A Day With Dad And Uncle Tom By Sheila Robins 11yo 63 //top\\ -

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Dad shook my shoulder to wake me up. It was a crisp Saturday morning in October, and the air inside my bedroom felt chilly. I pulled the heavy quilts up to my chin, but then I remembered what day it was. Today was our big fishing trip to Blackwood Creek with Dad and my Uncle Tom. I scrambled out of bed, threw on my favorite dungarees and a thick woolen sweater, and ran into the kitchen where the smell of sizzling bacon was already filling the air.

Sheila Robins, now likely in her 70s if still alive, probably does not remember every word she wrote at 11. But somewhere, in the universe of stories, that day with Dad and Uncle Tom is still happening. The car is still driving down a two-lane road. The radio is still playing. And a little girl is learning that the best days are the ones you choose to write down.

As we look back at these "63" archives, we are reminded that while technology and fashions change, the bond between a child and her mentors remains a constant, guiding light. a day with dad and uncle tom by sheila robins 11yo 63

Dad held the back of my life jacket so I wouldn't pull myself into the water. It was a tough fight, and my arms felt like jelly, but after a minute of intense reeling, a beautiful, shimmering fish broke the surface. Uncle Tom scooped it up in the net. It wasn't a record-breaker, but it was a decent-sized yellow perch. Dad took a picture of me holding it, my smile so wide you could see my missing molar. We decided to release it back into the water, watching it swim away with a quick slap of its tail.

It is a deceptively profound closing. At 11, Sheila Robins had already learned that happiness is not loud. It is the quiet hum of a car engine and two men who showed up. The sun was just peeking over the horizon

We spent the afternoon out in the barn, listening to the rain drum loudly against the tin roof. Uncle Tom turned on an old radio that played classic rock music. He gave me a piece of sandpaper and showed me how to smooth down a block of pine wood to make a birdhouse. Dad worked beside me, holding the wood steady and helping me measure the lines with a carpenter's pencil. It wasn't the fast-paced adventure we had originally planned, but there was something incredibly cozy about being tucked away in that dry barn, working with my hands alongside the two funniest, wisest men I know.

The best part was the afternoon. We went to the scrapyard where Uncle Tom works. He showed me a crushed car that looked like a pancake. Then Dad climbed onto an old tractor and pretended he was a monster, growling and chasing us. I hid behind Uncle Tom, but Uncle Tom picked me up and put me on his shoulders so I could be the “lookout.” I yelled, “Enemy tractor at three o’clock!” Dad said, “That’s my left, Sheila!” Uncle Tom said, “Just run!” We ran until our sides hurt. Today was our big fishing trip to Blackwood

In the afternoon, we set up our campsite. Uncle Tom is an expert at building fires. He showed me how to stack tiny twigs into a teepee shape before lighting the dry leaves underneath. Within minutes, we had a roaring fire that smelled like pine smoke.