Appliances didn't stop lasting because they got flimsier; the habit of repairing them was trained out of us. Easy store financing made a few monthly payments feel cheaper than a repair, and in Doug's view Whirlpool built a strategy on that shift: products good enough to sell and replace often, sold under many brand names. Price and features came to mean value, and a repair came to mean the end of the machine.
When a washer breaks just past warranty, most people go shopping for a new one. I’d ask: do you have to shop for a new washer — or are you just shopping? Somewhere along the way we learned that a repair is the end of a product’s life. We weren’t born believing that. We were taught it.
Do you have to replace it, or are you just shopping?
“Nothing lasts anymore.” I hear it all the time, usually right after someone tells me about the washer their parents had — the one that got handed down to a brother and is still running.
Could be true. But it might have little to do with your washer.
Two things. First: when you bought it, was it a good deal? Most people say yes — they shopped around, and at the time it was great value. Value. Hold that word.
Second: have you invested anything into finding out whether it can be fixed? Or has it died and gone to heaven? “I’m not throwing good money after bad” is the usual answer. That’s the belief I want to look at: that price and value are the same thing, and that a repair is the end of a product’s life.
What did you ask the salesperson?
Think back to the store. What was your first question? Usually: when will it be delivered? Second: does the price include delivery and installation?
Then what? Usually nothing. You researched it on the website. You could have just ordered it.
Did you ask who services it? “It came with a warranty.” Did you ask about its repair history?
You walked in with your mind made up on make, model and price. The only question left was what it would cost to get it home. You asked about price. Did you ask about value?
Why did the old washers last?
I was about twelve years old. Farmers would load their Inglis washer into the back of a truck and drive into town. While they shopped, Dad and I would fix it right there on the street. I’d swap a belt, he’d run an extension cord out the door, and we’d test it before they headed home.
Those machines were well made and tough. Parts failed, and sometimes repairs were major and took more than forty-five minutes. But nobody would willingly replace one of those washers unless it fell off the back of the truck on the way home. True story.
They were simple and overbuilt, and everyone assumes that’s why they lasted forever.
Not true. They lasted because people repaired them.
What changed at the Sears counter?
Years later. Same farm family, same washer. They haul it out of the basement, leave it behind the barn with the rest of the scrap iron, drive to Calgary, walk into Sears and buy a Kenmore — made by Whirlpool. Definitely a lesser product than the one they just sent to the boneyard.
Why? Financing. No down payment. A month or two of payments that came in under the perceived cost of the repair. The overall cost would easily outstrip any repair, but that was a tomorrow problem. Today’s money was hard to come by.
Better yet, Sears advertised its lowest-priced, least-featured model — which, once you got to the store, you could not buy. It was “nailed to the floor.” Literally what they called the practice. The salesperson’s only job was to move you up the lineup, a bit more every month.
That was the day the customer’s mentality started to shift. Repairs meant the death of the product. Price and features became value — not lifespan, not total cost of ownership.
How did that become a strategy?
In my view, Whirlpool saw the shift and leaned into it. They killed off Inglis to cut costs. They wanted products that were good enough, affordable up front, and would bring the customer back as often as possible.
The strategy was gold. Over time they acquired brands, abandoned the products and kept the badges. If you were unhappy with your last Whirlpool washer, you’d buy a Maytag, or a Kenmore, or whatever. Didn’t matter. Only the badge changed. Whirlpool banked the cash either way.
Today’s product isn’t much different. A part fails: you can replace the part or replace the machine. But new features and financing make the upfront cost more digestible. For the stubborn consumer, make the replacement part as expensive as possible — or make it unavailable — and chalk up another sale. Add in lighter, cheaper cabinets, and old machines look their age faster.
Who’s really to blame for disposable appliances?
People blame the shift on Asian manufacturing. They blame Amazon. They blame Temu. They blame “globalization.” In my opinion, those companies were following Whirlpool’s lead — they just leveraged their own advantages to do it better. Amazon didn’t create the appetite for disposable products. It stepped into a mindset that was already fully conditioned.
Maytag, RCA, GE — instead of carving out a premium or middle-tier identity, they chased Whirlpool down the same path. And the middle of the market, the quality tier, collapsed.
Whirlpool led the charge. Other manufacturers sharpened the spear. But Whirlpool was the tip. Could be argued they still are.
Here’s the part nobody likes to admit. Most of us say, “I’d pay more for something that lasts.” But go looking for that product today and, at scale, in the mainstream, it doesn’t exist. That’s not an accident.
People still talk about the machine that lasted forever — the old Inglis or Maytag that ran for thirty years. What they forget is why. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t overbuilding. It was repairs. It was parts. It was a culture where fixing something was normal, expected and affordable.
That’s the Clam Shell. The consumer is unaware. The industry is complicit. And the companies that tried to hold the upper shell — the quality shell — either died or were absorbed.
The consumer didn’t change on their own. They were trained.