I had just crossed Water Street and my shirt stuck to my back but the bells were ringing the quarter-hour.
And I realized suddenly just how much I love this town, and how I wish we could stay.
Indiana was never meant to be a long-term home. We were planning to stay for three or four years, while he pursued the doctorate and I wrote. It was meant to be a temporary stop along the road to finding a more permanent home.
After six months we bought a house. It was too good an investment to let it pass.
That was two years ago.
Saturday morning I stepped out into the damp back yard to hang sheets on the line and realized it was getting hot, that I should walk sooner rather than later.
It’s just under a mile to the library on the corner of Ninth and Philadelphia Streets, where the librarian looks up my account before I hand her my card. No, nothing overdue yet.
Passing the bank I remembered that Saturday is the Farmer’s Market and I walk quickly through it, checking prices. Half a peck of fresh apples for $3. The man behind the table said each paper bag probably held 6 or 7 pounds. I bought half a peck, fresh apple smell rising sweet in the warm air.
On Saturday the bakery sells the sticky buns we both love, and after a 3-week hiatus they’re back. I ask for two. The girl in the front rang me up but the bakers in the back smiled and wave, paused to say hello with flour-covered hands.
I crossed Water Street and the sun is hot now, my hands full with fresh apples and still-warm sticky buns. The bells rang the quarter-hour.
And I realized, suddenly, that this is a very good place to call home.