Last week I had my column written by presstime, but there were a couple other topics I wanted to write about.

Sometimes there are more topics than time to write about, other times there just doesn't seem to be much to write about. Feast or famine, they say.

I guess the first thing I should tell everyone is don't use a string trimmer anywhere near anything that might go crash. Before, if you had told me a string trimmer was dangerous to anything but grass, I would have said, "Only to stupid people." Now I realize that either I am stupid or they really can be dangerous. You make up your own mind, I had a little help making up mine.

Last Saturday I went over to my land in Virginia to meet the well driller and mow the grass. When I got over there, I remembered that I had loaned out my lawnmower.

I had planned to have a cookout that evening and a few kids were going to be there, so I figured I might want to knock down most of the tick-infested weeds prior to the evening.

I broke out my trusty string trimmer (the one with a Japanese name I can't pronounce), and set to work. I was moving right along, zipping down weeds and other mysterious plants, and then I decided to edge the drive and clear out the little sprouts that found purchase in the gravel.

I had parked my car in the shady drive about 20 feet from the house and rolled the windows down to keep it cool inside. As I made my way toward it, the string on the string trimmer picked up a rock and zinged it right through the back door glass. Of course the rock didn't bounce off like you would expect, it instead smashed out the entire window. They don't make ‘em like they used to, my father always said.

In my surprise, I drew the string trimmer back without thinking as I looked at the car with my mouth agape. I guess I was trying (or at least succeeding) at trimming my leg hair — another very bad idea.

When I felt the string bite my leg, it scared me. So I threw the trimmer and almost hit the front of my car with it. As you can tell, things almost went from bad to worse. Luckily (this coming from a man who just knocked out his own car window), it landed just short of the front end and died there in the gravel with a sudden spit and a sighing sputter.

Still in disbelief, I walked over to the window and stuck my hand through the opening, as if to see if it really was gone. There was nothing left to do but take out the remaining shards with a rag and take the car in to get a window installed later — nothing is open on Saturday afternoon, you know.

I called my insurance company, knowing that I was covered because I have full coverage. After an hour of, "Please hold, your business is important to us," I was ready to give any insurance person a fat lip. "We're sorry sir, but you have a $500 deductible on comprehensive coverage," the northern lady said. "You can still file a claim if you want." Thanks, but no thanks.

I just headed for the kitchen and found a garbage bag to put over the opening. I went back outside, opened the car door and then draped over the glass and slammed the door shut on it — hoping for the best, but prepared for the worst.

Later, I realized that the flapping sound of a garbage bag is one of the world's ten most annoying sounds, right up there with screaming children, squeaking doors, incessant dog barking, cats doing anything outside at night and the voice of an ex-wife.

So, I pulled over, removed the garbage bag and got back in the car. With all the other windows rolled up, the car made an odd noise that was like pressure building up and relieving with just one window open. (Imagine the sound of a helicopter, combined with the pressure in your ears riding off the mountain in a car).

So I had to roll down my front windows to make a cross draft. I left the car at my parents' house so the glass company could come and get it. I borrowed my dad's car in the meantime. "You're not going to mow your yard this week, are you, son?" They asked fearfully as I got into their car. "No danger in that," I told them. "I won't have time to break anything for at least a few more days."

After three days, I went to get the car. It looked good since they cleaned it out and put in the new glass. "How much do I owe you?" I shared a hopeful smile with her as she replied, "That will be $221.76."

"Excuse me?" I asked as my smile dripped onto the tile floor beneath my feet like melting wax. That was much worse than a busted window by far. I never knew cutting the grass could cost so much.

Perhaps I should have hired someone else to do it for me, but with my flowers, I would have felt obligated to be there to supervise. That wouldn't help me at all.

"$221.76," she repeated, waking me from a brief period of thought. She was going on about looking busy — shuffling papers and pushing keys.

"I need a window, but I have to eat, too," I told her. "Is that the ‘jacked-up-for-the-rich-insurance-company price? I am paying for this myself."

"I'm sorry, sir, that's what they cost," she said, noting the miniscule $35 installation charge for all of the 10 minutes of work it must have taken somebody. My car has very expensive glass. Of course, the company says that about every vehicle from which I break a window. I wrecked my truck and busted its windshield a few years back, and it was also very expensive.

That's the problem with these confounded newer-model cars: Every-thing costs too much. I can drive an old junker and replace the entire car for less than the price of a rear door glass.

She didn't really seem to care. "Do you prefer check, cash, Visa, Mastercard, or American Express?"

"Can't I just sell you one of my kidneys or sign my name in blood?" I asked as I handed her my over-burdened Visa card. She didn't laugh.

I wish I could buy windows for what they're worth and sell them for those prices. But I couldn't do that any more than I could weedeat beside the driveway without breaking out a car window 15 feet away.

There's only one thing about the whole ordeal that really bothers me, other than spending more that $200 on a $50 piece of glass, of course. The only thing I hate worse than blowing my paycheck is being forced by necessity to spend money I have yet to earn. I'll just have to go on and try to do better. Maybe I'll learn that song the seven dwarves sing, "I owe, I owe, so off to work I go."

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