No Longer Paradise

It’s hard to describe what it’s like to live where we do.

What used to feel like a small slice of paradise now feels like a trap from which escape is uncertain. I wonder if our decision not to leave when we had a chance was worth it.

We are at the cross hairs of over 3,000 acres of industrial development. Farm land and rural homes have become data centers, micro-chip factories, distribution centers and who knows what else. Our neighborhood is now surrounded by Meta and Amazon, with Intel and Microsoft next door to them and many other companies who are not household names.

Lights have replaced the stars as our night watchmen. On cloudy nights or when there’s snow cover, the night sky is like an unending pre-dawn gray. Some lights shine so bright you’d think there’s a high school football game underway. Every night. All night. It’s as if the stars have said, We’re out. Good luck.

And then there’s the constant construction on and along the roads. You might leave one way only to discover coming home that way is no longer open. Semi-trucks, too big to make the turn and too stubborn to pass, get stuck in ditches blocking whole intersections. Have you ever seen a dump truck, on its passenger side wheels, leaning against a power line like a parked bike? Yep, guess I’m not going that way. Dodging dump trucks, cement trucks, delivery semis, heavy construction equipment, barrels, pylons, and cones, potholes and disintegrating roadways, soft and muddy shoulders that act like quicksand on tires, and thousands of cars coming and going is just another day. Popped tires, bent rims, side mirrors swiped off, these are just some of the prices our vehicles have paid. Driving here is hazardous.

There’s also the dirt. Constant and everywhere. Cars leave clean and return unrecognizable. When rainy or wet, which is often, car windows get covered in mud and rear ends become so dirty you can’t read license plates. One trip can do this. When it isn’t wet and rainy, there’s a persistent dirtiness in the air that collects on everything. Trees, driveways, patio furniture, windows, anything exposed to it. Even opening windows is a calculated gamble. Is the “fresh” air and breeze worth the dirt layers that accumulate on the inside surfaces?

And have I mentioned the noise? Diesel engines grinding. Backup warning signals piercing the ears. Heavy duty wood chippers eating what’s left of the trees. Backhoe and bulldozer tracks clanking along as they dig and tear into the dirt. Once buildings start to rise, the sounds of hammering metal echo through the area and into one’s head. Industrial strength HVAC equipment blankets the area like a constant artificial white noise.

Can you see it? Can you feel it? Can you hear it? This is where we live. And I don’t want to be here. Somedays, the dirt I drive through to get home comes inside with me. I’m upset at these persisting conditions. I feel powerless to do anything about it. I complain about the latest driving mess.

Gratefulness is a regular struggle.

And I wonder if we made the right call to stay. There was a window, five years ago, where we might have been able to leave. Able to sell and get a decent price. Let someone else hold this asset hoping for a big return. Instead, we chose to stay. To rally the neighbors for the ambitious and improbable vision of a land assemblage sale. If someone is going to profit from the sale of our properties, why shouldn’t it be all of us, I say. We can’t stop what’s happening, any of it, but we might be able to pull off a life-changing exit.

I tell myself that I’ve been serving my neighbors by leading this effort. But is that entirely true? The potential for a big economic payout is real. So is the daily struggle.

These are the questions that nag at me:

• Did I do the right thing?

• Will this be worth it?

• What have I required my family to endure in pursuit of this vision?

• Was serving others just a facade for my own greed?

• Was it only and always about the money?

Meanwhile, the story continues to play out. We still live here. The vision isn’t yet fully realized. The price we’re paying grows daily. Questions remain unanswered. And today I’m grateful that I don’t have to leave the house.