I've been taking notes about some things that I either did or were going on around me this summer. They were too short to separate posts. Therefore, I put them here as one place.
Call them small chapters from a memoir of a limited time.
In late June or early July, I was driving south on German Church Road on the northeast side of Indianapolis.
I was between East 38th and East 46th streets when I saw this very unusual site: Two black men riding horses on the side of the road.
That part of Indianapolis isn't as heavily developed as the areas south of it, and it's populated mostly by whites.
Neither of them were in uniform; if they were in a police department's horse patrol unit, they were off duty.
(If you don't know the location, then please use your favorite online map to find it.)
I was taking a nap during a recent Saturday afternoon. I was dreaming that someone was coming up and going to grab me as I lay in bed.
I woke quickly and, in fear, threw a pillow.
No one was there.
I was standing in the courtyard of my apartment complex during two separate Wednesdays evenings when I saw a bus from a local Nazarene church pick up some of the children of my fellow residents of the apartment complex.
No adults boarded the buses, however. And some of those adults need church more than their children do.
I thought a lot about the real estate novelist who's mentioned in the Billy Joel song Piano Man. I can't figure out what the hell a real estate novelist is and how he would differ from, say, a novelist who wrote psychological thrillers.