Word Raccoon didn’t spot them first.

Someone else did, a thrift shop patron with a good eye for hidden things who generously pointed them out without purchasing them because they don’t collect glass. WR is thankful for that.

These two frosted glass shades sitting quietly on a thrift shop shelf, their stepped shoulders stacked like little Deco skyscrapers haunted Word Raccoon all week long.

Because she almost bought them but didn’t know what she’d do with them.

And when she decided she did know, turn them into bookends, she went back for them.

Grateful they were still waiting. (Of course they were.)

Grateful she could rescue them and not have to imagine what might have happened to them instead. Bought up by some greedy reseller (nothing wrong with reselling, I’ve done some myself, but WR is being self-righteous here because she wanted these), put in some dusty cabinet to never see the light of day until an estate sale many years in the future. No! WR does not like beauty to be hidden! 

For a single dollar each, she brought home this pair of 1930s Art Deco slip shades. These fragile pieces once nestled into metal sconces in old cinemas and parlors, glowing from behind with the glamour of another age. The color shifts like mood lighting: apricot or peach satin by day, blushing rose-pink in lamplight.

How perfect are these?!

Collectors call them peach satin, rose satin, sometimes even apricot glass. The light changes the shade of these lovelies, which makes them even more wonderful. (In the thrift shop lighting, they looked more pink. Hence my post from the day before.)

Whatever the name, they glow like pink champagne poured into frosted glass.

They’re not technically perfect. They have a little chip here, a scuff there, but that’s part of their charm. Life is always a little chipped and imperfect, and still worth quite a lot, wouldn’t you say? 

Sometimes I buy things with flaws (even clothing) because they feel more real that way.

Researching these, I discovered that even as-is, a matched pair might bring $200–250 or more on the collector’s market, especially since intact pairs are increasingly rare.

But WR isn’t thinking of selling. Ever. 

She scurried to the closet once she snagged them, dragged out a pair of floral metal bookend frames she had an extra set of, and with a dab of museum putty (Why does she have museum putty on hand? Because she’s a trash panda and collects things. And btw, the putty will not harm the glass!), secured the slip shades.

Suddenly they weren’t just forgotten bits of lighting, though now she’s wondering if she missed an opportunity: she could’ve added lights to them and had lighted book ends. 

Maybe she’ll still figure a way to light them. Though WR says her enthusiasm for them is light enough.

I tend to agree.

They became glowing Art Deco bookends in her hands, little monuments of thrift shop serendipity.

Now they sit affectionately nestled together on the shelf, part salvage, part sculpture, part history lesson, proof that it makes sense to go back for the treasures that end up lighting our lives. (Or holding our books in their arms.)

Word Raccoon is preening, tail fluffed, eyes sparkling. She’d share one with you if you had space for it. 

No, she knows you want her to have them for her books. 

Especially the one she’s currently writing.