Jamaica

The colors are as vibrant as my native culture. My mother often wore scarves on her head for protection and fashion from childhood to adulthood in Jamaica. When I saw them in pictures as a child I began to borrow her old ones and wear them because I thought they were beautiful. I eventually began my own collection.

Montreal, QC/Toronto, ON

The summer after my high school graduation, my mom made me a quilt. One could call it a ‘memory quilt.’ Not only would it serve me well in the cold Toronto winters, but it also sparked fond childhood memories at times when I deeply needed the comfort of home. A patchwork of t-shirts from volleyball tournaments, band concerts, sleep-away camp, sports days, family trips, and so on – this kept me warm and smiling for all of my university years. The quilt is a memory of so many wonderful childhood experiences, friends, family and places, but more importantly, the quilt (and all quilts, in fact) reminds me of my amazing mom! The quilt is a symbol of how loving, generous, supportive and talented my mom is. I smile every time I look at it and think of her.

St. Catharines, ON

One summer when I was ten, my grandmother and I spent several weeks painting this together. She patiently instructed me, and this is the painting we finished together. It’s the only painting I have ever done. She became sick and died less than a year after we completed it. It sat in storage for many years at my parents until one day about five years ago, a box arrived from my parents which contained some of my childhood things. Seeing this painting brought back so many memories of my grandmother and the time we had spent together. This painting is now on my kitchen wall and reminds me of her every day.

Montreal, QC

My grandpapa was one of Santa Claus’ helpers. Or so I was assured by my parents at 5 years old. It made so much sense! My grandpapa had his very own workshop in the basement that I was rarely allowed in, not because it was dangerous, but because it wouldn’t be fair to the other kids if I saw all the toys. His material of choice was cedar wood. My grandparents’ house always smelled of fresh raw cedar. He definitely looked nothing like an elf, though I had never actually seen one. His belly protruded (with beer not milk, I came to learn) and with his hair white as snow, I knew that my grandfather couldn’t be the Santa Claus but there had to be some association.

That Christmas, all my aunts, uncles, cousins and my grandparents gathered around the tree to open presents. When it was finally my turn, I was given a present as large as I was and was wrapped the best a present that shape could have been. I tore off the wrapping as fast as an excited child could and there it was: a wooden pony. A gaping grin filled with pure joy and awe took over my face. I looked at my grandpapa and he was looking at me radiating happiness and love. I jumped into his arms knowing that he built it and as the lingering smell of sweet cedar from his overalls took over, he whispers to me: “My boss, Santa, thought you’d like it.”

Now, I’m 24, and slowly starting to lose faith in the existence of Santa Claus. However, whenever I smell the luscious scent of cedar or walk by my wooden horsey that I keep stored away in the back room for my (hopefully) future children, I remember my grandpapa. I remember that he taught me to believe in my own thoughts and ideas even if others didn’t. He taught me to never stop imagining and using my mind for creativity and love. Santa was definitely lucky to have my grandpapa spread the Christmas spirit.

Mississauga, Ontario

Most of my early memories are related to my paternal Grandmother. Her garden was a large part of those memories. Two large lilac trees at the start of the path to her house, past the peonies and pansies in the garden around her house. Every June I would take peonies to my teachers at school. Every time I see these flowers, I think of her. Also explains my own garden and use of flowers in my quilts.