Agony and victory

You'll remember the fuel filter from my last post.  Well, turns out, the fuel filter screws into something of a shutoff valve.  When I attempted to change the fuel filter, I accidentally fiddled with this shutoff valve and--you guessed it--shut off the fuel to my carburetor.

I figured the above as the most likely explanation, as the Fairmont had spark and would stumble along on starting fluid, but my husband cautioned me not to touch anything, and to get someone over here who knows carburetors.  "Carburetors are voodoo knowledge," he informed me, and I'd have to agree.  I never knew much about them, and it's all gone now.  I recognize the barrel, and I know the word "Venturi" is associated somehow.  I know there is a choke and what it does--but not how it does it.  So when hubby suggested recruiting someone capable of working this black magic, he of course meant Sam.

Behold!  The Holley 1946 1-bbl carburetor.  See that horizontal brass cylinder on the left?  That was the culprit.
(Photo courtesy of Amazon.com)

Our friend Sam is a hardworking American who can take apart anything and reassemble it better than it was before.  He works dawn to well after nightfall pretty much every day of the week, doing everything from remodeling buildings to fueling airplanes.  He knows engines from Weed-Eaters to bulldozers.  He'd give you the shirt off his back, and perhaps more significantly, let you use his tools.

No, you can't have him.

See, I'm reluctant to call upon Sam for precisely this reason.  Sam is such a capable fellow, there isn't really anything anyone can offer in return--he just keeps giving.  We've been taking the cars to garages you pay for for a couple years now, just so we don't bother the poor guy.  But due to a one-two punch of a $1200 repair to hubby's Yukon last month and the expense of getting a new car (and insurance, and taxes) worked into the household, we're pretty broke until the Fairmont is going as my daily driver and the old minivan is sold off.

OK, this isn't actually a picture of Sam.  I don't know if Sam wants to be on the Internet.  This guy is almost as epic as Sam.
(photo courtesy of Pintrest)

So I called Sam.  And Sam obligingly came by at 10:30 P.M., after his fourteen-hour workday, and let me show him what I'd done.  He tested the fuel pump, inspected the new and old fuel filters, and found the culprit--the infinitesimally tiny metal washer I'd thought for sure I'd gotten back onto the shutoff valve screw.  Its hair's-breadth thickness meant the difference between gas and no gas.  After a jump-start and much engine cranking, (shrieking and, I am ashamed to say, head-clutching on my part) Gertrude started to purr just as she had before "the fuel filter fiasco."  All in all, it took Sam less than half an hour to diagnose and treat my mistake, inform me which hoses needed to be replaced, and compliment me both on my purchase and on the work I'd done so far.

God bless ya, Sam.