Paradoxically Yours...

Hey, Small Spender

(prompt: 'money' 8/12/2017)

The King was in his counting house,

Counting out his money;

His little girl perched next to him,

Seriously cute... and funny.

I knew if I wriggled too much, I'd likely fall off the cushions piled on top of the chair to make me tall enough for my most serious after tea daily job. Oh no! The adult me whispers to that child of memory, stay still and concentrate. There'll be no more lovely nightly rituals if you don't. And then I see her lip drop and quiver and the eyes! Ahh OK then... just ONE small wriggle, but hold on tight. And the small Christine grins her cheekiest. There are arms on this chair. She knows she's safe. Besides, her darling Dad is there to prop her back up if she falters. But I won't! she mouths, across those years between then and now. As her attention shifts to fixate on our Dad with adoration, I chuckle at my mental picture of the two of them.

Whilst his small daughter was perfecting her balancing act, our Dad opened the huge silver cash register in his shop with a secret code. A sharp pull of the handle and the money drawer sprang out to reveal its tray of myriad compartments separating various notes held firmly in place by spring clips, and coin divisions in a removable container for ease of counting the day's takings.

These many years later, I imagine he felt much like that King of the rhyme above, accompanied by his small but trusty assistant teller, always and ever chattering about something, whilst solemnly stacking the coins in their correct denominations. He surely smiled most fondly as he collected the carefully piled coins and tipped them into small paper bags marked with different values.

The talkative child of yesteryear can't help herself asking, "Did Bob and Barry and Jenny all help you like I do, Dad? Did they count the money too? And did they have to sit on cushions, too? And—"

He interrupts me with a kiss on top of my head and, "Ohh barleys, you little possum. One question at a time, if you don't mind." He sees his trusty sidekick drawing breath to roll on again, so he gets in first. "No, they didn't help me. They were too busy being playmates with each other. Now shhh!" and he tries to look stern and make his voice tough. He tries, but fails dismally. And now I'm smiling again, remembering a time many years later (in my terrible teens) when he did growl - more gently and lovingly than I've ever known anyone could. And made me cry for the shame I felt.

My Dad was certain a career involving numbers awaited me. Accountancy maybe, or banking. But no. The 'assistant teller' finally became a wordsmith, because numbers simply don't sing. What that child did have was a total fascination with Dad's handwriting; the most beautiful script, complete with 'light upward and firm downward strokes'. I have no doubt this admiration gave birth to my love of words and writing.

Me either, I seem to hear that 'little possum' whisper.