A Poem for Mother's Day, 2026

Here's a photo that speaks to my New England roots, for sure!

I wrote this for one of my amazing "daughters-in-law" this morning. My family seems to put both work and love at the top of the list. I'm grateful!

 

This Pause

In another time, another country, we might know the calendar

with its weekly sabbath day within our very bones and breath:

the sweet halt of work, the pause to contemplate, to renew

acquaintance with old stories of grace and courage, accompanied

by music braided golden with emotion.

 

But we are grown children of immigrants, people who hold work

as salvation, strength, the sure thing to save us from the world’s

forceful fist. Our lists summon attention, effort, tasks and goals,

so the shimmer of sunlight at the window, rain’s rhythmic call,

reliable thump of the heart evades

 

our notice so often. Then, sister, let us reclaim this day: Let us

taste love with our coffee, savor peace with our pastry. Mothers

we are—noticing the time, the laundry, meals to plan, prepare,

all attached to the same clock that will call us back to work

when Monday circles toward us—

 

but this is the moment we choose for ourselves. We hold it

tenderly; we laugh at how absurd it is to “take time off” when

so much is waiting for our capable hands, our clever minds.

We hear the others waking up, know the only way to hold

joy and rest is with both hands.

 

Here is the Mother’s Day we didn’t plan, didn’t expect,

inner admission of how much we give … outer recognition in

a phone call, a kiss, a smile, someone’s thanks expressed.

Vital intention: We choose our lives. We sweeten our own

celebration. We sing.

 

BK

 

The Farmer's Daughter, and Other Adventures with My Mom

Grand opening this weekend!! What a great new life for a terrific place.

My mother wanted to get lost, every time she drove the car out onto a back road. The five of us kids would play games with license plates we saw, or letters on signs, or anything else we could see through the windows -- we all got desperately carsick if we tried to read in the car, or else we would have opened our books. At least for the three older siblings, books were the magical escape into our own private adventures (my two youngest brothers did some things differently).

But on Mom's adventures, the idea was to discover unusual places (like the store on Route 23 in northern New Jersey that sold only buttons -- gallon JARS of buttons for sale!), special waterfalls (hidden ones are best), and places that connected with George Washington, General Lafayette, and "Mad" Anthony Wayne, all easy enough to find in north Jersey, crammed with Revolutionary War battlegrounds. And, incidentally, one "should" get lost.

Unfortunately, Mom's "direction bump," as she called it, kept her from ever getting truly lost. I think that was the biggest regret that she ever expressed around the group of us! Of course, it was also a source of pride and cheerful enjoyment.

When I first drove a car myself through St. Johnsbury, Vermont, and saw the Maple Grove syrup plant and the gift shop called the Farmer's Daughter -- sometime in 1978 -- I had a moment of déja vu. Surely I had been here before? And entered those doors?

I had indeed. Perhaps in 1956 or 1957! I recall the scent of small pillows of balsam needles, and tiny pillars of pine incense one could burn at a campsite to (hopefully) keep away bugs. I remember being barely tall enough to see what was on the shelves.

For a while last year, it looked as though the lifetime of the Farmer's Daughter had ended, and I mourned. Even with that crazy sign out front (the one that makes my Inner Feminist cringe -- I'm not showing it here), I love the place. My mom wouldn't have wanted to see it pass away.

But this spring, oh glorious news, the Cushman family has leased the building and the gift shop business, provided a fresh version of the "fresh" sign outside, added ice cream and homemade fudge (really, they are making it themselves!), and brought back the happy site with fresh paint, baskets of flowers, even a young goat in a neat little barn outside. I am SO happy!

I can feel my mother peeking over my shoulder. She says, "See, we came here when you were little. I love you, honey. Let's get ice cream cones and buy one of those postcards and maybe that jigsaw puzzle in case it rains later. And then we'll get back into the car and get lost. When we've had enough, we'll go back to the campsite and write a poem about this place."

Love you, Mom. Happy Mother's Day of the heart.

(Joan Lancy Palmer Minden, 1927-1981; a New Englander forever, even as she raised us on a mountain in New Jersey.)