I grew up in Boulder, which is at the foot of the mountains and the air is mostly like mountain air. My grandparents lived in Greeley, about 30 miles east of Boulder, which has plains air. I now live 10 miles east of where I grew up and the air here is plains air. Mountain air and plains air are very different. They smell different, feel different, move differently. Tonight as I walked our dog (a sentence I still can’t believe I say regularly) I walked past a house that had sprinklers on and someone smoking inside. I was hit by a wave of nostalgia, a memory of many summer evenings being a child at my beloved grandparents’ house in Greeley. It was the sound of the sprinklers, the feeling of the soft plains air at dusk, the smell of wet grass combined with cigarette smoke and fields not far away and cows somewhere in the distance. All that was missing was my sisters giggling with me while we somersaulted in our nighties and picked strawberries into yogurt containers and danced while Owl sang to us. And eating Cheezits in white bowls at the kitchen table with Boppa. And watching the news on that tiny black and white tv in the kitchen and then Bob Newhart. I don’t often dwell in the past but tonight, whoa Nelly, I am there with my whole heart.