I received a letter from one of our readers this week with a subscription renewal. That's much better than receiving a letter with a subscription cancellation, mind you. However, I realized by looking through this person's eyes that my columns are always about my hapless antics. You know, how I can saw a tree onto my porch or slide down a hill with a chainsaw and all that stuff.

However, I would like to say that my real life isn't all bad. It just looks that way. I prefer to consider that I am persevering to overcome adversity in a mission to conquer an unruly life. In other words, my life is a mess but I still manage to get things done, the reader noted in her note.

I suppose another way to view my life is as a string of tragedies bound together with sporadic moments of humor. This past week or so was no exception.

I was out riding in my car, a 2001 model standard family sedan that I don't often drive, when I ran into a deer old friend just after dusk. Actually, I rammed into a big doe and smashed in the hood, grill and front fenders.

I drove to a nearby house, where I met the fellow Jeff Foxworthy is always joking about. He came out in an underwear shirt carrying a flashlight and a inquisitive look. Pointing the light at the broken headlight covered with deer hair, he asked, "Did you hit a deer?" "No, I was driving down the road and my new deer hair headlight just shattered. Do you have a spare?" I thought about noting. However, I decided to be kind and just ask to use the telephone.

"Make sure you ask them to pick that up, they smell something terrible after a few days in the ditch down there," he said with authority in his voice. This was a man of experience in dealing with abandoned animal carcasses, I surmised.

So, while still on the phone with the dispatcher, I said, "I just hit a deer with my car. No one is hurt, can you please send someone to do a report?"

The dispatcher asked for the address and said the officer would be along shortly, leaving me and my new pal Bubba to have a stimulating conversation for at least an hour. As you can imagine from reading this, we actually had quite a bit in common in some ways and nothing at all in others.

"Gaw-lee. That sure did make a terrible mess on your hood," he offered after awhile. "Let's go look at the deer."

I told him that I needed to stay near the car in case the officer arrived. He nonetheless proceeded to go inspect the carcass, which I had already checked earlier for signs of life — I had also informed him of my action. I always try to make sure any animal doesn't have to suffer.

Even so, my new pal proceeded to give me a play by play of the dead animal's ailments. He also showed me a spot on the hood, which he swiped with his finger. "See that there? That's deer poop. That's the last thing that happens when you die."

With this tidbit of information, I started considering driving my busted car to the next driveway. However, the good news was only beginning. When the deputy arrived after I had already spent half an hour naming all the late great country and western singers I admired, not to mention the dead NASCAR drivers, I was told that my flashing airbag light meant I couldn't safely pilot my vehicle. Then he told me that I had more than $1,000 damage and needed to have a trooper do the report. So, I got to wait another 15 minutes with my new pal, who by now was trying to play that "Do-you know so-and-so?" game. I hate that game since I seldom can remember all those names. For instance, "My neighbor's brother's mechanic, Claude Jackson, (do you know Claude?) went to Tennessee and hit a deer. It was bigger than this one. His wife June (Do you know June; she works down at the diner?)..."

This usually goes on for about 30 minutes until someone realizes that I don't know anyone they know. Either that, or we find out we know all the same people, but still don't know each other. What difference does it make. Me and my new friend apparently both know my first cousin. That was as close as we got to knowing one another. It was close enough. When the trooper got finished with his report, right before Bubba asked him if he could go for a ride in the front seat some time, I still had to wait another 15 minutes for the wrecker. When he arrived, I could have hugged him. Of course, I didn't. That was when I thought, "Thank goodness I have two vehicles and was able to get the wrecker driver to drop me off to pick up my truck." Soon I would be wrong again.

The car was towed in to a really big body shop. Realizing that these things take time, I didn't even call the body shop until the first of week two. The fellow who runs it is an old acquaintance.

Me: "How's my car?"

Him: "Who is this and which one is yours?"

Me: "This is Coby. My car is the red one with the busted hood."

Him: "It's still tored up. We should have it fixed up by Wednesday." Then on Wednesday, we talk again. Knowing the routine, I started with the statements of the obvious.

