Tips on Solving Garage Door Opener Problems

One of the most important and dangerous components on any home garage door opener are the high tension springs which need to be regularly inspected and lubricated as per the manufacturers directions. Unfortunately, many householders are oblivious to the fact that garage door torsion springs and other parts of the door need occasional routine servicing and safety checks.

Overhead garage door opener springs are used to raise or lower the door and can present a safety risk if they are either faulty or not installed as per manufacturers instructions. If one or both of the springs are not working correctly, the door might not open all the way or even at all. Garage doors, like other mechanical and electric equipment in and around the home, need routine upkeep in order to remain in top notch condition.

The most obvious perpetrators to pay special attention to when you are experiencing trouble either opening or shutting your garage door are the high tension springs. If the springs are old, they are probably worn out to a certain point. The torsion springs used on garage doors are tightly wound and kept under extreme tension. due to this tension, even the best quality steel springs will eventually break. Garage door opener springs must be properly contained in order to stop them from causing serious harm to a person or property should there be a sudden breakage. Up and over garage doors use cables for containment while roller shutter doors use a metal tube around the spring mechanism.

Even if the springs are contained, or if the door has been fitted for a number of years, you should have them inspected by a professional garage door engineer.The springs should be replaced if needed. If you have the type of garage door that has a pair of separate springs, and just one is broken, it makes sense to replace both simultaneously. You can bet your bottom dollar that if one spring has broken, its opposite number will not be far behind it.

A definite sign that your garage door is in need of a spot of service is when the springs either start squeaking or chattering loudly when opening or lowering the door. This does not necessarily indicate that the springs are about to give up the ghost or the door is on its last legs and needs replacing. The trouble can probably be cured by spraying on some lubricant, such as WD-40, or something similar.

Another indication that your garage door needs servicing is if there are shredded and worn strips of cable hanging loose. Irrespective of the quality of your garage door opener, this is a sign that the cables are on the brink of snapping. An abrupt break in the garage door cables can cause serious injury. These chafed cables ought to be examined and more than likely replaced by a professional garage door contractor who is acquainted with the problems connected with springs and cables breaking.

Garage doors by themselves are very heavy and because of that weight, the torsion springs need to be retained under extreme tension. You should therefore not attempt any mechanical alterations yourself due to the dangers involved in doing so. It would be wise to have a professional garage door installer inspect these important parts of your home yearly to avert potential injury and problems caused by bad springs.

How I Learned To Respect Women

I can’t remember exactly which summer it was, ’59 or ’60, but the rest is crystal clear. I learned a most valuable worldly lesson that day. It was an education and a humiliation. A lesson in respect and that old adage: never judge a book by its cover.

It is often said that in the repressed and carefree 1950s that kids didn’t know about sex. That’s not exactly true. We didn’t know what lovemaking was or how a baby was born, but we certainly had a primitive knowledge of sex appeal.

Little girls knew they liked boys who were “cute,” and try as we may to think of girls as “icky,” we boys knew we wanted to be near the pretty ones.

If a girl was pretty and also able to run and catch and kick like a boy too, then she was even more desirable to be around.

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When Innocence Fades

I am almost eighteen years old and I had yet to experience any greater loss besides a cat that I’d had my whole life. So its the truth when I say that death was still a very foreign concept to me, personally. But that all changed one Saturday morning.

My drama class was taking place in a competition and we were all meeting at another high school for the competition. I got there a few minutes late but that wasn’t a problem. Despite the excitement that I felt about the upcoming competition, I instantly could tell that something was wrong with a friend of mine. She was quiet, which knowing her is strange enough and she wouldn’t talk to anyone. I went all morning wondering what was wrong with her.

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The Mystery of the Appearing Pajama Shirt

My name is Gary Fraizer, and I am a fifteen year old sophomore in high school. I live with my family,  which consist of my mom and dad, my two brothers, a cat, a dog. Looking from the outside, one would have the impression that my family is just ordinary and that may be true, except for my brother, who is, extraordinary.

When he was five he was diagnosed with a disease called Aspergers, but despite that, our parents think he is the best thing since sliced bread. He wakes up, at six am, dresses and leaves for school by seven, returns at four pm and then spend two hours finishing up his home-work. At six pm he feeds and walks the dog, at eight he applies acne treatment and at nine thirty, he showers to be in bed by ten pm. The amazing thing is, all this is accomplished without any prompting from our parents.

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Maybe I’m not the only one who notices

My grandfather and I discussed writing. I told him how many novels I had to read for just one literature class in Oxford and he told me, “baby, it takes me so long to get through one page, stumbling through all those words. The only way I’ll ever read a long book is if someone finds a good, long western and buys it for me.”

