We spent most of the afternoon out by the lake. Uncle Tom tried to teach me how to cast a line without catching the nearby willow tree (I failed twice), while Dad sat on the cooler telling stories about when they were boys. Hearing them talk, you realize they weren't always "Dad" and "Uncle"—once, they were just two kids with muddy boots and big dreams, not much older than I am now. We ended the day at the diner on the edge of town. Three strawberry shakes and a mountain of fries.
Uncle Tom "disappearing" a coin behind my ear, a trick I’ve seen a hundred times but still can’t figure out. The Quiet Drive Home A Day with Dad and Uncle Tom by Sheila Robins 11yo 63
End on a specific image: Uncle Tom snoring in the passenger seat or the dusty boots piled by the front door. Pro-Tip for Tone: We spent most of the afternoon out by the lake
The number “63” might also refer to a class number, a school district, or even the age of Uncle Tom—but given the formatting, it’s most likely the year. The fact that someone has preserved this phrase suggests the original document (a journal entry, a school essay, or a short story) holds sentimental or historical value. We ended the day at the diner on the edge of town
In Robins' prose, Dad is often depicted as the steady, pragmatic anchor. He is the driver, the planner, the one who checks the map (a crucial skill in the pre-GPS era). Uncle Tom, conversely, is portrayed with a whimsical brush. He is the joker, the wanderer, the one who suggests stopping at unmarked roads or buying ice cream before lunch.
“A Day with Dad and Uncle Tom By Sheila Robins, Age 11, Room 63
Why should we care about a single day, a single girl, and two men from 1963? Because in an era of fractured attention and curated digital lives, the humble personal narrative is an act of resistance. Sheila Robins, whether she remembers writing this or not, created a time capsule. Her 11-year-old self knew that the day with Dad and Uncle Tom mattered.