Luck and Misfortune

Sitting under the partially collapsed roof of the old sawmill, watching grass snakes slither over the now flooded floor, I recall the days when this place and the roaring lumber loaders would wake me from sleep. The hum of machines and the scent of pine. We’d spend hours jumping over piles of logs, disregarding all warnings. The risk of those logs shifting? It existed only in the imagination of adults. Just like the danger of breaking a leg when leaping from a three-meter platform in the barn onto stacks of straw. None of that applied to us—me and my companions in childhood adventures.

We ran around the area for hours, challenging both life and death. Looking back now, I realize there were as many miracles as there were minor accidents. Among our group, they always happened to P. He attracted mishaps like flies to honey. If something were to happen to anyone, we could relax—it was always P. Poor guy. I think I skinned my knee maybe twice in my entire childhood, and only because P. wasn’t around at the time.

The stories of P.’s misfortunes were numerous, a year-round saga. My lucky star seemed to shine even when we were both convinced it had dimmed.

Behind the sawmill was a dump site. We’d collect old aerosol cans and start fires out in the meadow. Free PRL-era fireworks. The meadow, dotted with small hills, was the perfect playground. We’d hide behind a hill and wait for the explosion. Sometimes, the can turned out to be a dud—just a weak hiss instead of a rocket-like blast. Verifying the failure was, of course, P.’s job. One day, he peeked over the hill, and BAM. A bloody nose and a face covered in crimson.

One summer, the neighbor decided to dig a pond. The groundwater was high near our house, so it made sense. A pond was dug, surrounded by heaps of sand and half-buried apple trees. We split into teams and hid in the bushes on either side of the pond, which soon became a swamp for frogs and a private garbage dump. It was war—an apple war. We showed no mercy. Cries of pain were followed by triumphant shouts of “Hurrah!” One of those cries turned into, “I can’t see! My eye’s fallen out!” Of course, it was P., clutching his eye, tears streaming through his fingers. Thankfully, his eye was intact, but the scare left him with a purple-black bruise that startled everyone for days.

A swing? No problem. For P., a plum-sized bump on his forehead. Throwing darts? Great fun. Why hang the target when you can hold it? And there was the dart, sticking out of his forehead. Obviously, his forehead. Soccer match? P. broke his arm. Another match? His mom, exasperated, exclaimed, “Good heavens! You look like a rat!” as he grinned, baring his front teeth, chipped into a perfect triangle. From that day, his mom called him “Little Vampire.”

And then there was the river crossing trap—a plank smeared with diesel, an ingenious defense against potential invaders. Of course, we had to test it. P. ended up in the river, his brand-new pants slightly singed.

Even on his birthday, we couldn’t take the straight road home. Adventure called. We marched along the frozen stream, testing the ice, laughing through clouds of breath. A race was declared, and P., as usual, won—only to plunge into the icy water beyond an old log.

Years later, he narrowly escaped death, attempting a pull-up on a goalpost, which collapsed on him, shattering his jaw. He was 19 then, and I was still his best friend. Today, despite the years and our separate paths, I love him like a brother.

The log bridge is gone. So is the rooster I had to dodge. P.’s grandmother and her cabbage soup—gone too, the only cabbage soup I ever liked. What remains are memories. Beautiful moments etched into the film of my mind.