He would read it just because someone had given it to him, if nothing else. He’d struggle through the small print and tedious scenic descriptions because he wouldn’t want to waste someone’s kind intentions. There was a pleasant pause in our conversation, and he sat rocking in his chair while I flipped through a magazine that was sitting on their crystal dining room table. That table always seemed so impractical to me, but it made my grandmother happy because it sparkled and made my grandfather happy because it made my aunt happy who had bought it for them. My grandfather’s arm shot up (in slow motion) and he shook his finger in the air a few times. “I have something for you baby…” he said. “I thought maybe you’d like to read it. I found my great grandmother’s journal. We were hiding it until her daughter died—she wrote some things about how they didn’t get along…Let me go get it.” I smiled. I smiled because I was genuinely too excited not to smile. “Oh really?” I said as he made his way out of the room. I was excited. I was thrilled, really—to read someone’s deepest thoughts. To find treasures inside written memories or poems or even an old “To-do List.”

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Close Encounters With the Homeless Kind

I once found myself with a homeless man on the trunk of my car,apparently trying to get my attention because I didn’t “look at him”. I was stopped at a red light at an intersection when I noticed him on the corner by a Jack-In-the-Box restaurant.  I saw him, then glanced the other way, waiting for the light to turn green.  Suddenly, I heard a thud coming from my trunk and felt the back of my car drop. There, lounging on my car, was the homeless man – oblivious to the honks surrounding him.  I ran out to get an explanation and persuade him to get off, and he says to me, “Oh, now you notice me.”  Lesson number one:  Don’t ignore the homeless.

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“He No Longer Has Any Delays”

Those were the words I was greeted with yesterday at Riley’s annual Early Intervention evaluation. Riley no longer has any delays, in any area. That simple sentence literally took my breath away, as I realized that I have never been in a meeting about either of my twin boys and heard that they were developing completely “normally.” Usually, these meetings are difficult for me, as I am forced to focus on the areas in which the boys are not progressing as they should be. Of course, we always talk about the gains they have made. However, the bulk of our discussions naturally center on their deficits and on the fact that, since their premature birth, both of my boys have required intervention and therapy in order to learn what comes naturally for so many children. Both of my boys have been diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy (CP), and they

have had physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy, and developmental therapy since they were two months old. These meetings can be grueling, and sad, and often leave me drained. Last night, though, I was absolutely elated and joyful! For the first time, Riley is meeting all of his developmental milestones exactly as he should be.

At his annual meeting last year, Riley was still commando crawling on his belly, and was not even able to crawl on all fours. I remember having a conversation with all of his therapists about whether or not he would ever be able to walk independently, and when they thought that might be. I burst into tears because I was so afraid that he was going to start to become aware that he was missing out on things when he saw his twin brother, Ross, begin to walk. I asked if he could try out using a walker and in January of this year, he started to use a walker for the first time. Then, there was a huge miracle in May, when he took his first steps all on his own. Now, in October, Riley walks completely indpendently, although he does have a slightly altered gait due to his CP. He still wears braces on his legs and probably will for some time. His balance is still not great and he falls often. He has a ways to go with managing steps on his own, running, jumping, etc., but, he is a million miles away from the little boy who made me wonder if he would ever walk on his own.

Riley’s language skills are right on target for his age. He says about 100 different words and he is now starting to use 2 and 3 words together once in a while. He is having a little bit of trouble pronouncing certain sounds and his speech therapist and I both believe that his CP is making it harder for him to move his mouth in certain ways, so he will still have speech therapy to address that. His fine motor skills are coming along beautifully, although he still has needs related to his CP that he will continue to address in OT.

This past year has truly been incredible for Riley, and while he does still have some challenges to face as a result of his CP, for today, I am basking in the glow of hearing “he no longer has any delays.”

Melissa Ringold

Winning entry for October! Thanks, Melissa for submitting your parenting experience to From My Experience.

Another day at the Office

As I sit behind this mindless monitor, plinking at the keys of a wireless keyboard, clicking the wireless mouse, I think to myself, “Where the hell is my office?”.

A poignant observation as the fall air chills and makes me long for the hayrides of my youth. The “cubicle” of corporate America is being corrupted by the fat-cats in power that take, and keep on taking. My office is erased by the notion of “Work at Home”, and as I get a call from my creditors in India telling me my account is past due, I think “ Geez, I’d love a job calling people telling them their bills are late”, especially the CEO’s of the banking institution because they were caught spending company funds on hookers in Costa Rica, and funneling the “business expense” through an off-shore bank account, while people trying to buy houses are unable to get quality loans because of the abuse of the past.

