Lucky? Unlucky?

The morning started like most travel days — rushed. Our family was headed to Isla Mujeres, Mexico, and while that should’ve felt like a dream, at 4:30 a.m., it felt more like a logistical nightmare. The kids were groggy and grumbling; we were already 15 minutes behind schedule; and I was mentally reviewing every item we might’ve forgotten. Still, excitement hummed, vacation awaited.

As we cruised along Highway 52 in David’s shiny new Toyota Tundra, we passed several deer carcasses sprawled along the roadside. David and I talked about how awful it would be to hit a deer, and we both felt somewhat protected by the sheer size and power of the truck.

Ironically, not five minutes later, a blur of feathers appeared in my peripheral vision. A pheasant launched out of the ditch and collided with the front of the truck. David cursed under his breath. The truck was his pride and joy — meticulously maintained since he’d bought it last summer. I tried to calm him, saying it probably just bounced off. We kept driving, unaware of what happened.

When we arrived at the airport, I got out to assess the damage. That’s when I saw it. A gaping hole in the front grille. And inside the grille — wedged between plastic, wings trembling — was the pheasant. Still alive.

I stared, stunned. Somehow this pheasant had survived a 70-mph impact. David, not exactly great in a crisis, stood frozen. I instructed him to keep the kids calm and ran to the nearest emergency call box to ask for help.

The attendant was kind, but clearly baffled. After checking with a supervisor, he returned with the advice: “Let nature take its course.” I blinked. “So . . . leave an injured pheasant in your parking garage?” That was the best they could offer.

Back at the truck, David was poking the bird gently with an ice scraper, growing increasingly distressed that it remained stuck. Finally, I took over. With rubber gloves on, I reached in and worked it free.

I had no idea what to do next, so I gently placed him between two concrete pillars, snapped a photo of the spot, and vowed to find help once we were inside the airport. Thankfully, a kind airport police officer listened to my story and promised to call it in.

As we boarded our flight, I kept thinking about that bird. On the one hand, surviving a highway-speed impact was miraculous. What are the odds? On the other hand, he was now injured, disoriented, and left in a parking structure miles from his natural habitat. Was he lucky to have survived — or unlucky?

It struck me that life is full of these paradoxes. A romance that starts with fireworks seems lucky, but becomes unlucky when it ends in heartbreak. A lost job opportunity is unlucky, but you feel lucky when you realize it would’ve led to burnout or instability. With time, what feels like misfortune can reveal itself as a blessing — and vice versa.

So, were we lucky that it was “only” a pheasant and not a deer? Or unlucky that a single bird caused such unexpected chaos and damage? Time will tell.

When we returned from vacation, the pheasant was gone. He wasn’t where I’d left him. There were no feathers, no signs of struggle — just an empty space.

Maybe he was lucky after all.

Copyright © 2025 Elizabeth Forwood

Editor’s Postscript: Elizabeth’s luck/unlucky story reminds me of what’s known across various cultures as “The Chinese Farmer Story”. A Chinese farmer’s horse runs away. His  neighbors say how unlucky he is. He says “Maybe”. The next day the horse comes back leading a herd of horses. The neighbors now tell him how lucky he is. He again says “Maybe”. The following day his son breaks his leg while riding the horse. The neighbors tell the farmer how unlucky he is. He again says “Maybe”. The next day conscriptions officers come to conscript the son, but can’t do so because of his broken leg . . .  Lucky? Unlucky?