Our fridge died. This one. It was 28 years old when it gave way. So I can't blame it.
But we were heading into scary territory. Milk spoiled every two days. Raspberries and strawberries couldn't make it through the night without turning to mush.
So the new-fridge delivery dudes delivered the new fridge, which they left in our garage. Then the installers (a different crew) arrived, and they pulled and grunted and scootched and pulled the old fridge out of its spot. It's hard work, moving a 600-pound fridge that is firmly wedged into a custom-built cubbyhole!:
When they got the old fridge out, this is what we found: Rotted floor boards. Mold. Depressions that were a good 3/4 of an inch below floor level. Not to mention dirty walls and spider webs. Euwww!
No dice, the installers said. We can't install the new baby until you fix all that.
So we pulled up the rotted-out floor, installed new copper pipes, built up the floor joists, and re-floored the space. And by "we," I mean helpful, friendly professionals did it. This is the floor, nearly cleared of the old, rotted wood:
The installers came back, saw that all was good, and skootched and shoved and squished the new fridge into place. Here it is, waiting to be put in its cubbyhole:
But all is well now, and I love my new fridge.
I may even read the instruction manual, some day.