I think, that as the government bailed out these lenders, the lenders are holding on to the homes trying to persuade the consumer that they can’t quality, but in reality, they are holding on the homes so they (lenders) can turn the house around when the economy rebounds.(whatever that means)

The economy for me pretty much sucks, not because I lost thousands in stocks, or that even though gas prices have declined, I still can’t travel, no. The economy sucks for me because as unemployment increases, I can’t even get a job as a cashier because I’m “over-qualified”. I had to dumb-up my resume to reflect my lack of achievement, and not my achievements. I’ve had to omit degrees, experience, qualifications, and work experience to get even the most basic of employment. (As of this writing, still unsuccessful.)

The office I speak of at the beginning is the cubicle of the mind. The confines of the cubicle are a direct reflection of the aptitude and resolve of the common American. As an American, I feel (personally) that I am not too good for anything. I am willing to assume a position (sic.)that will allow me to live above the poverty level. (Apparently, 150% below the average income means)

I write, because it affords me to escape the cubicle, and allow the freedoms as Americans, have lived and died for. Basically, it’s the last place a boss can affect you work, because of it subjectivity. (Also, every once and a while, someone will pay you to do what you enjoy)

As the corporate cubicle compresses on the average soul, my office will continue to have a hand grenade on the desk, sitting on a sign that says please take a number, as a number one hangs every so gently from the pin.

Andrew Rutigliano

Stupid People

Stupid people.

Yellow curb. Means park somewhere else.

Looking for a free lunch, perfect pitch, the holy grail, or a parking spot in front of the courthouse, which for this truck means a 35 foot slot in the lineup.

Not only are they parked on yellow, aCROSS from the sheriff’s office, they hadn’t the decency to close up the gaps. Between every bumper and fender ekes a tantalizing 30 feet, as if they only had so many cars to lock up all the parallel spots so they had to space em out.

Ever since the arraignment for one Charles Haught, middle-aged life drop-out, rapist and murderer of one Wesley Campbridge, seven year-old, ever since every mobile news unit from three surrounding counties had converged and taken up residence in front of Bourbon County Circuit Courthouse, people had ceased fudging the customary ten to fifteen feet of yellow, and now strung all the way across it in the spirit of the old adage about forgiveness and permission.

If Action News 36 can do it, well by George. . .

In my mind I know it’s 9:43 and in my DIAD are 8 uncompleted 10:30 commit stops, two of them bulk, and one of them across town.

Without looking, I sense a looming diesel presence in the fold-out sideview mirror, the same white Ford dualy that’s been dogging me from 10th Street, edging out from behind just enough to make sure I know he wants around.

Knock yourself out, sweetheart. F’you can fit that monster in between my mirror and the half-lane that’s left, you’re more driver than I am. No doubt he thinks he is. More to the point, no doubt he’s been cussin me all the way down Main since I pulled in front of him.

Had to cut somebody off.

Watched twenty cars amble by with that same maddening gap precision. Twenty cars, a minute-and-a-half I ain’t got. The second I nosed out into traffic, he ghosted up to my bumper so close I could see the Ford oval on his grill in my rear camera monitor.

Yeah, now you’re in a hurry.

I can see his mouth moving, so I put words in it. Fool kid, pull out in front of me, and some other words that normally I would never think, were I not forced into providing captions for his thought balloons. It wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t feel just a little bit guilty. Guilt pressed in between time and stress oozes out looking like road rage.

A blue Caravan with a bandaged rear window and a bumper just hanging on for dear life pulls away from the curb in front of me, at about the same time the Ford gets the four inches he’s been wanting for ten blocks, and here he comes, loosening the reins of all 350 horses, and billowing acrimony from both 5 inch chrome horns.

The hapless grocery-getter dawdles on out in his lane. He hauls up on the reins, the whistling downshift an automotive curse. If I had time, I’d be laughing. Good thing I don’t. He’s up even with me now, looking right at me, distilling all his frustration with the Caravan and the world in general into the last minute spent staring at the back of a delivery truck. I can see his silent swearing indignance.

He’s a mouth breather. Unfortunate orifice, that. The gaps in between the parked cars should be so wide.
Still, he manages to impart more scorn through his NASCAR shades and the bubbled tint than Estella ever cast down on Pip, Chillingworth on Rev. Dimmesdale, or the parabled Pharisee upon the publican.
Turning my attention to the vast expanse of gleaming yellow curb vacated by the departing Caravan, I cut as close as I can and then back, dimming the luminous paint with my rubbing tires.

The stop I need is half a block back.

Shoving the truck into park, I fall into a habitual series of movements, park, brake, key out, seatbelt off, mirror in, bulkhead door; a succession so varied but seamless, a truly Faulkneresque regimen.
Dodging strategically positioned and scarcely mobile redneck sidewalk ornaments, I finally make it to the intended destination, a lawyer’s office, and pull hard on the door.

