Eleventh Ocean, 7th Day of Hagwinter, 525 M.E. (Helios): It's the 300th day of the year (if we include leap year's day), the 25th dozen. The Universal Solar Calendar commemorates this auspicious occasion by naming today an Ocean Day, the eleventh of the year.
Today is also Hilary Clinton's birthday. Just imagine . . .
But let's talk about eggs some more (with reference to yesterday's post). Many, many years ago, long before I was a consultant advising attorneys on environmental matters in lawsuits, I worked for the State of Georgia evaluating the hydrogeologic suitability of proposed landfill sites.
There was a county up in North Georgia that had submitted a permit application for a proposed landfill, and I drove up there with a couple of environmental engineers to inspect the property and assess its suitability as a waste disposal site. Just before going on site, we stopped at a local gas station/convenience store for some coffee and snacks, and in quite the surprise, the cashier in the store was quite honestly one of the most beautiful women I've ever met.
No idea what a young woman that strikingly beautiful was doing up in a small North Georgia mountain town, much less working the register. I know that sounds chauvinistic on several levels - why can't a beautiful woman work a register, and did I think that that beautiful women only lived in big cities like Atlanta and not small mountain towns? But it wasn't like that. It was just so unexpected and she was that striking.
The thing was, she wasn't all made up or wearing anything fancy, she wasn't trying to be a "hottie" or a glamour queen, She just radiated a natural kind of sincere beauty. I paid for my coffee, went back to our pickup truck to find that the engineers had noticed her too (she was hard to miss) and were all talking about her. I found some excuse or another to go back into the store to talk to her again.
"What are guys from the DNR doing up here today?," she asked as she rang up my bag of chips. As thrilled as I was that she had taken some modicum of interest in me, after I told her we were there to look at a proposed landfill site, my excitement turned to disappointment as her mood instantly soured. It turns out there was a strong level of grass-roots opposition to the landfill, and she was ready and able to immediately launch into all the reasons they didn't want it.
There were the usual NIMBY issues like noise, odor, traffic, and so on, but she also indicated that there was some sort of scandal involved. She claimed the property for the landfill was "donated" by a county commissioner in a suspected quid pro quo deal with Fieldale Farms. The landfill on the poultry giant's property was nearing capacity, and the proposed landfill would be a convenient disposal site operated by the county, with all the benefits going to Fieldale and the burden of the impacts suffered by the public. She got quite animated as she went on about the corruption, the nuisance, and what she suspected was the state's, and by extension my, collusion with the deal.
I tried to assure her that the landfill would be permitted for residential waste only, not industrial or agricultural waste from Fieldale or others, and that there would be provisions in their permit to control dust, odor, pests, etc., but she wasn't buying any of that. She didn't like the landfill, she didn't like the deal, she didn't like me, and told me she'd be happiest if we all just left her store, right now. Crestfallen, I left.
My job wasn't to approve or disapprove the landfill permit, just to advise the people who do the approval if there were any hydrogeologic problems with the proposed site. To be honest, there weren't. There were no adjacent streams, the depth to groundwater was sufficiently deep, the soil was an impermeable silty clay, and so on.
While we were on site, the sheriff pulled onto the property in his car. He told us there were a bunch of people back at the courthouse who were getting all worked up about the landfill and our being there to inspect it. That beautiful young woman had apparently talked to her neighbors about us. As the sheriff put it in his North Georgia drawl, he couldn't be responsible for our safety much longer. He recommended we get out of the county and right now. We complied and didn't need to be told twice.
I didn't want to see the landfill built if there was that strong an opposition, I didn't want to be part of enabling the corruption if what I heard was true, and I didn't want to disappoint that beautiful young woman in the convenience store. But I wasn't going to lie - there might have been political or other reasons to deny the solid waste permit, but there were no hydrogeologic reasons for denial, and my report said so.
The permit was approved and the landfill got built.
Some months later, I was told to go back to the site and look at the completed landfill. A representative for that part of Georgia wanted someone from the state to come up and see what we had done, and even though my office wasn't the one that issued the permit, I was the one assigned to go look (and to take the heat).
Yes, I stopped at the convenience store again, and no, the beautiful woman wasn't there.
I was shocked by what I saw at the landfill. It was professionally built and the construction appeared to be up to the standards of the time, but while I was there, a Fieldale tanker truck backed up to an open trench and emptied a load of liquid chicken rendering waste into it. The smell was revolting - one of the vilest smells I've ever encountered. I retched and very nearly puked up my breakfast. Georgia laws don't allow disposal of liquid waste into solid waste landfills, but as I noted yesterday, "solid" waste can be pretty watery, although I had no idea that waste at the site would be something that could be pumped through a hose.
Next, a dump truck backed up the landfill trench. Even though Fieldale was a poultry farm and not an egg producer, if you have chickens, eggs happen, and the truck dumped a load of broken eggs - shells, yolks, and all. Most disturbing, though, was as the eggs were dumped in the trench and right before a waiting dozer covered them up with dirt, I could hear the chirping of live chicks. Some of the eggs had hatched, and the chicks were being buried alive in the landfill. The horror.
I was pretty sobered by what I saw, and felt terrible for the residents as I drove back home. Should I have lied about the site's hydrologic properties to discourage the permit? Should I have been more vocal about the local protests I heard? Had I been a dupe used as part of some larger land-use scheme?
This story and yesterday's about the truckload of inedible egg product are tied together in my mind, even though they occurred about 30 years apart. Industrial-scale poultry production can be a real horror show, and the wastes, although organic, can be as noxious as chemical wastes. Nest time you eat your Chicken McNugget or Chick-Fil-A sandwich, try to imagine that sound that still haunts me now, that chirping of baby chicks being buried alive in a malodorous landfill trench.