For years my local checking account charged a fee if I used a live teller. I lived in irrational fear of incurring the teller fee. One time when my father was visiting I sent him to the Ballard Branch to make a deposit, repeating, "Do not go to a teller. They charge me a fee. Put it in the Instant Deposit box." Of course he didn't listen (and cost me $2). This man worked for the Federal Reserve Bank for 25 years; an economist who rarely balanced his check book.

My sister and I were raised on economic theory and grilled on banking practices. My father attended Career Day in second grade; all I remember is that he defined the word nebulous. The brain surgeon was much more popular. Unlike other children we didn't receive an allowance, but if my father was in a good mood on payday he would wave impeccably crisp $20's in the air while calling, "Who's been a good girl?" Even before Women's Studies in college I knew this would provide future psychological fodder.

When I first opened the account at then Seafirst Bank on Market Street I sat down with the manager herself. She was an older widow with immaculately sculpted hair and perfect nails. When she retired it was local news. Sitting down with her was so personal; it's strange to think that the account terms called for my virtual exile from inside the bank. How short-sighted it was to accept those terms for a decade.

In recent years, on behalf of my daughter and her savings account I've been able to return to the line and hand a deposit slip to a teller. Finally, inadvertently, I learned that I was no longer banished. Personal contact was back for free. It's pleasant to slip into the bank on a raw day, listen to the banter between regular customers and familiar tellers. But one day I was shocked to hear another customer say, "Bye, shorty" as he left the counter. The teller wasn't tall but to call her shorty! Then the small woman with grey hair and a grin waved to me and I read her nametag. It took me another six months to ask about her name, not wanting to be the hundredth person in a given week to say, "So what's Shorty short for?"

Last week Shorty waved me up while working the merchant window. "How are you today?" she asked, peering at me over her glasses. "Confused," I replied and pointed to the calendar on the wall with the wrong date. Isn't that a misdemeanor for a bank?

Shorty glanced back and shook her head. "I couldn't change that calendar if I stood on a ladder," she said.

"How tall are you?" I asked.

"Four-eleven," she said, very matter of fact.

"And your name has always been..."

"Shorty," she said with pride. "My dad called me that when I started walking at 12 months old. Called me Shorty and the nickname just stuck. I've never really answered to anything else. Even if people do try to call me by my given name they get it wrong. Call me Shirley or Carol."

"So your name is..."

"Cheryl Shorty Price Hope," she replied. "I had my middle name formally changed to Shorty. When I started working for the bank there were a couple of other Cheryl's. Everybody called me Shorty but the bank wouldn't allow that on the nametag. Plus," she handed me my receipt, "I couldn't cash checks because people would write them to Shorty and it didn't match my I.D."

"Was your family ... small?" I asked.

"All small," she said. "Except for my brother."

There was no one waiting for the merchant line or any other teller so I put my bag down and asked more questions. Shorty grew up in Eastern Washington and moved to Seattle when she started with Seafirst Bank about 20 years ago. She told me about an incident when she was waitressing and had to call the police. She described the suspect as "tall." The policeman questioned that someone 5'6" could be considered tall. Another time Shorty was in a downtown elevator with a basketball player; she doesn't know who he was, just that her head only reached his rib cage.

Shorty has worked at the Ballard Branch for 7 years. "Do people ask you about your name all day long?"

"All day long," she said. "But I don't mind. It's a good icebreaker. I used to have trouble talking with people." It's hard to believe. Shorty is one of the most personable bank tellers I've ever met, no airs about her, fingers that fly and real eye contact when she asks, "how are you today?"

As our lives become more electronic and virtual I've come to appreciate acts which still allow human contact. I like standing between a woman with blue hair and a two young men speaking Spanish while we fill out deposit slips. I like the tap of the teller's fingers on the 10 key and the crack of a coin wrapper as they open a new roll of quarters.

Shorty says why not to a photo, just pushes her glasses up first. We peer at the digital image together and decide the nametag isn't visible enough. "Here!" She grabs her traveling name placard and holds it proudly. "Do me a favor," she says, "If you write about this, bring me a copy so I can send it to my Dad."

Something clutched at my heart, because at a certain age we don't assume someone has living parents. At just 12 months she would have looked like a doll walking. I can imagine her dad saying "Well, look at Shorty." In Eastern Washington there's a father who's still proud of his daughter. I think about my dad and how long it took me to realize his waving the money was a way of showing he loved us; it was never really about the $20 bills, as crisp as they were.

Peggy can be reached atlargeinballard@yahoo.com. She writes additional pieces at http://blog.seattlepi.nwsource.com/ballard.