Half pint was a term of endearment my dad used for me. I always loved that. As the youngest in a family of eight, I often felt left out, specifically from my five siblings. But running out to my dad and being called half pint made me feel important and special. Even when he called me worm, because I squiggled around a lot, I knew I could do nothing wrong in his eyes.
(My family from way back. That's me sitting in my daddy's lap. Even I have to laugh at that pony tail!)
Thinking back on it, I wonder if there were reasons for the term half pint other than being the youngest and smallest. (I won't mention the cutest! But I was ornery sometimes, even back then.)
(Me being ornery)
Of course there's the half pint of liquor. Well, I'm sure my father drank, but I never saw him drink more than a beer or two while enjoying his cigar. (This was way back when. My parents divorced when I was ten.)
There's a half pint of milk. I don't think he considered that small carton we drank everyday at school - the ones that would at times be so difficult to open!
Half pint has so many connotations. But I don't care about them. I only care to remember running into my dad's arms when he returned home from work and lifted me up smiling and saying in his quiet, teasing voice, "Hey, half pint!"
I truly don't remember much else after that moment, but that was enough to sear into my heart wonderful, indelible images of my father, who past away at such a young age in 1991 of congestive heart failure.