I’ve always been obsessed with my family’s old photo albums; they bring back memories so far gone that sometimes I think I’ll never get them back. On a recent visit with my parents, my dad (while looking for some important papers in a tightly-packed drawer) stumbled upon some albums from his own childhood and teenage years. It was the seventies and eighties; the bell-bottoms were nothing short of epic, the plaids were so bad they were good, and the floral-prints were downright groovy.

Where to begin? Look at those pants (second from the left, like you didn’t already notice)!
Then there’s my grandmother and Auntie Ruth in plaid (on the right). Also note my
Uncle Bill’s hair (centre, back) and that awesome shearling coat in the front row.

Here’s my dad’s mum in a poppy-printed dress, belted at the waist. Spring inspiration?

Well, what do we have here? There’s some wicked-cool knee-high socks with what looks
like a school kilt and a leather jacket. Then there’s the mustard yellow tops (far left, far right), and
my dad in double-denim (front and centre). My cousin Adam sports a bonnet and one-piece sleeper.

Dad’s mum again, this time wearing a simple, navy, nautical-themed outfit.

Auntie Ruth, perfectly happy in purple flowers. If I were in that dress, I’d be smiling too.

I don’t have any recollection of the events at which these photos were taken — I hadn’t yet been born. But somehow, looking at these albums, I’d like to think I was there. I’d like to think my personal style grew from all of these people. Because, after all, I knew my parents, aunts, uncles and grandparents before I knew my right shoe from my left.

- Stephanie Fereiro

The first chill of winter wind cutting through my layers always takes me back to my childhood, when the bitter cold always evoked the same feeling of dread in my bones: the horror of the winter parka. I vividly remember trying to sneak out the back door into the rolling hills of the first snow; tiptoeing across the icy tile floor to slowly open the squeaky door, I almost expected my mother’s slightly annoyed voice to stop me in my tracks with, “Wait, wait, you forgot your winter coat!”

I can still feel the overwhelming entrapment puffy garments meant for me. Stuffed into those marshmallow-like neon jackets, I was sweaty and annoyed, completely paralyzed from moving my arms in any practical manner and certainly unable to maneuver through the snow at a reasonable speed.

Apparently my mom enjoyed this feeling. Every year she pulled out her very own puffer, an item we coined her “sleeping bag coat,” turning her into a small human taco in a black insulated tortilla.

I freed myself from the chains of the puffy winter coat as soon as I was old enough to reasonably make wardrobe decisions for myself. I use the term “reasonably” quite loosely. For years I waded through the North Vancouver snow in next to nothing, always near hypothermia but never quite humble enough to admit it, especially to my triple-layered-taco mom. By the time I realized I was sick of feeling hypothermic every winter, I was already off to university in Toronto, a land that all Vancouverites warned me was, “so cold you couldn’t even go outside in the winter.” My very stylish father was alarmed by this news, and in order to ensure my survival in the desolate artic tundra of Canada’s East, he vowed to buy me an impenetrable parka.

True to his word, on the first day we landed in Toronto, we went shopping to find the ideal warm winter wrapping; I ended up with a fantastic navy blue twill parka lined with light blue silk and layered with pockets of down insulating the inside, complete with an Eskimo-style fur hood and big shiny silver buttons.

Although my mother was a little disappointed I turned down the black shiny puffer-coat options she had presented, when she felt the weight of my new parka she was satisfied; I would be warm.

Over the years, having suffered through winters full of nagging and many claustrophobic moments of being buried under too many layers, I’ve come to realize my mom was just trying to teach me the most important survival skill in a Canadian winter: staying warm, inside and out. In retrospect, the donning of the winter coat was always linked with hugs and kisses, warm shortbread cookies, and homemade apple cider — all my mother’s ways of keeping her family as warm as possible. Now in my twenties, I am always eager to layer up each winter with my parka, sweet treats, and lots of love — proof that mothers always know best. My mother, to this day, still wears her sleeping bag coat, proudly donning it every holiday season.

- Alyssa Garrison
Photography by Erika Neilly

During a recent trip home, I brought along a copy of WORN issue 11. My grandfather, who claims he isn’t interested in fashion, couldn’t help but connect with the glasses glossary on pages 12 and 13. He took a photo wearing his own cateye-esque sunglasses, purchased in the 50’s - eat your heart out, Alexander Wang.

- Anna Fitz

My brother always got the best Halloween costumes when we were kids. Three years older than me (and probably a lot more demanding), he had home-made costumes galore, while I had hand-me-downs and thrown-together getups. He was a clown, a lobster (a lobster), a hobo-clown, a mobster, and Superman. I was a leftover clown (wearing his too-big costume), a stereotypical witch, and - well, I’m not sure what else, because clearly my costumes were not worth documenting in our family albums.

I want to see photos of your childhood Halloween costumes. E-mail scans to stephanief @ wornjournal.com and I’ll post them on the WORN blog in the days leading up to Halloween.

More fun than throwing up in your pillowcase of half-eaten Mars bars? I think so.

This is just unfair. Unbelievable. Unlobsterable.

He should have had his own style blog.

Please note the clever use of eyeliner (on both of us).

Now that’s what I call a structured piece of tailoring.

My dad thinks I look like a real witch in this. Hmm…

Smiling hurts when you’re swimming in your costume.

Remember: Send as many photos as you’d like, and even a caption if you feel inclined - but no spam, please! - to stephanief @ wornjournal.com, and I’ll post them here for the world to see.

- Stephanie Fereiro