Magical Paperweights

When I was a child, maybe five or six, I played endlessly with my Uncle’s collection of crystal paperweights when we came to visit. He had no wife or children, lived alone in an urban apartment in Philadelphia, and used strong cologne that made me slightly nauseous. It was always hot when we visited in the summer. There was no yard to play in. The neighborhood, now trendy, was decidedly down at the heels in the late 1960’s. I was not allowed to go outside by myself.

I felt out of place there, uncomfortable. The only thing I liked to do was play with his paperweight collection, endlessly rearranging them, creating stories and worlds. I loved their smoothness and their heft. I couldn’t imagine how they had magical things inside of them, floating, suspended, caught. I felt like that, too – suspended in an apartment with wall-to-wall white carpeting, terrified of spilling my food, or breaking something by accident.

In my house, art was something that lived at a museum (another outing I found tedious). To have a collection of objects was considered louche, bourgeoise, uneducated. But my uncle loved the paperweights so much that he had 20, maybe 30 of them, on his glass cocktail table, he didn’t care who knew. I found it thrilling. It was the only thing about him I liked back then.

Years went by. He died. Ten years after that, my father died, too. When we were cleaning out the storage area for his apartment building, my sister and I found a box, long unopened. We opened it and the treasures spilled out – the paperweight collection, neatly wrapped, intact.

I still love them. Some sit on my desk at work, others sparkle in the window of my home. I still love their smoothness, their heft, and their crystalline beauty. That there are so many makes each one more precious. To me, they are a testament to joy. What object have you inherited that taught you something about the person who left it behind? Why?