At the Sheep and Wool Festival (mentioned earlier), I caught this candid moment of my mom talking to Annie, another yarn vendor and a woman who played a feature role in my childhood.

Many of my most memorable moments from my youth were exploring the woods surrounding Annie’s farm with her son Kip. Through the warm, humid Maryland summers, Kip and I would wander shirtless along streams, testing the patience of snapping turtles, climbing trees, exploring 50 year-old junk yards, and getting lost in corn fields.

I remember dinners outside, watching the cows graze. Fixing broken fences in the rain before the sheep got out. Other nights, Kip and I would sleep in his tree house, but only after stretching an extension cord from the farmhouse so we could hook up his old analog television. For an hour, we’d fight for reception with a mangled clothes hanger before settling in to grainy late-night movies. One winter, a blizzard struck and I was snowed in at their farm. We were stuck there for almost a week as we waited for their mile-long driveway to be plowed. A month later, he was shut in at our farm for the very same reason.

Kip and I share the gift of growing under the wings of profoundly strong women who provided us with childhoods that seem grounded only in fantasy. My own mother is fiercely independent, free-spirited, and loves few things more than color (her boys being a rare exception). Annie has worked the land her entire life; she is one of the most stubborn, hard-working, and caring people I’ve met. They’ve raised their boys to be aware of the world surrounding them, to explore, to appreciate what’s given and to work for something more.

Consider this my very belated Mothers’ Day post, and a reminder that every day we should be thankful of those that have inspired us.