1978: We go fishing in the Sudbury River. I am four years old. We pack our fishing poles and worms, pile into the station wagon, and drive to the river in the center of our town, Ashland, Massachusetts. We catch a few fish, bring them home, and watch my mom clean and cook them. She takes the first bite. Her face scrunches up and she violently spits it out. "It tastes like a combination of ammonia and the inside of a tin can," she says. My dad goes out and purchases gallons of filtered spring water; it seems extravagant, but we never drink water from the tap again.
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