Dryer Days and Dust Bunny Saints

Early Sunday evening, I was lying on the bed talking to my mother on the phone. Shelby was lying next to me, not partaking in the conversation—just hanging out. Mid-conversation, a rather odd noise emanated from somewhere else in the basement. As that noise subtly occurred, another noise ceased. My anxiety peaked.

Shelby went to investigate while I stayed on the phone. They returned and quietly reported it must have been from upstairs. I accepted that explanation with a false sense of security and finished the call. Once Mom and I hung up, I headed straight to the source of my anxiety.

My Whirlpool Cabrio dryer—model #WED5610XW0.

I have a special relationship with this washer and dryer set. I bought them years ago from the Liquidation Team store in Orem, a place specializing in Costco returns—probably around 2011 or 2012.

About a year after acquiring them, the dryer (presumably—it’s always been the needier one) stopped working. A younger version of myself, not as confident or skilled and only slightly less broke, called for a repairman. The gentleman who arrived looked like Andy Griffith in his later years. He got things running again and left me with this heartfelt advice: “Never get rid of these. This was the last good set we ever made.” I’ve honored that wisdom. Every time it breaks, I fix it. Because he looked like Andy Griffith! How could I not trust him?

The countdown timer glowed with four confident minutes remaining. But as I said, when that odd noise was heard, another one stopped. The dryer claimed four minutes to go, but it made no sound. I opened the door—it was warm inside, but nothing was tumbling. I hit the pause and resume button. Nothing. I manually rotated the drum—it spun. Pressed the cycle button—still nothing. Just a click and a countdown.

Like any semi-confident and broke person, I asked my partner to grab the flashlight. I found the model number and turned to Google. It had been pre-2021 since I last ventured into this dryer, and I try to block those memories. I located a video showing how to open the front lower panel and requested more tools from Shelby.

Armed with the world's smallest flathead and a paint scraper, I coaxed the panel off. Flashlight in hand, I carefully inspected the now-visible internals. Mindful of hand placement—because 110 is a tickle, but 220 is a bad time—I wasn’t about to wet my pants on a Sunday evening.

I saw a tattered belt hanging from the drum and a worn pulley lying in the back left-hand corner. I couldn’t remember if Seppi and I had left a dead idler pulley in there last time. I called him—he couldn’t recall either.

With that intel, I located a site that sells parts by model number. I found a replacement belt, but that pulley left me uneasy. I opted for a rebuild kit: idler pulley, rollers, and belt. After verifying compatibility, I copy-pasted the part number into Amazon.

The kit on the parts site was $50 plus shipping and a few days out. Amazon had it for $25 with next-day shipping. To soothe my anxiety demons, I spent 20 minutes verifying—visually and numerically—that it was the right kit. Somewhat confidently, I hit "Order Now." Parts would arrive Monday.

Monday came, and I checked the tracking info obsessively. Delivery was projected between 6:30 and 9 PM. I got home from work early, played a computer game for a bit, then checked again—four stops away, ahead of schedule. Time to put up the game and attend YouTube Academy, bookmarked the night before.

The parts arrived. With my honorary appliance repair degree in hand, I gathered tools and fetched the vacuum—because that dryer was full of lint and hair. I gently eased it out and unplugged it, holding my breath, remembering the time Seppi gave himself a 220 “kiss” doing the same thing.

Plug removed, pants dry, knees weak—Mom’s spaghetti? Not for over a decade. My knees were just loud from being old and out of round. I grabbed the right bit, loaded up my drill, and whispered a small prayer to my deity of the hour: the spirit of the Andy Griffith repairman, patron saint of my stubborn old appliances.

I took a break for some nicotine and reviewed the holy repair video. First: remove the console. Done. Separate the front cover and release the spring clips. Done. Disconnect the board and set it safely aside.

Next: release the top cover, disconnect the sensor underneath, then remove the rest of the front cover—carefully, since the front drum rollers are attached.

Done. Set the front cover down awkwardly because of those rollers. And then: holy hardened lint collection!? How had we not turned into a fireball? I shoved the thought aside. It was time to manhandle the drum out of the dryer.

The moment of truth. I was deeper in this machine than ever before.

I removed the belt remains from the drum and rear rollers. A streamer of belt was tangled around the motor pulley. That belt had yee’d its last haw. It went down swinging, leaving a fine black powder everywhere.

I spent 20 minutes alternating between canned air and the vacuum. Once clean, I inspected the pulleys and rollers. Rear rollers—fine. Idler pulley—too much resistance. The pulley at the bottom? Yep, the one we left in there last time.

I replaced the idler pulley, reviewed the video for belt orientation, and used it to lift the drum like a pro. Checked fitment five times. Spent 15 minutes watching and re-watching the belt routing segment. They shot it from a reverse angle and my brain protested every frame.

Another 15 minutes of actual routing, wedged under the drum in cramped conditions. Many colorful words were uttered. I turned to the front rollers—they had too much resistance. I discovered a horror: a human hair friction bushing. Ten minutes with the world’s smallest flathead later, I had exorcised it.

Replaced the front rollers, re-watched the video, placed the drum on the new rollers, and reattached the front plate. Gave it the test spin—no twist in the belt. Praise be to Andy Griffith.

Sensors connected. Bolts back home. No spare parts. Removed the dryer vent—shockingly clean—and then wrestled it back on like a greased eel. Slid the dryer into place. I used a Swiffer handle to push the plug back into the socket after half-dislocating it during my fat-guy ballet.

Dryer in place. Final offering to Andy Griffith repairman: a single dust bunny. I hit start.

NOISE.

Beautiful, acceptable noise of success. The drum spun. There was heat. Nothing was on fire. I DID IT.

For $25 and about two hours, I journeyed into the lint-covered underworld as a repair boy and emerged a repair man—looking like Pig-Pen from Peanuts. Andy Griffith repairman would get the reference.

I hope my dryer repair saga entertained you, dear reader. Life is expensive, and not all of us can afford to outsource everything. If something breaks, know this: the internet is full of helpful guides, and you might surprise yourself. Doubt your doubts. Proceed with caution. Fix things when you can.

While I won’t be changing careers, I won’t shy away from the next appliance that dares to defy me.

Thanks for reading.

Bishop :(: