Editorial September 30, 1991 Issue

Tasteless salt? Endless savor

Allison W. Phinney

Most of the time when our children were growing up, we lived in a modest neighborhood.

The houses were somewhat worn and needed paint. But the streets were wide and arched over by oaks, elms, and maples, with a chestnut tree at the corner, where you could toss up sticks and bring down the burnished mahogany horse chestnuts of autumn.

The man next door did trucking. The man on the other side worked for the telephone company. Several houses over was a local policeman. Across the street were an auctioneer and a woman who was a cashier at the bank.

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