 36 mph winds.
Last night, our furnace began making periodic noises of sheet metal rubbing on sheet metal, the sound of a drum-shaped fan wobbling maybe 1/8th inch. We get a lot of dust out here in the boonies, what with cornfields and gravel roads; it settles on the blades; and as with many high-spin household fans, that’s enough to cause a wobble.
Last winter when this happened, I removed the furnace access panels and laboriously brushed each drum blade through a narrow opening on the side. This year that wasn’t enough to fix things.
Here’s where my departed stepdad, General Electric, and Robert Pirsig step in.
I’m a writer, editor, and game designer by trade. These are soft typist fingers writing this post. But my stepdad, Chuck, was a diesel mechanic in the Army, and then a factory maintenance man. He taught me a lot about small appliance repair, a bit about automobile repair, and as much as he could get across about common sense. Working in a General Electric sheet metal department for eight years gave me a feel for metals, how they flex, the flow of solder or a smooth weld. And Robert Pirsig’s Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance introduced me to the philosophy of Classical versus Romantic views of things like machinery.
(That book also introduced me to the concepts of dynamic quality and static quality: things like that exciting new song and that comforting old melody, Casablanca the first time you see it and the tenth time, new love and decades-old love,)
Per Pirsig, the Romantic way of looking at a motorcycle, or in this case a furnace, is as a whole. If the furnace breaks down, call a repairman or buy a new one. In the meantime you’re stuck without heat.
He describes the Classical way of looking at a machine is as a collection of parts that work together for a common purpose. In this case the electrical elements are still putting out heat, and the blower fan still spins, but something is causing that to sag enough in its mounting to rub its hood.
So I turned off the circuit breaker (Chuck instilling some common sense about electricity), took the whole fan assembly off, and set it on the floor. Turned it on its side to clean hard to reach places, left it on its side, and turned the power back on: smooth sailing, no rubbing. Off with the circuit breaker, stand it upright, restore power, and it’s rubbing again. More cleaning, more testing, same results.
“Don’t get frustrated,” Chuck said. Pirsig said, “Identify the problematic part.” I noticed the hood was flexing just a bit from the weight, years of operation having bent it minusculely. I disconnected the motor’s three-armed mounting, switched a couple of rubber bushings, tried again, better this time but still rubbing.
“Address the problematic part,” said Pirsig. “Think of a way to fix that specific thing.”
So I added a washer below the bushing to give the fan drum about 1/16th inch of lift angle, and now it’s humming along as should be.
For a mechanic, I’m sure that’s no big deal. For a writer, it’s some self satisfaction and a bit of gratitude from Jennifer—maybe even smidge of admiration? Or at least pride in her bookish husband.
And it just goes to show that philosophy really does have real-world applications.
My dad has plenty of virtues, but as a child I watched him struggle with so many home and mechanical repairs. I vowed to get a career that would let me afford to hire professionals for these things.
It was a naive vow. I’m exceptionally lucky in my career and income, and the cost of professionals is still problematic.
I think if I had spent two years 30 years ago working with the mechanics, electricians, plumbers, carpenters, and locksmiths in my extended family I would have saved enough money to buy a Ferrari by now. (That’s hyperbole, but not by much.)
The Romantic philosophy, at least that aspect, is a myth.