Long ago, when I lived in Barberton, I told a friend that I was driving out to the muck farms to get some fresh produce for dinner.

“Muck farms?”  She wrinkled her nose. “I could never eat anything that sat in MUCK!”

I tried to explain to her about the dark, rich, fertile prime soil, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“Yuck!” she said.

That night, I had a lovely salad for dinner. I don’t know what she had — something with a more sanitary-sounding name, I guess.