Not long after Wilbur and Orville Wright made Kitty Hawk
famous with their flying machine, airplanes became a global fascination. America and Europe jumped into a race to see
which continent would win superiority with the idea that men could actually fly. Before long, barnstormers were swooping into
rural towns, using cow pastures as grass landing strips.
Not
everybody was excited to plunk down a dollar to try a ride into the clouds. I
heard the story of one farmer who, after much coaxing from friends, climbed
into a small plane for an aerial view of his dirt-road-laced world.
When
the pilot touched the craft back on earth, the farmer’s friends rushed to get a
report. In unison, they shouted, “Well,
how’d you like it?” Waiting until he got
some color back in his cheeks and knuckles, the farmer finally said, “I didn’t
really trust it, so I never put all my weight down on it.”
That
sums up my feelings about these thin plastic coal-ash liners Republic Services
is trying to sell us on. I keep a small-disk
sample on my desk. Several times a day,
I pick it up and think: “And this is going to last for 100 years, 300 years … forever?”
Without
supportive historical data, Republic wants us to trust its claim that the liner
will protect our environment—forever. If the waste-haulers get permission to dump
10,000 tons of toxic coal ash in its landfill, day after day, Wayne County
could become the largest deposit of this contaminating substance in the United
States. Towns get branded with
nicknames. Atlanta: Hotlanta. New York: the Big Apple. New Orleans: the Big Easy. And back in the day, Ludowici, our across-the-Altamaha-River
neighbor, was
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How thick is Republic's proposed plastic coal-ash liner
for the Broadhurst Environmental Landfill? The label
on the small black disk mailed to Wayne County residents
reads: 60 HDPE Microspike. So, how thick is that? In
layman's terms, not as thick as the nickel standing beside
the sample.
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tagged: Speed Trap.
How
many decades has it taken our friends in Ludowici to outlive that unfriendly
moniker? Our community could very well
head down that negatively-viewed track if the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers
grants Republic Services the permit to destroy wetlands to build
four
miles-worth of rail spur adjacent to its Broadhurst Environmental Landfill. Once CSX starts hauling in a projected 100 railcars
per day of toxic coal ash, it won’t be long before our community gets a
nickname we won’t like. Picture this: “Home
of America’s Largest Toxic Coal-Ash Dump” or just “Coal-Ash City.”
How
hard have Jesup, Odum, Screven and Wayne County worked to build an image of
“this is a place you’ll want to live, work and play”? We’re hungry for newcomers and new paychecks,
but we shouldn’t be so starved to welcome what Republic is proposing.
Coastal
Georgia is the wrong place to take the risks being pushed by Republic. Beyond Wayne County, think of our neighboring
counties. Thousands of paychecks from
fishing and tourism are dependent on good water and a healthy environment.
Not long after the Wright Brothers’ success, passengers
flocked to the Titanic because
they trusted its billing: unsinkable. Where is that luxury liner today? Republic
claims it has developed a landfill liner that won’t let toxic heavy metals—arsenic,
lead, mercury, beryllium and others—“sink” into our groundwater and
aquifer. What about the dangerous
fugitive
dust particles of toxic coal ash in our air? What about the pollution from toxic coal ash
slopping
off railcars and trucks as they rumble through the countryside?
Republic
thinks it has a good plan, but I’m like the old-timer on his first plane ride.
No,
sir. No,
ma’am.
I
don’t trust it.
I will never put all my weight down on it.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
