A Lackluster Paperweight: Memories of My Father

The paperweight is now lackluster. The once glistening marble has lost its shine. It even has a corner chip or two. Plus, there’s this permanent film of dust on the plate that doesn’t seem to come off with repeated wiping.

Yet call it a family heirloom, a treasured keepsake, even. This paperweight now sits symbolically on my desk. Every day I look at it and smile as the memories flood back with the warmth of a sun-kissed garden pond. I constantly remember its story, and consequently its emotional significance.

In 1998 I was 10 years into my professional writing career. I had moved to Dallas from Miami four years earlier to become a Staff Critic at The Dallas Morning News. I was covering music, concentrating on the country and Latin genres. A former editor nominated me for one of those Outstanding Young Men of America awards. You know, you get a nomination letter in the mail, you fill out a long questionnaire and some committee decides whether you get in or not. Most everybody gets in, judging by the super thick book they publish. You can buy the book, a plaque, a framed certificate, and a paperweight.

So, when my dad got wind of this he wanted to order that paperweight for his desk. I tried to tell him that this really wasn’t a big deal, that everybody gets in, that I’m only filling this out so that I have something award-like to put on my resume. Nope, he wasn’t budging. He wanted a paperweight.

My dad instilled in me the value of hard work. He was all about finishing what you started. He didn’t care the career you chose, so long as it was legitimate, of course. His main thing was he wanted me to keep at it, excel, be fulfilled, and be happy. I earned an Associate in Arts in Journalism and a Bachelor of Arts in Communication Arts largely driven by my passion for writing and my dad’s prophetic words.

I always felt that he was proud of me, not only because he told me so but also because he always seemed genuinely interested in my career path.

When the paperweight arrived, my dad put it on his desk. As an accountant and bookkeeper who had been self-employed a large part of his professional life, my dad had an office at home. Clients came and went a-plenty, and his tall, gray filing cabinets were overflowing with ledgers, check stubs, and financial statements. His desk was large, rectangular, and it probably weighed a ton. But there sat the paperweight.

Every time I went back to Miami to visit my parents, and whenever I would walk into his office to say hello or goodbye, I would glance and catch sight of the paperweight. But as the years went by I completely forgot about the paperweight. Those last few years of dad’s life I never even noticed if it was still there.

My dad died in late 2012, just 20 days shy of his 84th birthday. I spent the week of his funeral in Miami with mom, my sister and my brother. During a later return to Miami to visit, my brother and I took it upon ourselves to start the cleanup of my dad’s office.

It felt strange to step inside. It was a bit stuffy, a huge change from the AC-fortified ice box my dad liked to work in and was naturally quite cluttered with paperwork. I sat at his desk to begin the organization process.

There it was. On a corner of the desk sat the paperweight. A rush of emotions immediately overtook me. I said to my brother, “Oh my God, he kept it all these years.” He replied, “Of course, Mario, he was very proud of you.”

That was it. There was no containing the tears. I picked up the paperweight, wiped off some of the dust, and said in no uncertain terms, “This is now mine. Forever.”

Two decades after dad bought that paperweight, and about six years after I took it home, it sits on my desk. It’s my marble and metal memory, my keepsake. Yes, my name is on it. But when I look at it, it’s my dad I see. That lackluster paperweight reminds me of him, always. To me, it’s worth its weight in gold.