I was just thinking recently about the time I got a faceful of strychnine as a small child prowling through the hall closet while my grandma’s back was turned. It was just sitting on the shelf, white powder in a little glass jar, no safety cap, no Mr Yuck sticker. It might not have even had a label. I happened to knock it over, and I can still remember the taste nearly sixty years later. We used to live so dangerously.