April 5, 2026

Dear Connecticut, 						

May I have a word with you?

I know I have ignored you for nearly half a century so you may not even remember me, but I wish to reconnect. Might you be open establishing a new relationship?

Thank you for your consideration in this matter.


Yours truly,
Deborah (Robsky) Huntley

***********************************************************************

April 15, 2026

Dear Debbie,							

Thank you for your inquiry.

I do remember you. When you left rather abruptly in 1979, you were still Debbie Robsky. I know almost nothing of your life after your departure. I am aware that you visited occasionally, but those visits were always fraught with anxiety and thinly-veiled disdain.

You left me. Why should I be interested in you at all?

Sincerely yours,
Connecticut

***********************************************************************
April 17, 2026

Dear Connecticut,						

First of all, I am 68 years old and no longer use Debbie, and just for the record, I spelled it D-e-b-i, not D-e-b-b-i-e. No one, repeat no one, gets to call me Debbie. Well, that is not quite true; I gave up that fight with my older siblings years ago, and now just bite my tongue and clench my fists. They make me feel like a child, the baby of the family, so much younger, so much smaller, the oopsie, which seems, of course, to be precisely their point.

If we’re being formal, I am Dr. Deborah Huntley, but you can call me Deborah. (Who ever heard of a physical inorganic chemist named Debbie?) In the unlikely event that we become friends, you can call me Deb. 

As for why you should be interested

I am FROM you.

I grew from your unyielding rocky soil and undulating terrain, lands conducive to stone walls and the Puritan ethic of of perseverance, persistence, resilience.

I am your child.

You are my bones.

So, yes, I left you, but still carry those bones.


Wishing you well,
Deborah

**********************************************************************

April 27, 2026

Dear Deborah

Dr Huntley? Well La-di-dah! No thanks. You know how I feel about hoity-toity, snooty arrogance. For your information, the three other Debbies in Mr. Sayer’s 6th grade class of 1968-1969 still go by Debbie, so you might reconsider your choice to renounce your  familiar nickname.

If not, we can compromise with Deborah. 

You still have not told me why you left. Was I not good enough for you, Dr. Huntley?

And why are you writing to me now?

Sincerely yours,
Connecticut


*******************************************************************

May April 30, 2026

Dear Connecticut,

Suffice it to say, I am no longer in Mr. Sayer’s 6th grade class. Deborah will be fine.

Why did I leave? The simple answer is that after graduating from UCONN, I moved to Ithaca, NY for graduate school.

By the way, great job with UCONN.  I lived on the fourth floor of Litchfield Hall all four years—the longest time I had ever lived anywhere. Litchfield was in the Jungle, primarily housing freshman, but I stayed there every year because I longed for the stability of one home. I met Al, now my husband of 46 years, in the marching band. I learned from my classes, but also about self-confidence and yes, love. Those were pivotal years and UCONN is the only place within your borders that evokes nostalgia.

North Avenue,
	Ireland Road,
		Pucker Street,
		 	Brookfield St, 
				Oxford St, 
					Olcott St,  
						Catherine St 
just addresses where our mail was delivered;  the towns merely highway exits.

I left for grad school, a path as unfamiliar to me as the trail up Mount Everest and nearly as intimidating.

When Al and I decided to leave, we made an unspoken pledge to move out, move on, and move beyond the cacophonous, turbulent years we spent with you.

And for nearly fifty years, we have kept that pledge.

But things change.

We are now grounded in the midwest where the soil is rich, the land is flat, and our roots have grown deep. We are happy here.

But  we have grown older.

There is something drawing us toward your stone walls, endless rock-strewn fields and rolling hills, toward your seaside vistas and stubborn persistence.

Our kids and the remnants of our larger family are near you. And now there is a grandchild.

We don’t want to be alone.

We yearn to go back.
        To go home.

Can we still call you home?

Will you open the door and welcome us home?

	Make us feel at home?

		Let us make peace at home?

			In your home?


Awaiting your reply,

Deb

---

Send comments

(include email if you want a response)