EMILY PRATT SLATIN

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She/Her/Hers Lesbian

Former Career Fire and EMS Lieutenant-Specialist, Writer, and Master Photographer.

The Pumpkin Harvest

October 11, 2025 — Middletown Springs, Vermont (Home)

I woke up to the kind of morning that smells like October—cold enough to bite a little, but with that faint, sweet promise of sun. The road to my friends house was quiet, the way country roads usually are before breakfast, and I remember thinking how today would be an adventure. I was invited by my friend Brian; my contractor—turned friend. I immediately accepted. I crave adventure. Everything with Brian seems to turn out to be an adventure. I didn't need to be. I just wanted to know what it felt like—to see how it all worked, to do something different again, to earn a little honest dirt under my nails.

When I pulled down their long driveway, there was already laughter cutting through the sound of diesel engines and shifting gravel. My friends waved like they'd known me their whole lives, even though we've only recently started orbiting closer. What I didn't expect was how fast their family accepted me. No pretense, no hesitation—and suddenly I was part of something that mattered. That's rare these days.

As soon as we arrived at the farm of one of their friends, I started walking around capturing photos of tractors and some of the nicest people I've ever met in boots against the ground. I drove the dump truck for a while, learning the weight of the load, bringing me back to my fire and rescue days of driving large emergency vehicles, only this time it was much slower. Later, I swapped over to the Kubota and helped move pumpkins—lots of them—each one catching the light like its own tiny sun. The air was filled with the smell of dust and pumpkins (I had accidentally backed over one or two) and fuel, all those good honest scents that stick to your clothes and mark you as someone who did something.

What stayed with me the longest wasn't the physical exertion of work—it was the people. They didn't just let me stand there with a camera—they let me be there. Their kids darted between the rows, their parents gave me that quiet, approving nod that farmers give only when you've earned it. They fed me, told me stories, teased me like I'd been coming around for years. We joked about all the rumors they had heard about New York City, many of them I confirmed as being true. There was no distance, no polite wall to tiptoe around. They opened their lives and just... let me in.

At one point, I caught myself looking around and realizing how safe it all felt. I don't mean physically—I mean emotionally. No judgment, no calculation. Just shared labor under an open sky. I haven't felt that kind of belonging in a long time.

I took a few photographs—somehow managed to capture dust hanging in the light, the sheen of the equipment, the exact hue of autumn stretching toward dusk. I didn't set out to make art; I just wanted to tell the truth of the day. But looking at the images now, I see something deeper. It's not about pumpkins or machinery—it's about being let into a life, however briefly, and finding yourself steadier for it.

When the work was done, we stood by the trailer full of pumpkins and talked about nothing in particular. The light faded, the air cooled, and I remember thinking, This is what home feels like. Even if I never stand in that field again, the memory's carved in.

They said I was welcome anytime. Maybe they meant it, maybe they were just being kind—but I believe them. I handed over my card, offered to bring my tractor next year, and thanked them more than once, and drove home with my hands still stained with dirt, smiling like an idiot.

I set out to try farming for a day. What I found was something far rarer: a reminder that good people still exist, that connection can happen without preamble, and that sometimes the most extraordinary days arrive disguised as ordinary work.