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| - Garage doors are horrible, silent monsters. They rise and fall each day, merely biding their time before pouncing on the unsuspecting car or young child, felling them mercilessly.
Ours had been slowing down, acting funny, sometimes sticking part way up or down, requiring manual assistance. (I got pretty good at the dance of clicking the remote, tugging up on the door, then getting the hell outta the way, lest the whole diabolical contraption catch me in its maw.)
I did what every self-respecting manly man does: I tried to fix it my OWN self, looked online for direction, and found this one, over-riding caution: Do NOT try to fix your own garage door. There are two, giant springs on the one we have, holding that door up, or down, or in our case somewhere in-betwixt. One spring was broken. Imagine you have a Slinky. Now, imagine you are smaller than a flea. That's what these springs are like. Widow-makers. Butt-puckerers. Contractor-hirers.
Called ASAP. Later that same day, all was right. First guy started out gang-busters, then called for backup. Second guy welded a secondary support, fabbed right on the spot. They both got the new springs in, saving my fingers, my face and my standing in the community of handy-men. (Then, months later, they replaced the entire door, which over thirty years had rotted.)
Good guys, fair prices, timely service. Call them.
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