As a child, I would always watch my dad as he repaired different things around the house. In my childlike mind, he could fix anything. I remember coming home from elementary school one day and finding our television torn apart, parts scattered all over the den floor. While other kids’ dads were watching TV, mine had it in surgery.

To me, he was the ultimate jack of all trades.

Later in life, we helped him build the house we lived in—and the one my parents still live in today. I remember telling him I wanted to grow up just like him. Apparently, I took that statement way too seriously.

I did grow up, and I’m not exactly like him… but I’m close enough to make the family nervous when something breaks.

I can fix just about anything I put my mind to. I went to school for HVAC, got a state license, and still take 4 CEUs every year to keep it current. Learning that trade gave me insight into how most things work. I repair most of my own appliances, and I’ve only had to call in a professional a couple of times—and that was when my foot was in a cast and gravity was no longer my friend.

I keep my license active mainly for my parents and my kids. Recently, I replaced my dad’s heat pump after it developed a refrigerant leak. Unfortunately, thanks to government regulations, the refrigerant it needed is now apparently classified as “ancient artifact.” I’ve also worked on my daughter’s clothes dryer when it stopped heating—a simple fix that just required replacing the heating element. In most cases, troubleshooting comes naturally.

Then my son called me this past Tuesday.

He said there was water under his washing machine after he did a load of laundry. He sent me the model and serial numbers so I could start troubleshooting before we met. After some research, I narrowed it down to a few possibilities: water inlet valves, drain pump, drain hoses, or the dreaded tub seal/bearing—the washing machine equivalent of “it’s totaled.”

I found parts for everything except the tub seal/bearing. It wasn’t listed anywhere. Not even on the manufacturer’s website. I emailed the manufacturer and got their incredibly helpful response: “Call a professional service technician.”

In other words, “Good luck, buddy.”

That was not happening.

We met today to work on the washer. I stopped at a hardware store and bought some cinder blocks so we could raise the machine, and I could crawl underneath it like a mechanic working on a car with no jack. The wash cycle took fifty-six minutes, which meant I spent forty-four of those minutes lying on a cold garage floor underneath a running washing machine, questioning my life choices.

Nothing leaked.

The hoses were dry. The pump was dry. No water around the tub seal or bearing. Everything looked perfect. This was confusing, suspicious, and mildly insulting to my troubleshooting skills.

Just as I was starting to think maybe the washer was mocking me, water suddenly began pouring directly onto my face. I was instantly soaked—like someone had turned on a shower labeled “Idiot Under Washer.” Before my son could shut the machine off, I was already rethinking every decision that led me to that moment.

The water wasn’t coming from anywhere I expected.

It was coming from the top of the washer—from the spray nozzle.

My son has very hard water in his area. He’s constantly using CLR on showerheads and faucets to fight calcium buildup. Turns out, that same calcium had slowly clogged the washer’s nozzle until, when it finally activated, it shot water clear past the tub and straight down the side—right onto me.

The fix?

A small cup of CLR mixed with water, an old toothbrush, and a pocketknife.

Five minutes. No parts. No service call. No $120-per-hour technician.

And best of all, we got some quality father-and-son time out of it—although next time, I might bring a poncho.

I’d say we came out ahead.