Yesterday, I enjoyed what might be considered the Colorado Experience, reduced to fit in a gift basket.

Miraculously, John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High” swam into our car through radio static, and we experienced this song as perhaps it was truly intended: While high up in the mountains between Denver and Vail. Later, we went to a Rockies game during a thunderstorm.

The rest was more immediate. Earlier in the week, we sat hot in the dessert, drinking iced coffee and talking about the complexity of illegal Mexican immigration. The academic situation that the children of immigrants are faced with is an important component of the dilemma, which I didn’t understand until recently.

On this trip, I saw Jenny dance as a young child, in old home movies. Her mom then brought out the tiny dresses which that little girl wore in the tapes.

My friend Troy played homecooked recordings of his and his brother’s songs, and we sipped beers in pouring rain.

His son Kyam played The Jackyard on a laptop outside at night, unable to tell the difference between the night ambience around him and the night ambience in the game. Maybe that’s the best way to play it - on the grass under stars, being sung to by a cricket ensemble.

We’re flying home tonight. Denver International Airport is like a small city.