That morning, distraught by something I no longer recall, I howled my four-year-old distress to the living room walls. Then I burrowed my face into the seat of the worn green armchair in the corner. The chair the family identified as "Dad's," where he sat to read his daily Halifax paper or listen to the news of the year-old-war in Europe crackling from the radio. Or sometimes just relax with a crossword puzzle.
Four-year-old distress
Why my father was home at that time of the day, I don't know. Perhaps he hiked over from his nearby fledging greenhouse operation to exchange shoes for rubber boots, before going back to squish through muddy aisles in one of the chrysanthemum houses. Or maybe to pick up some vital paper he'd been working on the evening before. But for some reason he was home. And heard me.
By the time he sprinted into the living room to check on me, my sounds were muffles, but my small body still shook with uncontrollable sobbing.
I'll be right back
Dad's warm hand settled gently onto my heaving back. Then he fingered one of my short dark pigtails, "What's wrong with my little girl?"
I lifted my head. Twisted around to look up at his clear, steady blue eyes behind round wire glasses perched on the bridge of his crooked nose. But my only answer was a renewed flood of tears.
"Wait," he said. "Stay where you are. I'll be right back."
He dashed through the dining room to the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder, "And don't stop crying!"
In a flash he was back, a silver-plated soup spoon in his hand.
Curiosity eclipsed upset
"There," he sighed, "I was afraid you might stop before I could catch any." Then he pressed the bowl of the spoon against my cheek to intercept the few droplets now rolling down my cheek.
My crying soon subsided; then stopped as curiosity eclipsed upset.
"We need to show these to Mummy," Dad said, balancing the spoon as though it held a find of lustrous pearls. I tucked my hand into his free one, and trotted beside him to the kitchen.
My feelings had worth
Mother was at the ironing board pressing one of Dad's shirts. "Look at this, Mummy!" Dad said, "Did you ever see more beautiful teardrops?" My mother studied the content of the spoon. "Oh, how lovely!" she cooed.
"Show me, too" I said. Dad lowered the spoon and I examined the tiny pool in the base of the bowl.
"Your tears are very precious." Dad said. "Always remember that."
Somehow, even at that very young age, I understood, if not in depth, at least in part. My tears had value. My feelings had worth.
I beamed up at my father. Then, I darted off to play.
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