Morrison, Colorado, the early 1960s. No street address, just a big-ass mailbox on a Rural Route. I spent my days in 4-H, raising sheep, a pig, chickens, and ducks. Tried to tame our Shetland pony from hell and yearned to be one of the cool kids who rode in the Westernaires.

Out past our back field, U.S. 285 bulked up like Stallone for a Rambo flick, ballooning from two to four lanes as Colorado lit the fuse for its population explosion.

Up the road, you could see Lakehurst, a world of tomorrow whose show homes featured built-in vacuum cleaners. No need to haul that bulkiy canister upstairs and down — just carry that hose from room to room and plug it into any strategically located wall receptacle connected to a central vacuum in the basement.

But forget all that, I’m here to talk SweeTarts.

Back then, getting candy wasn’t a stroll to 7-Eleven. You’d have to talk your parents into driving you to Safeway or King Soopers miles away.

But me and the local gang discovered a gold mine. Residents at a reform school for girls a quarter-mile away ran a little commissary. Like some twisted Willy Wonka setup, they’d sell candy to the staff, inmates, and neighborhood kids.

So there I was, my pocket change jangling louder than Elvis’ hips.

I walked in, eyeing those shelves like I’d hit the jackpot in Vegas. Laid my coins down. “Gimme a SweeTarts,” I told the girl behind the counter. To my disappointment, she looked more like the girl next door than the girl behind some outlaw biker.

First bite? I hit the motherlode. A punch of tang and sweet; it was like the Beatles and the Stones jamming in my mouth. A rock concert of flavor. Each color a different opening act, all leading to that headliner — pure satisfaction. And from then on, I was hooked. . .

Bad girls and good candy!

Years roll by. Life’s been a spaghetti western of ups and downs, but those SweeTarts? They stayed the same.

So here’s my toast to SweeTarts, the candy of outlaws and reform school rascals. Whether you’re from the country or the big city doesn’t matter. Those little discs pack a punch like Ali.

And if you’ve never had ’em? Well, what are you waiting for?