My wife decided it was time for some of the red oaks around our house to come down.

This occurred to her after one of the red oaks dropped a 100-pound or so limb on the back window of

her car, smashing it to pieces. Red oaks apparently do not know my wife very well or they would have not done that. Hell hath no fury like my wife when she's angry.

So a few days later, there's this bucket truck in my yard and inside the bucket is a guy with a chain saw that could slice through a Buick and red oaks are falling like a hard rain during a spring thunderstorm. There was much weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of bark as one by one, five of the mighty trees were reduced to stumps.

There are two reasons this was done. One, to reduce the danger to our domicile should a violent storm have caused one or more of the five trees to topple; and two (and this is the REAL REASON) those trees had ticked my wife off and she was not going to rest until she got her revenge. I overhead her saying to one of the red oak stumps, "I guess you won't be dropping limbs on cars anymore, you pathetic little pile of sawdust."

If y'all have ever had any trees cut down, then you know the job is not finished after the sawing is done. No sir. There is still the matter of stump removal. This is done through a process called "grinding," which pretty much involves little more than backing a gaspowered machine with a tire-sized grinding wheel on it over the stump and shredding said stump into debris.

So a couple of days after the trees came down, the stump grinder guy came by the house after having been told by the tree cutter guy that I had some stumps that needed to be whittled into oblivion. He quoted me a price. I responded by saying I had been married for 25 years and really wasn't allowed to have money, so he would have to negotiate with my wife.

Anyway, turns out that once the stump grinding has been finished, the job still isn't done because what is left are these HUGE piles of dirt and sawdust that look kind of like what you might find around gopher holes if the gophers were, oh, say, OF THE 500- POUND VARIETY.

This was not at all what I had in mind when this whole tree removal thing started. I had pictured this neat, tidy little operation in which the trees would magically disappear and the ground where they once stood would be level and smooth and I could finally get grass to grow in the moss-covered shady spots now that the sun would be shining on them and I could eventually wrest away the Yard of the Month award from the neighbor up the street. But, as it turns out, so far the only award I might be eligible for is the Really Large Piles of Sawdust and Rubble Yard of the Month Award.

Remember that this all started because of a shattered car window, which is a brilliant segue for telling you about what happened to me last Saturday.

Yep. That's right. The windshield on my car was broken.

Guess how that happened.

Someone hit it with a golf ball.

Now I'm not one to criticize someone who might want to someday, somehow — even though they might lack any semblance of athletic ability whatsoever - try to learn how to play golf. But on the other hand, we must face the cold, hard fact that some people really should never take up the game.

This golf shot that hit my windshield (providing it came from the driving range) was the worst slice in the history of golfdom. This wasn't just a "banana ball" - this was an "uber-banana ball." I mean it would had to have been something like you might see on a cartoon show - maybe something Wil E. Coyote might use to try to hit the Road Runner.

And I thought I was the world's worst striker of golf balls.

I had the windshield replaced.

Whoever did it owes me $300, and they better be glad they're not a red oak.

And they better REALLY be glad it was my car that was hit and not my wife's.

If you know someone who has an unusual hobby or talent, or who has an entertaining or unique story to tell, etc., please let me know. I'd like to write about them. Email me at: editor@gaffneyledger.com.