By Ovi Catanescu, based on my memories and those of my brother, Adi
DRAFT — For Owl Spit
When we were children in Brăila, Christmas and New Year's came with all the usual holiday excitement.
But for us boys in the neighborhood, there was something almost equally important.
Firecrackers.
I don't know how things were in other cities, but where we lived, a firecracker that merely went "pop" wasn't going to impress anybody.
It had to go BOOM!
Preferably loud enough to be heard in the neighboring apartment buildings.
The louder the explosion, the greater the inventor's prestige.
We didn't receive diplomas for such achievements, but the respect of the other boys was reward enough.
And since we weren't the kind of children who patiently waited for the next holiday season, our experiments sometimes continued well into the summer.
Our neighbors probably didn't share our enthusiasm.
The Little Masterpieces from Progresul
In Brăila, many of the neighborhood children's parents worked at Progresul, one of the city's major industrial factories.
There were some exceptionally skilled machinists working there.
Some of them made firecrackers out of brass, genuine little masterpieces of mechanical craftsmanship.
Adi remembers how beautifully they were made, with precisely fitted parts and various features intended to reduce the risk of pieces flying off during an explosion.
We admired them as though they were precious possessions.
Not every boy had one of these sophisticated firecrackers.
And those who didn't had to find other solutions.
Fortunately for our imagination, and unfortunately for public safety, improvisation was one of our specialties.
Our Laboratory in the Basement
Adi and I had our own chemistry laboratory.
In the basement.
And when I say laboratory, I'm not talking about a few empty pickle jars, a spoon, and a couple of bottles.
Oh, no!
We had chemicals stored in special containers, test tubes, distillation equipment, and all sorts of glass vessels and apparatus similar to those used in real laboratories.
We were quite well equipped.
Some of our chemicals came from school.
Others came from the chemical plant where our father worked.
Many of our test tubes and pieces of laboratory glassware also came from the plant's laboratory.
And whenever we couldn't find something we needed, we turned to what we called, with the seriousness of professional conspirators, "our sources."
Sometimes we even paid for the supplies.
In other words, our supply chain was functioning beautifully.
The Catanescu Brothers' Research and Development Department had no shortage of raw materials.
What it occasionally lacked was adult supervision.
Someone who might have looked at us and asked:
"Boys, have you completely lost your minds?"
Dad and the School Projects
Our father worked at the chemical plant, which gave us a tremendous advantage.
From time to time, we asked him to bring us various chemicals or materials from the laboratory.
And Dad helped us.
I don't think he had the slightest idea what we were actually doing in the basement.
In fact, Dad knew very little about many of our adventures. But he was happy that we included him in our lives, that we needed his help, and that he could do something useful for us.
He didn't ask too many questions.
And whenever he did ask what we needed something for, the answer was almost always the same:
"It's for school, Dad. We're working on a project."
What project?
Well, who knows?
We probably hadn't decided ourselves.
The important thing was that Dad received an explanation, we received the materials, and our basement laboratory could continue operating.
Dad thought he was helping with school projects.
We had entirely different projects in mind.
And I suspect it was better for his peace of mind that he didn't know all the details.
Our Little "Bombs"
Adi remembers our laboratory experiments particularly well.
During the winter holidays, we had our favorite chemical mixtures.
Some were extremely unstable.
So unstable, in fact, that friction alone could cause them to ignite.
Sometimes even in a pocket!
Other times while we were preparing them.
We used these mixtures to make small explosive charges that we called our little "bombs," sometimes wrapped in shiny foil.
We used them in our homemade firecrackers, including the metal ones.
At the time, we probably considered ourselves rather talented chemists.
Today, after all these years, I think we were simply very lucky chemists.
Because the difference between a successful experiment and a serious accident was sometimes frighteningly small.
And we were about to learn that firsthand.
The Flying Tin Can
One of our inventions was a firecracker made from an ordinary tin can.
Adi remembers almost every detail of this particular contraption.
We used calcium carbide, which released acetylene, a highly flammable gas.
The surrounding earth also played a part in what happened.
When the gas ignited, there was a powerful explosion accompanied by a flame, and the can was launched into the air at tremendous speed.
Sometimes it flew dozens of meters high.
Imagine the spectacle!
An ordinary tin can, practically worthless a few moments earlier, was suddenly flying above our heads.
We were delighted.
The residents of the surrounding apartment buildings probably had different feelings.
But there was one problem.
That can had to come down somewhere.
