Indiana is the smell of sweet onion grass and dandelions, and the sight of intrepid Queen Anne's Lace on the side of the road.
Indiana is children with hammers cracking open geodes with giddy awe.
Indiana is tea on the porch as the cicadas trill and fireflies string themselves across the leafy boughs of beeches and tulip trees.
Indiana is sweet corn and fresh watermelon, homemade apple pie, and all the neighbors gathered around a grill.
Indiana is a shady creek full of crawdads and minnows, and a bonfire laughing into the dark.
Indiana is square dances, watercolor paintings, and poetry readings in affable red barns.
Indiana is smiling faces, whether clad in checkered shirts and cowboy boots or a salwar kameez.
Indiana is the feeling of coming home.
