My family isn’t one for passing down treasured belongings from generation to generation. Not that there’s anything wrong with that sense of tradition, but it just isn’t us. Yet there are certain things camped out in the homes of my predecessors (cough, cough—Navajo rug in my dad’s guest bedroom—cough, cough) that I’ve always hoped to one day call my own.
This antique wrought iron bed belonged to my parents when they first got married (how my mother slept in a full size bed with my 6’4” snoring-prone dad is still a mystery to me), and despite my pop’s encouragement to have it sandblasted and repainted, I chose to maintain the character of its shabby chic aesthetic by leaving the paint chipped and simply killing the rust with some navel jelly. B and I wiped it down with this pink gooey stuff, sprayed it off with a hose, and in less than 20 minutes—voila! We had a perfectly restored, antiqued to perfection wrought iron bed. An heirloom to be sure (even if it wasn’t intended as such), and one I’m hoping will remain in the family for generations to come.