And on its way down, it could hit somebody.
Adi remembers scraped fingers, bruised fingernails, and other injuries caused by these experiments.
And Bebe Pătrașcu had one of the most unpleasant experiences of all.
Bebe wanted to watch the moment of ignition from very close up.
Too close.
At the instant of the explosion, the rim of the can struck him in the forehead.
It left a semicircular cut matching the shape of the can's edge.
The wound bled heavily and, according to Adi's recollection, required stitches.
Poor Bebe!
We were trying to make tin cans fly.
He discovered that they could also leave autographs.
Right on your forehead.
An autograph I'm sure he would have gladly done without.
Costel "Salam"
But not every accident ended with a cut and a few stitches.
Among the boys we knew was Costel, nicknamed "Salam."
He was a classmate of Adi and Marian, the same Marian who appears in some of our other childhood adventures.
Salam lived in one of the newer apartment buildings near the school.
I remember the area. Nicolae Bănică lived in the first entrance of those buildings, and so did Liviu Petrișor's cousins.
Salam's accident happened in front of the entrance to his own building.
He was about thirteen or fourteen years old.
Adi remembers what happened very clearly.
Salam had an improvised metal firecracker made from a cylinder and a screw, which he held in his palm.
He was trying to make it explode.
But nothing happened.
Not even a little pop.
Perhaps Salam thought he hadn't struck it hard enough. Perhaps he suspected the charge was too weak.
We don't know exactly what he was thinking.
What we do know is that instead of giving up, he kept adding more of those little explosive charges without removing the earlier ones.
Five unsuccessful attempts.
Five little "bombs" left inside the firecracker.
And Salam was still holding the device in his hand.
Until, during one of his attempts, a violent explosion occurred.
The firecracker exploded in his palm.
The consequences were horrifying.
Adi remembers the perforated palm, the blood, the shattered bones, and the damaged tendons.
"A massacre," as he described it.
I don't remember whether I actually witnessed the explosion or saw his injured hand immediately afterward.
But I do remember being there when the ambulance arrived.
Adi was convinced that Salam's hand could never be saved.
And yet, somehow, it was.
Not completely, at least not in appearance.
The scars remained, along with the deformities and the permanently curled fingers.
But all five fingers were still there.
And Salam could use them.
An almost unbelievable outcome, considering the severity of the injury.
The Lucky Hand
Salam's story would already have been extraordinary if it had ended there.
But Adi reminded me of one detail I had forgotten.
At some point, Salam bought a Loz în plic — an instant lottery ticket that came in a sealed envelope.
For those who don't remember, Loz în plic was an extremely popular lottery in Romania at the time.
You bought an envelope, opened it, and immediately discovered whether you had won something.
Most of the time, of course, you won nothing.
But Salam won.
And not just any prize.
A Dacia!
A real automobile, at a time when owning a Dacia was a dream that many Romanians struggled for years to achieve.
Because Salam was a minor, his parents claimed the prize on his behalf.
But here comes the most astonishing part.
According to Adi, Salam drew the winning lottery ticket with the very same hand that the firecracker had nearly destroyed.
The scarred hand.
The hand with the deformed fingers.
The hand Adi had believed could never be saved.
And with that hand, Salam won a Dacia.
Adi ended his recollection with a single word:
"Coincidence?"
I don't know, Adi.
But if I had invented a story like that, I doubt anyone would have believed me.
Looking Back
Many years have passed since those days.
Our basement laboratory is long gone.
The brass firecrackers, the flying tin cans, and our experiments exist only in memory now.
But the people and the events have stayed with us.
Dad, happy that his boys needed his help with their "school projects."
Bebe Pătrașcu, with the semicircular cut on his forehead.
Salam, with his injured hand and his incredible luck with Loz în plic.
And the two of us, Adi and me, convinced that the entire world was one enormous laboratory where almost anything was worth trying.
Today, I realize how dangerous some of our childhood adventures really were.
But I also remember the curiosity, the friendship, the inventiveness, and the enthusiasm with which we explored the world.
Not every childhood memory is a happy one.
Some are funny.
Others are painful.
And a few are so unbelievable that you might think we made them up.
Fortunately, I have Adi.
He sometimes remembers things I have forgotten.
And every now and then, he brings back a detail that changes the entire story.
After all, that's what Owl Spit is about.
Gathering our memories before time scatters them.
Because if the two of us have managed to forget so much, perhaps at least the owl can remember.
The Owl Doesn't Forget. 🦉