When Light Caught Fire: A Journey into Carnival Glass

 I still remember the first time I saw it—a deep amber bowl shimmering on a shelf like it had just caught fire. It was tucked into a corner of an old antique shop on the outskirts of town, the kind of place that smelled like cedar, mothballs, and time itself. I hadn’t planned to stop that day, but the weather turned, and the rain made the world feel slower, like it was nudging me to pause and look closer.

The bowl wasn’t particularly large or ornate. In fact, it might’ve gone unnoticed had the light not hit it just right. But something about that iridescence—the way it danced between gold and plum and sometimes a faint emerald—held me still. It was like looking into a soap bubble that had solidified into glass, caught in some eternal gleam. I didn’t know it at the time, but I had just stumbled into the world of carnival glass.

Back then, I didn’t even know what carnival glass was. The shop owner, a white-haired woman with cat-eye glasses and a name tag that read "Marge," told me it had once been given away at carnivals—prizes for the lucky, or maybe just the persistent. “You’d toss a ring over a bottle, and if you were good—or lucky enough—you’d walk away with something like this,” she said, nodding toward the glowing bowl. "It wasn’t fancy stuff. Just pressed glass. But look at it now." Her smile was knowing, like someone who understood the quiet reverence these objects deserved.

I bought the bowl for twelve dollars, more out of fascination than anything else. I didn’t yet understand what I was collecting, but I knew I had started something.

Carnival glass, I would later learn, was mass-produced in the early 1900s by companies like Fenton, Northwood, and Imperial. The pieces were affordable imitations of the more expensive, blown iridescent glass made by Tiffany and Steuben. But while those high-end pieces graced the parlors of the wealthy, carnival glass was for everyone. It was the glass of kitchen shelves, county fairs, and neighborhood prize booths. Ordinary things made extraordinary by the sheen of rainbow glaze.

There’s something democratic about carnival glass. It didn’t ask to be admired; it just was—in all its flawed, brilliant beauty. The molds weren’t perfect. Sometimes you’ll find a bubble or a swirl in the glass, or an uneven edge that suggests the piece was rushed down the line. But that’s part of the charm. Each one feels like a small rebellion against perfection.

Over the years, my collection grew in that quiet, accidental way most collections do. A marigold compote from a flea market in Ohio. A cobalt blue plate picked up during a road trip through Pennsylvania. A grape-patterned vase gifted by a friend who found it buried in her grandmother’s attic. Each piece has a story attached, not just to its origin but to the moment it entered my life. I can remember what the air smelled like when I found that peacock-feathered dish in Charleston, or the sound of the vendor’s radio playing old jazz as I wrapped it in newspaper.

It’s funny how these things become markers of time, little memory keepers.

Some collectors go after rare patterns—things like “Good Luck,” “Grape and Cable,” or “Cherry Chain.” Others chase colors: electric blue, amethyst, emerald green, or the elusive red. For me, it was never about rarity. It was about that flicker of joy, that split second when light hits a curve just so, and your breath catches. It was about the way carnival glass seems to hold a secret, whispering it only when you're close enough to hear.

People often ask if I have a favorite piece, and the truth is, I do. It’s not the most valuable one, not by a long shot. It’s a small, slightly chipped tumbler in a faded lavender hue, barely iridescent anymore. It belonged to my aunt Mae, who used to keep it by her windowsill with a single daisy in it all summer long. She used to say the glass caught the morning light better than anything else she owned. When she passed, it was one of the few things I asked to keep. Sometimes I hold it up to the sun, and I swear I can still hear her humming Patsy Cline in the kitchen.

Collecting carnival glass isn’t just about the glass. It’s about stories—ones that stretch across decades, slipping from hand to hand like old recipes or worn-down family myths. It’s about finding beauty in the overlooked, the almost-forgotten. It’s about remembering that even the humblest things can gleam when the light hits them just right.

These days, I still wander antique shops on rainy afternoons, still scan estate sales with the hope of finding another forgotten gem. I don’t always buy. Sometimes it’s enough just to see a piece sitting there, glowing quietly, reminding me of all the hands it passed through before it ended up behind glass or in someone’s hutch. Carnival glass has that kind of soul—it holds on to the past without clinging, refracting it in colors that shift with every angle.

I don’t know how many pieces I have now. I’ve long since stopped counting. But every shelf in my house tells its own little story. And on quiet mornings, when the sun slips through the curtains and the room fills with soft rainbows, I like to sit with a cup of coffee and just watch. For a moment, the whole world feels like a carnival prize—unexpected, a little rough around the edges, but shining all the same.