Me: "This is Coby, my car is red, is it fixed or busted?" Him: "Still busted. We had to order a new sensor. We'll have it in by tomorrow at the latest."

Note: mechanics always tell you a sensor is bad when working on a new vehicle. They realize that one must have a $10,000 machine to tell if they are lying or not, so car owners always nod like they know what the mechanic is talking about.

On Thursday I asked my sister to drive me by the body shop, thanking her for being nice enough to take me over to pick it up. She didn't leave, instead waiting for me in the parking lot just to make sure it was indeed ready. I found my old pal with his feet on the desk, a Coke in one hand and a fly-swatter in the other, busily figuring on when he would start another repair job. Or perhaps he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe. No matter. A half-eaten bologna sandwich was lying forgotten on the greasy desk. "We didn't get the part we ordered, we should have it in by tomorrow. I ordered it over night," he told me. So, being naive and trusting, then again on Friday I call him.

Me: "How's my car?"

Him: "We got in the wrong color seatbelt."

Me: "I thought I needed a sensor? What was wrong with the seatbelts I had?"

Him: "When you hit the deer the seatbelt sensor link burned in two and we had to replace the whole mess. Why don't you just let us call you when it's ready?"

So, Friday afternoon, I decided to go to the really big hardware store and pick up some things.

On the way, I started to hear strange noises. After realizing that they weren't coming from any of the normal places, I called my mechanic. I call him ‘my mechanic' not because I own him, he's just the fellow who ends up patching up all my vehicles. Me: "My truck is making loud noises when I go down the road, especially when I accelerate."

Him: "Don't worry about it. It's probably a universal joint. My truck makes loud noises all the time."

Me: "Thanks, that makes me feel better." So, I wasn't very alarmed as I started back home and the truck started to shudder. I don't know how else to describe it. Violent shaking and loud noises. Don't worry, my mechanic friend's voice said in my mind. Even so, I decided to keep the truck at home and not go anywhere else until I headed out for work Monday morning. I got to the top of the hill and it gave one last shake and then stopped moving.

As it rolled to a stop, I shifted into park. Nothing happened. Well, actually something happened that wasn't supposed to happen: my truck rolled backwards and started clicking.

Being the amateur mechanic person I am, I now assume I am dealing with a bad rear end, given the fact that my drive shaft wasn't dragging the road and the truck will move only if I shift it into four-wheel-drive. Wait, here's the clincher. My car still isn't ready. Here I am, a man who normally has two vehicles that run well, without transportation. I am now looking at the school bus as a potential daily driver.

I called the body shop again today.

Him: "Didn't I call you?"

Me: "No."

Him: "That's because it isn't ready. I'll call you when we get it finished. We've got it over at the service shop right now. We're still waiting on the parts to come back in. The company sent the wrong color belts."

I decided not to ask more for fear that another sensor might mysteriously go bad and require replacing the seats and stereo system. So here I am without a vehicle.

I decided to hit up a couple of my friends for one of their menagerie of motor vehicles. They agreed to loan me a minivan. I feel so cool.

I called the mechanic back about my truck. "You told me not to worry, now it doesn't go.Can you tow it in and take a look?" I asked.

"It will be two weeks, maybe three," he said. I bet he had his feet on the desk, munching a bologna sandwich with a Coke in one hand and a flyswatter in the other. "It could be a bad sensor in the transmission," he told me before getting all the details. I don't have time to badger two mechanics at the same time, so I'll just have to wait until the car is done before worrying about the truck. I've heard that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but it seems like I am the one that gets greased every time something breaks. Yet I squeak on. Some folks never learn.

I just hope I don't meet up with another deer anytime soon. I don't think I could take another week like this.

Now I've learned that my insurance has a $500 comprehensive deductible. I told my agent that it must be called comprehensive because it is so hard for average people to comprehend where the deductible is going to come from.

The good thing about weeks like this is that you know you must be somewhere near rock-bottom. Then again, things could always be worse. I should have lived long enough to know that by now.

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