EMILY PRATT SLATIN

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She/Her/Hers Lesbian

Retired Career Fire and EMS Lieutenant-Specialist, Writer, and Master Photographer, living in Vermont.

Vermont Needs Me Just As Much As Stamford Does

July 19, 2026—Stamford, New York (Mom’s House)

I was the lead engineer for the Middletown Springs CAPE project, which uses Meshtastic to keep the community connected when ordinary communication systems are unavailable or unreliable. Throughout the event, a steady stream of people approached my table to ask questions about the project, the equipment, and how the entire system worked. I genuinely enjoyed explaining it, although by the end I had exhausted my available supply of social interaction and was happy when the event was finally over. I returned to the farm, collected my things, and began the drive to Mom’s house.

I arrived in Stamford late last night to my typical warm welcome.

It is still strange to return to a place where people remember me. I spent so many years believing I had disappeared from Stamford that I never considered the possibility that the town had continued keeping track of me in my absence. People say hello. They ask how I am doing. They mention Mom, the house, my writing, or something I did years ago that apparently remained in their memory longer than it remained in mine.

Some places require you to reintroduce yourself every time you return. Stamford simply resumes the conversation.

Amelia was staying in the upstairs bedroom adjacent to my parents’ room. I helped her move a mattress downstairs into the living room, where she is storing some of her things for the time being.

There is a strange practicality to helping someone move part of her life downstairs while the larger arrangement between you is also changing. The mattress had to be carefully guided down the stairs, then turned at a 90-degree angle to navigate the landing before heading directly into the living room without hitting anything.

Amelia then dropped the mattress in the center of the living room floor and declared it done.

The annual memorial bike run had also been held that day in Stamford. By evening, John’s Tavern contained the usual combination of motorcycles, alcohol, familiar faces, and people speaking with the increased confidence that generally follows several hours of drinking.

One woman announced that she had been at John’s drinking since the bike run. She said this proudly and then repeated herself to make sure everyone knew it. A little after nine in the evening, she decided she was going to play darts.

She threw the first dart toward the board. It came within several inches of reaching it before suddenly taking a nosedive into the floor. For a brief moment, the dart appeared to understand its assignment.

Then gravity took over. She tried again.

The second dart wobbled slightly but remained relatively close to the target. It traveled in the correct direction, lost whatever inadequate ambition it had started with, and fell several inches shorter than the first.
By the third attempt, the dart might as well have been tossed underhand in the general direction of the board.

The dartboard remained untouched.

I was seated at a table in the corner with my Coke by then, watching this happen while trying to hold back my laughter. The woman eventually gave up on darts, although it was difficult to determine whether this was her decision or one made collectively by physics.

Outside, a major rainstorm had moved through Stamford. The rain was coming down hard enough that the woman looked outside and announced that it was raining cats and dogs.

Most people would have stopped there. She did not.

She began imitating the sounds of cats and dogs fighting, then continued performing what she believed it would sound like if both animals were actually falling from the sky during the storm. She alternated between the cats and the dogs with enough commitment that the expression briefly developed its own theatrical performance.

I could not determine which animals were winning. She was clearly more enthusiastic about the cats. I am fairly certain the rain was not improved by the explanation, but the evening was.

Later, Nora and I met at The Bel. There was a live DJ and a ten-dollar cover charge. The beat of the music quickly became physically painful because of the way my autism processes sound.

Other people were apparently enjoying themselves. I went outside beneath the back deck.

Rainwater occasionally found its way through the boards and dripped onto me. Under ordinary circumstances, cold water unexpectedly landing on my skin would not be a sensory experience I would choose.

Compared with the noise inside, however, the occasional drip was preferable. Each drop arrived, touched me once, and stopped. The music had no comparable sense of restraint.

I stood beneath the deck while the storm continued around me. There was rain falling beyond the edge of the shelter, water dripping through the boards, and the muffled force of the DJ inside. I had paid ten dollars to attend the performance and then positioned myself as far away from the entertainment as the building allowed.

This is probably not what the cover charge was intended to provide. The rain and I reached an understanding instead.

Later in the evening, Nora and I went back across the street to John’s. By then, the excitement had died down. John’s had returned to being a bar instead of an event.

There is a particular point in the evening when a crowded place becomes ordinary again. Nora and I sat there after most of the excitement had passed.

I thought again about how easily Stamford had resumed its place in my life. I told Amelia that if I had not already bought the farm in Vermont before Mom died, I likely would have simply moved back to Stamford.

But I realize now that Vermont needs me just as much as Stamford does, so I will divide my time as best I can between the two.

Home is rarely uncomplicated. It is still home.