It’s locked, and the jolt shakes the glassed-in front wall.

The over-cooked, under-worked (minesweeper?) secretary jerks around so suddenly that her desk chair becomes a tilt-a-whirl, and she steadies herself with a what on earth expression. (oh help, another mouth breather) Sizing up the situation, she then laughs, slaps the desk so hard I can hear it out here, and puts her forehead down on her hand, big shoulders shaking.


Odd seconds rush out into eternity while she has a good winding down laugh about how startled she was and how she forgot to unlock that front door again!

She gets up from the chair in hitches and explains the noise over her shoulder to someone in the back room, actually stopping mid-way and, what, turning to raise her voice because they can’t hear her.
When she opens the door, “Oh my land’s sakes, you scared me to death-” throwing her head down and slapping a meaty thigh, and sucking in the next phrase through a hearty laugh “I-I-I thought somebody ran into the building-ing-ing, and and Haley hollered up here and said, ‘What in tarnation is that, did some kid run his bicycle into the front door?’ Ooohhhh, I forgot to unlock it!”

I, am speechless.

Come in.

I would, of course, decline, but it appears she isn’t going to physically accept the package, possible germophobe, but no, she just stuck a pen in her mouth. The packages, including this 2 oz. next-day-air envelope, go on a table in that back room.

The one on the left?

No, down the stairs, to the right, through the gray door.

Returning from the dungeon, I offer her the DIAD to sign.

Oh no, Betty signs for everything.


Downstairs, you didn’t see her?

Poor Betty’s been having indigestion all morning, she explains when she emerges from the rest room at 9:52. How fast can you empathize? My foot is one inch from the bottom step of the truck when a voice falls across my tense shoulders like a war club.

Hey, buddy.

Contemplation of feigned deafness tempts me for a second.


Yeah? Turning, sounding relaxed, helpful.

Oh no, it’s Jethro Bodine gone to neglected seed, Santa Clause’s Appalachian counterpart, except I don’t think he’s going to give me anything. The v-necked t-shirt stopped being white shortly after it stopped rying to reach down to the sweat pants. Chest hair, copious and curly, nestles in the plunging neckline. The grace of a beard has been weeded out to a mockery of sweat, oil and tangles. Sixty degrees and sweat beads his forehead and speckles his shirt. He hooks a thumb to the courthouse.
Can you tell me what that says? Over his shoulder my eyes focus on a computer-printed sign taped to the door of the courthouse. Forgot his glasses, I guess.

Hurrying around him, I’m almost there before I realize the print is three inches tall.

Behind me, I hear “I just. . . can’t read.”

Something jams into my spokes, locking up the wheels of time and task and what I call trouble.

Uh, it says the courthouse is closed-ummm, scanning the two lines as if it were fine print-uh, open. . . tomorrow. Turning to face him, Well that’s odd, babbling, wonder why they’re closed, no holiday.

That’s okay, he says.

All right, well have a good one, man.

Sorry-he looks me in the eye-just, can’t read.

Hey, no problem, no problem at all, have a good one, have a good day.

I thank ye’.

You t-no problem, have- we’ll see you.

Delivering next day air, I don’t have time to think about the flush that stains my cheeks, or the lump logging my throat.


The Path Grandmother Chose!

We are camped beside the Colorado trouble here again stalks us, why can they not just leave us be we are fed,housed,and clean?

No children were ever more loved even if we lived in tents, we are here for special reasons it is life lessons grandmother teaches. We are here for a gather kin are coming who were scattered,grandmother walks away to a small hill this time I can not follow.

I hear her voice raised in prayer singing softly very old words,even the heart and spirit of a child of four understands this is sacred.

Suddenly all is chaos everyone is running lights are shining in our eyes,a white man in uniform demanding to see everything in our camp.

Someone he said reported wild parties, drugs, and drinking, instead he found us a simple extended family here to learn from the Water. Grandmother stood proudly before this man who sneered at her,head held high she told him we are here for connections to our spirits. You will find no evil things here only love and caring, we sing and drum sending our prayers upon the wind with sage and sweet grass only. They gave us only three days then we must move on, they did not like our kind he said hanging around making messes,we made the good folks nervous.

You people need to live like humans give those children real homes, but not here in our town there are enough here on welfare already.

He could not see or understand our life was the better one, not cramped into a small house but free to share the wind and see Father Sky above us.

To this day I am thankful for the childhood grandmother gave us,we worked hard and asked no one for handouts we lived the way of our ancestors.

No,our path was not an easy one we faced many troubles,yet we lived in freedom proud of who and what we were and learning from all


we “cry” freedom, when in truth we beg for chains

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