more than a mile northeast of the factory, however. There, the residents of a struggling, semi-rural neighborhood optimistically named Pleasant Plains were drinking industrial chemicals in their tapwater. And this time, it would not remain a secret.
Unlike many other parts of the fast-growing town, Pleasant Plains was not full of subdivisions and shopping centers catering to the hordes of affluent newcomers. Its residents were mostly laborers and farmers; they were old-timers who got their water the old-fashioned way. There were no water mains in Pleasant Plains, but no one minded because you could dig your own well and find plenty of groundwater just twenty feet down—forty at the most—and use as much as you wanted, free of charge.
The first Pleasant Plains residents to notice, in early 1974, that their water tasted and smelled bad were the owners of three properties on Route 9. There was little doubt about the cause: The three parcels were just a few hundred feet south of Reich Farm, the old egg farm Nick Fernicola had used as a dumping ground in 1971. Almost two years had passed since the work crews hired by Union Carbide had supposedly cleaned up the site, carting away five thousand leakydrums and bulldozing the trenches that Fernicola had used as crude repositories for toxic waste. The neighbors had not forgotten, however. “We all knew it was coming from the Reich farm,” recalled Ernest J. Nagel, who owned a butcher shop on Route 9 with his father. The shop’s water smelled, as did the water in several other nearby businesses. In the spring of 1974, the county’s health coordinator, Chuck Kauffman, decided to check the entire neighborhood, sending the collected water samples to the only local facility with the technical know-how to analyze them for organic pollutants: the Toms River Chemical Corporation. The company, which for once was not the suspected cause of a local pollution problem, was happy to assist. Its chemists found unnaturally high levels of organic compounds in almost every Pleasant Plains drinking water sample they tested. The EPA confirmed the results, identifying two chemicals in the drinking water: toluene and styrene, both of which had been dumped at Reich Farm. Following up on a tip, state and county officials also made another trip to the dumpsite and found plenty of evidence that Union Carbide’s two cleanups in 1972 had been shoddy. There were still fifty-one drums in plain sight, and the odor was still so strong that the state in mid-1974 ordered Union Carbide to come back a third time and remove a thousand cubic yards of chemical-soaked earth along with the additional drums.
That same summer, state environmental regulators took a drastic step: They directed the town to condemn 148 wells within a semicircle extending about a half-mile south, east, and west of Reich Farm. At the time, it was the biggest well closure in the history of the state. Residents were told to plug their wells with cement and either to buy bottled water or to get it from six portable water tanks dispatched to the neighborhood by the Army National Guard. A school, North Dover Elementary, was just outside of the condemnation zone, but the principal decided not to take chances and ordered her kitchen staff to stock up on bottled water in time for the start of classes in September. The crisis did not ease until November, when the Toms River Water Company, after weeks of wrangling with the town over costs, finally extended its pipes into Pleasant Plains, allowing affected homes and businesses to tap in.
For the people of Pleasant Plains, 1974 was a bewildering year. Accustomed to getting their water for free from their own backyards, they were told they would have to abandon their wells and start paying monthly bills to Toms River Water. Many simply refused, defying the town and state. Others, especially if they could actually smell the chemicals in their tap water, made the switch but spent the rest of their lives
Unlike many other parts of the fast-growing town, Pleasant Plains was not full of subdivisions and shopping centers catering to the hordes of affluent newcomers. Its residents were mostly laborers and farmers; they were old-timers who got their water the old-fashioned way. There were no water mains in Pleasant Plains, but no one minded because you could dig your own well and find plenty of groundwater just twenty feet down—forty at the most—and use as much as you wanted, free of charge.
The first Pleasant Plains residents to notice, in early 1974, that their water tasted and smelled bad were the owners of three properties on Route 9. There was little doubt about the cause: The three parcels were just a few hundred feet south of Reich Farm, the old egg farm Nick Fernicola had used as a dumping ground in 1971. Almost two years had passed since the work crews hired by Union Carbide had supposedly cleaned up the site, carting away five thousand leakydrums and bulldozing the trenches that Fernicola had used as crude repositories for toxic waste. The neighbors had not forgotten, however. “We all knew it was coming from the Reich farm,” recalled Ernest J. Nagel, who owned a butcher shop on Route 9 with his father. The shop’s water smelled, as did the water in several other nearby businesses. In the spring of 1974, the county’s health coordinator, Chuck Kauffman, decided to check the entire neighborhood, sending the collected water samples to the only local facility with the technical know-how to analyze them for organic pollutants: the Toms River Chemical Corporation. The company, which for once was not the suspected cause of a local pollution problem, was happy to assist. Its chemists found unnaturally high levels of organic compounds in almost every Pleasant Plains drinking water sample they tested. The EPA confirmed the results, identifying two chemicals in the drinking water: toluene and styrene, both of which had been dumped at Reich Farm. Following up on a tip, state and county officials also made another trip to the dumpsite and found plenty of evidence that Union Carbide’s two cleanups in 1972 had been shoddy. There were still fifty-one drums in plain sight, and the odor was still so strong that the state in mid-1974 ordered Union Carbide to come back a third time and remove a thousand cubic yards of chemical-soaked earth along with the additional drums.
That same summer, state environmental regulators took a drastic step: They directed the town to condemn 148 wells within a semicircle extending about a half-mile south, east, and west of Reich Farm. At the time, it was the biggest well closure in the history of the state. Residents were told to plug their wells with cement and either to buy bottled water or to get it from six portable water tanks dispatched to the neighborhood by the Army National Guard. A school, North Dover Elementary, was just outside of the condemnation zone, but the principal decided not to take chances and ordered her kitchen staff to stock up on bottled water in time for the start of classes in September. The crisis did not ease until November, when the Toms River Water Company, after weeks of wrangling with the town over costs, finally extended its pipes into Pleasant Plains, allowing affected homes and businesses to tap in.
For the people of Pleasant Plains, 1974 was a bewildering year. Accustomed to getting their water for free from their own backyards, they were told they would have to abandon their wells and start paying monthly bills to Toms River Water. Many simply refused, defying the town and state. Others, especially if they could actually smell the chemicals in their tap water, made the switch but spent the rest of their lives
Similar Books
