Here we go again.

Sitting on the floor, I unscrewed the screws. Here, could you get that one over there for me? Sure, says he.

He gently pulled the door and the cover apart to find the broken latch and the piece it connected to and we adjourned to our side-by-side computers to find the name of the part (which one of those three random numbers was the model number?) and what business might still exist in the area to buy it from. The local appliance parts place that my friend Diana and I once made an outing of? Long gone.

Fremont, the page said. (Oh okay that’s not too bad.) Open till 4:00 on Saturdays. I called them and they said they had two, Richard said something like Oh good! (you’re always on speakerphone at our house, one of the charms of hearing loss) and we looked at the clock, 2:30, and the weather and told them we were on our way. (Don’t close up early!)

Waze, an app that directs you away from traffic accidents, sent us clear around the bottom of the San Francisco Bay and back up. Wave after wave of blinding rain hit and it was just not a great time to be on the freeway or anywhere else out in that but by golly I wanted my dishwasher and he wanted to solve the problem.

They knew who we had to be the moment we walked in their door and opened our mouths. We chatted like old friends. They had an antique wringer-style washer on display; I told them my grandmother had had a live-in maid when my mom was growing up but that she’d told Mom later she’d have given her up in a second in exchange for a modern washer and dryer. We all allowed as how fortunate we were to have modern appliances, even when they’re being a pain.

Richard had actually used a wringer washer and he and one of the men talked about all the things you could get trapped in those: your hair. Your arm. Yup, those were the days.

There was a chance all along that it wasn’t just the latch but the expensive display panel going out again, and one wonders how long one should baby an old machine along before throwing in the towel. But then, just last month we had finally given up and replaced our vacuum cleaner. I do like the Dyson. But one hopes for a little time in between such things.

We got home, we did other things, we chilled a bit after that drive and we kinda didn’t want the hassle, either of us, till finally I said, What’ll it take us? Half an hour?  (Not saying, and that’s if it works.) And at that we both got off our duffs and went back in there and tackled the thing. I filled every last bit of space with more dirty dishes, and after three days of only doing a little in the sink at a time because my hands were bothering me, there were, shall we say, a few.

Connect the new piece, admire how shiny and new it looks, screw. all. those. screws. back in the door–

–and push the button in great hopes.

Nada.

Dannnng.

He wasn’t willing to give up that easy. Did you plug it back in?

Oh right.

Push the button.

Nada.

He tried pushing the cycle buttons, and just like before, they did briefly light up green, the one thing that had assured us all along that the panel wasn’t (entirely?) bad. Then he with his bigger stronger fingers pushed the On button and darn if that dishwasher didn’t cave. It knew who was boss.

The sound of that machine doing our dirty work at last was an immense relief. It finished the cycle, everything was sparkly clean and disinfected more than hand washing could ever do and I’ve emptied and refilled it most of the way again.

Try pushing not hard next time but long, says he. But I’m not touching that thing again till it’s all the way full. It may only have so many cycles left in it and I don’t want to waste a one.