J.D.’s Columns

Two Billion Burgers      I was maybe twelve years old, prone on the back seat of an older four door Ford, reading comic books, while my Dad drove up the twisty Big Thompson canyon between Loveland and Estes Park, Colorado.  My Mom was riding shotgun and trying to get me to appreciate the mountains.       On a long left corner, she yelled “Sop, Red. Pull over.” My dad eased to a whoa on the gravel shoulder. Mom jumped out and went running downhill into the borrow pit where she picked up a nicely wrapped shiny blue package, half the size of a shoe box, tucked it under her arm and hustled back to the car. She hopped in and said “Go, Red, go.”      While my Dad was going through the gears she was tearing at the wrapping. When she plunged her hand down in the box she found that someone, who was probably watching, had carefully packaged chicken guts and left them along the road for an optimist like my Mo...