I think I was in seventh grade.
It wasn’t home ec, but the other boy dominated class. It was the one where we had to build rockets and learn to use electric saws. They probably don’t offer that course any more. But, when I was in middle school, it was required.

I had half a year of making a drawstring bag and half a year of playing with motoroized sharp blades.

Anyway, I’d lost my car.
It was kind of like a Boy Scout pine car racer thing. It was made from wood. We got to decorate it as we saw fit – as long as it wasn’t obscene. It needed to have a long thin body and a place to put a metal cylinder in the back to make it go down this track that the teacher made a trillion years ago.

I was pretty proud of my car. It was black and I had spider decals on it. I thought it was pretty badassed and had spend about two weeks of classtime refining it. I was sure that it would win the race or, at least, come in second. There was some paltry prize but I didn’t care. Being the class outcast, I was looking for some sort of self-validation.

But, it disappeared and the teacher told me that I’d fail the class if I didn’t have one to race.

I couldn’t have that and spent the day before the race making a new car. It had a thick body. The front was much to heavy and the paint job was absolute crap. I was upset that I couldn’t find my delicate creation but was satisfied that I — a girl — was able to create something with wood and power tools in just one day.

I knew there was no way I could win but that wasn’t important any more.
I just didn’t want to fail.

Looking back, I kind of have to wonder. What type of teacher would allow a tween to play with all of those blades in just under half an hour? I probably nearly sliced my fingers off multiple times. Idiot.

Anyway, of course I came in dead last. Despite all my efforts, I think I earned a C-minus. But, on the other hand, my car was the only one of two not to snap in half.

There was just one class left before the end of the day. I think it was Thuresday or Friday. The wind was blowing fierce and I was summoned to the office. No idea why as I wasn’t a troublemaker. At least, not an obvious one.

My mom was there, lips pressed, eyes wide. I knew there had to be something wrong and something major. I hadn’t expected to see her until late at night. She was missing a lot of work by being there. One thing my family never did was miss work. Work was sacred.

She grabbed my hand and pulled me out without saying anything. Eventually, I dug in my heels and refused to move until I knew what was going on.

Mom said the house caught fire and burned.

Of course, for some reason, I disbelieved. That became a repeating pattern in my life. When presented with something unexpected, I disbelieve. I did this when I was told dad died and Cutie died. I think it’s a buffering mechanism that gives me a moment to rationalize and process the information.

Oddly enough, I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t stressed. As I picked through the ashes of what was once my room, I was kidn of amazed to see how fire took its price. Tiffany and Boston records melted. Plants burned. Goldfish boiled. Actually, all of the water was gone, of course. I’m not sure what happened to the fish’s body, but it wasn’t in the blackened bowl.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing was left and I was mostly okay with it.

I felt and still feel a bit of a prang for the kittens that died in the garage. Somehow, a four kittens where abandoned by their mom and I had taken them in. Through a dropper, I’d feed them milk and a little bit of honey in the mornings and evenings. I don’t think I had a lot of hope that I could keep them a live, but I was going to try. Orphaned kittens burned alive. I hoped that they died to the smoke before the fire. Regardless, I didn’t find them among the ashes.

I also had two Cabbage Patch Kid dolls. They where red-headed twins in shiny blue and white dresses. They had been my Christmas present. For some reason, I cherished them although I was probably too old for dolls at that point. I had actually made my bed that morning and left them proped on my pillows. While I found the bed and the cast iron frame, the dolls where gone. There wasn’t even melted plastic heads. Poof. Nothing.

From there on, I felt like I and my family were blessed by a phoenix.
Out of the ashes, we came back strong despite the struggle. A new house was built — one that didn’t have a dragon in the basement.

My parents worked. My siblings and I tried to help where we could.
We made it.

Maybe that’s a theme in my life — ashes give birth to strength, beauty, and betterment.