Day 18 of Home Stories, a Notes series where I tell stories about objects in my home.  I did a little research before writing this story and discovered that paperweights function most often as collectible art objects rather than holders of paper.  Although I’m sure plenty of people employed them for their practical purpose back when all information lay in stacks susceptible to a breeze. 

These examples have found their way to the top of the air-conditioning unit in my partner’s apartment.  They belonged to his paternal grandmother.  The first time I met Grandma C, I made the mistake of using “hey,” a southernism I’d picked up after more than a decade in Georgia, instead of “hello” or “hi.”  She returned my greeting with, “Don’t you ‘hey’ me.”  We spent the rest of our visit avoiding and then lying about the subject of playpens.  She thought our nine-month-old twin boys ought always to be in one.  The floor is dirty.  We disagreed but soon found lying, “yes, Grandma, we have two very nice playpens at home,” preferable to constant criticism.

Every member of my partner’s family has a Grandma C story.  A great aunt had a precious photograph torn in two because Grandma C didn’t like the way she looked in it.  An aunt got slapped in the face.  Upon meeting her future mother-in-law for the first time, my own mother-in-law was given, not a “hello,” but “your hair is very nice, but it’s too long.”

Yes, Grandma C was a menace.  But now she’s dead, and we have her paperweights.  In the afternoon, the western sun catches them, and they glow.