All posts tagged: Dad

Picnic Sandwiches

Published by Swati Singh

One day a white Ford Econoline van appeared, so old that its paint was matted, its enamel sheared away by time and smogwinds. The sound was unnerving when I scratched my stubby nails on its side to examine it, but I accepted it. It had a defunct refrigeration unit the size of a case of small water bottles on top and a huge sticker decal on one side that read “Picnic Sandwiches” in a chubby typewriter font. Deli, Catering, Delivery. (626) something something something – something something something something. I have no idea where my father procured this adorable hunk of junk, but I loved it. It was fantastically unreliable, breaking down with such tenacity that the guy at Lynn’s Auto Body had a dedicated space cleared for it. My dad had that crooked mechanic’s number on speed dial. I wonder now who he called first from the blue call boxes that dotted the sidelines of all of the highways where Picnic Sandwiches decided to stop to have lunch and a long nap – my …

The Garden, Dad, and I

Published by Swati Singh

I spent much of my time growing up, especially my adolescent years, with my father in our backyard garden. We had this lust to grow things together. I would be home from school waiting for him and the second he got home, we’d be out there with our seeds. Our garden wasn’t neat and symmetrical like the ones I’d see in my mother’s magazines. This was my dad’s messy space where he could smoke his Winstons and be a philosopher. I loved my father so much, I wanted to be him – cool and aloof, unattached, yet deeply tethered to the poetry of being. He was my first great love. Dad was a busy man in those days and, like a writer trying to force out words, he stretched daylight to do what he loved most – farm. We share the “early to bed, early to rise” gene, so I fell into his routines with ease. It wasn’t difficult for me to choose hanging out with my old man over playing with the boys down …