We recently had to install a new door on the back of our house. We didn’t choose to do this without duress. It was a necessity. The old Pella fell off. It literally dislodged itself from the wall as if it did not want to be part of the house anymore. During the ugly process, it became something that resembled a door but did not act like one.
In hindsight, I suppose the hinges could not take the stress of swinging back and forth as we walked in and out, which is ridiculous since walking in and out is the main function of a door. But the screws unscrewed, the door swelled up like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon, and it became possessed with some type of moisture psychosis. If we had a week of sunshine, it worked pretty well. A day of rain would end its doorability.
This was the second door to fall off of this part of our house. I find that weird. We must be hell on back doors.
The one that was originally built into the wall when we bought the house fifteen years ago went south after about 5 years. This Pella lasted a bit longer. But it is a damned door. It should be a simple piece of work. It should last for a while. I kept telling myself that as I tried to open and close it with more and more effort. Soon, no amount of effort would persuade it to cooperate.
I’ve never lived in a house where I had to replace a door three times in fifteen years. Every other door in the house has always worked perfectly. Not this one. And Pella wanted to charge us just to come observe the result of their warped engineering. We passed on their offer and had the people who put on the lovely plastic siding come erect a sliding door. It has a lifetime warranty. I assume that means my lifetime, but I’m not really sure. There is a lot of paperwork involved in buying a door these days. Perhaps because they cost as much as my first new car: a 1976 Chevy Vega.
