Earlier this week, I posted on the immensely helpful ‘Women in Cayman’ Facebook page, asking if anyone had seen one of the old-style digital clocks for sale on the island.
After months of wrestling with the fading, yet faithful companion that had graced my bedside table since the Nixon administration, I was starting to accept that it might be time for a replacement.
This poor thing had been through the wars. It’s true that they don’t make ‘em like they used to. Drop your phone or smart watch from a height onto tiled floor, and there will probably be tears. But that simple, noble clock had kept going, even after being accidentally knocked, whacked, kicked and punched to the ground.
It’s one of those models that has a backup battery in case the power goes out … a 9-volt. Kids today have no idea what that means. Show them the wee brick with both terminals on top and they’ll blink at it blankly.
As a side note, those 9-volts used to be the GOATs of the battery world. They were everywhere. You couldn’t run a handheld game, remote control toy or a large selection of musical equipment – including electric guitars – without them. Many was the time that the guitarist in my band (30 years ago) would forget to bring a spare; but luckily the bass player was always prepared.
Not to warm to my subject like that’s what this column is all about, but for those who were around when Blockbuster Video and LaserDiscs (ask yer parents) were da bomb, do you remember how difficult it was to replace a 9-volt? One of the contacts on the battery was a hexagonal metal trap and there would be another on the opposite side in the slot of whatever apparatus you were shoving it into. Of course, you wanted a tight fit, but once it was in place, you practically had to use a crowbar to extricate it at the end of its life. I reckon that’s why you have guitar techs for bands. I’d swear there must be one guy backstage dedicated to wrenching a 9-volt from its cubby to replace it with another. Do you really think Keith Richards or Jimmy Page have time to grab a butter knife mid-set to use as battery leverage?
Wow. I’ve actually written 300 words on old batteries, proving exactly what my father’s always said – I can talk utter nonsense about any subject for hours.
Believe it or not, this is supposed to be a column about leaving some things to the experts. So, let’s take a hard right off the Duracell path and get back on track.
As I mentioned about five hours back, my old digital clock was really on its last legs. For longer than I care to admit, I was each night twisting and cajoling its power cord in order to bring the display to life. In the past week, however, it had all got a bit ridiculous. Even when I got the lights coming up – that flashing ‘12:00’, mocking me – as soon as I started gingerly pressing the top buttons to set the hour and minutes (I’d long given up on AM/PM, as I didn’t use the alarm function), the screen would dim and flicker, and then …
‘10:30’; ‘10:31’; ‘10:32’; ‘10:33’ … [flicker, ‘10:33’, shimmer, glimmer (I love a good online thesaurus)] … ‘12:00 12:00 12:00 12:00’
&^%$@#*!!!!
Despite my intense irritation, I really didn’t want to throw it away unless it was truly done for. So, on the public holiday Monday, I made myself comfortable on the couch, grabbed a Phillips-head, and carefully removed the four screws holding it together. Instantly, pieces of broken plastic fell into my hand and the interior gubbins completely dislodged themselves, hanging down from unfamiliar wires. From there, it just went downhill. I cut my index finger open on a sharp piece of chassis, probably from that fall the clock took in the summer of ‘93. I couldn’t find any compromised insulation or loose connections in the power cable to justify why it had to be twisted in different directions to work. Essentially, I was a hippo staring at a car engine. I didn’t know where to start, and even if I did, I wasn’t terribly dexterous and didn’t have the right tools at my disposal.
I carefully tried to reassemble everything with seven fingers and two thumbs, leaving multiple ‘spare parts’ behind. Maybe just opening it up and blowing away the dust had been enough.
I plugged it in. Nothing.
I twisted, pushed and twirled the power cable. Oo! Lights!
Then, darkness.
I’m definitely buying a new one this weekend.
I’ve actually had times when being willing to try and fix something myself has worked. I’ve replaced bands in VCRs so they don’t eat up the inserted tapes. I’ve switched out fuses, cleaned car battery terminals, and repaired electrical wires on Christmas lights that have been chewed by cats. Cut the cord; scrape off some insulation; twist the exposed wires on either end together; apply electrical tape to the break; hey-ho – we’re back in business! Tired toilet ballcocks that need a refresh? I’m your gal!
I have to say that there is a great deal of satisfaction to be derived from taking the initiative and achieving success. On the other hand, there are definitely some jobs best left to the experts … or at least the more capable.
Anyone who has read this column for many years (God bless you) will recall when I used to climb up onto our roof every December to hang icicle lights. The fact that I hated heights, had all the mountaineering skills of a walrus, and was in constant danger of the standing seam becoming as slick as ice if it rained, did not deter me. But one year, after being up there for four hours and bitten to death by mosquitoes, plus covered in green stain from the roof colour, I was ready for someone to stick a fork in me – I was done. I’ve hired others to do it ever since, and I have to say that they fly across that roof like spider monkeys.
On another occasion, I figured it wouldn’t be too difficult to replace a broken tap on my bathroom sink. Flooded floors and an empty can of WD-40 later, I was on the phone to the plumber. He looked thrilled when he saw how I’d started the job for him. Probably added another 30 minutes labour to his bill.
Many, many years ago, when I was a wee nipper, the Volkswagen Thing (yes, the name is correct) that my mother drove began to have issues with its windscreen wipers. They kept sticking, then stopped working altogether.
It was going to take time to get the replacement part in, so I came up with a brilliant scheme. I tied a long piece of wool to the arm of each wiper, then ran the two lengths to the rear of the jeep. I sat in the back seat, and pulled them, first from the left, then from the right, using the outside edges of the windscreen as leverage.
My mother, to her credit, did not mock. She allowed me to give it a go. In those days, the police didn’t take such a dim view of yarn-mechanics as they might now. This vehicle is not fit for the road … and all that.
I was eager for the next rainstorm so we could put my solution to the test. We didn’t have to wait long. A few days later, the clouds gathered and the heavens opened. To the Thing!
Off we went, slowly moving along the winding lanes of Prospect, with me in the back seat operating the yarn levers like pistons at ramming speed.
For a short while, the idea really worked. The wipers were moving and clearing the raindrops. I was a jeenyus! But then, tragedy struck. Turns out that fairly thin wool was no match for the metal edge of a windscreen, across which it was being consistently pulled. The right side snapped, and the left made its final arc of about 150 degrees before dropping, immobile. Useless without its partner.
I don’t know why we didn’t graduate to piano wire or fishing line after that. Maybe the temporary solution was going to end up costing more than the permanent fix if I kept being indulged. About a week later, the part arrived and a mechanic was employed.
If he was curious about the ragged pieces of orange wool attached to the wipers, he never showed it.
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