Stan Badgett

Ah, Potato Day! There’s something in the spud to think about. Fred Geis used to play a tune on the radio: “You’re My Little Potato.” Fred, a fellow poet, wrote a poem extolling Anne Holden, who always wore her hair pulled up in a bun. Fred mused that John Holden was the only one who […]

This morning we bicycled past a handsome old cabin in Carbondale festooned with an American flag. It reminded me of a “cabin” in Boulder — a dilapidated garage, really — where my friend Dick Sparks used to live. He was a music fanatic who owned expensive sound equipment in that dirt-floored hovel, a Deutsche Gramophone […]

My father and I started a painting company years ago, at one point trying to talk businesses into letting us repaint their signs. Once, we parked in front of a meat-packing plant in Loveland, Colo. I went into the office while Dad stayed out in the car to pray. I told the proprietor, “Your sign […]