We’re Alive by a Miracle

In those years—the seventies stretching like Bazooka gum and the eighties barging in with loud music—life just happened, no permission asked.

It happened, and that was that.

The adults did what they knew how to do. We kids watched and absorbed it all—osmosis, repetition, simply being there. No one stopped too long to ask if it was right or wrong. It worked.

And that was enough.

Adults had a simple pedagogy. If they gave you a sip of wine, a nip of cider, or a cigarette “so you’d get disgusted,” it wasn’t neglect: it was training. Later, they’d nod off at the table, mouths half-open, the TV murmuring in the background, calm, with that peace that comes from feeling your duty done. Danger was a vague idea. Something that always happened to someone else. And if you stayed alive, fine. End of discussion.

Travel was a physical test. You rode in the back window, watching the sky move backwards, or on the floor with your legs wedged between bags, or tucked under a blanket to skip paying at the drive-in, the circus, or the zoo. Mischief was a family sport, and saving money, a righteous cause. Crossing the border with a deck chair, a radio, or a perfume wasn’t smuggling—it was story material for later, at the table, with a conspiratorial smile.

No GPS, but it sufficed. “Straight until the buses turn” was serious advice. No cell phones either, so getting lost was part of the deal. If you didn’t come back at the agreed time, someone would show up. Late, sure. But they’d show.

Trust was given freely to anyone skilled at their trade—the soda man, the milkman, the baker. So much so that if you were two and liked trucks, they’d let you ride along for a lap around the block, waving, pure joy that today would require permits, helmets, and a triple-form waiver. Nobody thought it could go wrong. Danger was always someone else’s. Always.

Remedies were a strange mix of first-aid and alchemy. For lice, products that would now strip a motor clean. For mosquitoes, sprays that killed everything—including memory. For the cold, a splash of alcohol “to warm up.” And it worked. Or at least we think so, because here we are.

Autonomy came early. Going to the bank alone, paying a bill, catching the bus with exact change in your pocket. No applause, no photos. Just part of growing up. If you came back, everything was fine.

Adults didn’t watch too closely. They trusted.

And that trust—a little reckless, a little brave—made you feel capable. Not protected, but important. Like the world was dangerous, yes, but willing to make a deal with you.

Today all of that sounds insane. Back then, it was life. Messy, loud, without helmets or manuals. But it was life.

Limits were more like suggestions. If you couldn’t reach the pedals, the seat came forward. If you couldn’t reach the wheel, you stretched. And if the road was calm, your dad fell asleep. Driving at twelve or thirteen wasn’t reckless—it was a solution. “Wake me if anything happens,” he’d say, surrendering to a deep nap, the kind only someone convinced the world would keep going takes.

Age and size didn’t matter. Solving the problem did. Solve, move forward, arrive. If time remained, then you’d see.

Houses were similar. Locked out? Not a problem: a challenge. Calling a locksmith was expensive—and worse, surrender. So someone sized up the building next door, measured the gap with their eyes, and said: “Jump, it’s not far.”

A meter and a half of empty air wasn’t an abyss. Just a procedure. You crossed without fanfare, witnesses, or record. The door opened, the keys recovered, life continued. Because nothing—on the surface—had happened.

That was the pact: don’t exaggerate. If it worked, it became a story. If it failed… better not think about it. Life was lived this way: trusting in a rough eye, luck, and a quiet faith that things would hold.

Today we look back at these scenes with vertigo, nervous laughter, a “how are we still alive?” And maybe that’s the answer: we’re still alive because we grew up there.

Among smoke, highways, and raw trust. No manual, no helmet, but with the still-intact feeling that...

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