3 Mile Island: The Aftermath By Paul Cowan HARRISBURG—The accident at Three Mile Island is not over yet for many of the people who live in Middletown. Etters, and Goldsboro, the Susquehanna River towns near the nuclear reactor. No one has died as a result of the ncar- meltdown. Noone’s property was lost. The lovely Pennsylvania landscape remains unchanged. Often, it seems as if life is back to normal—as if, indeed, nothing ever happened. Nevertheless, people arc constantly aware of ominous stories, like the widely publicized tale of the 19 cows who recently died on a dairy farm near Three Mile Island, They are reminded of the accident by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission helicopters, which hover overhead measuring the amount of radiation in the air. And they are exposed to shifting, contradictory predictions about their fate. In April, the Department of Health, Education and Welfare said that no one would die as a result of the accident at Three Mile Island. In early May, Secretary Joseph Califano revised the estimate upward—he said that one to ten cancer cases could result from the radiation emissions. And antinuclear scientists, like medical physicist John Gofman and the University of Pittsburgh radiologist Ernest Sternglass, predict that the casualty rate could be much higher. No one knows what to believe. And it is that uncertainty that makes these spring days so frightening. Uncertainty is woven into the ordinary fabric of daily life in these towns. Some parents feel a twinge of guilt when their children play outside; they worry that the air may contain radioactive substances. Many people wonder whether to grow a garden this year, or whether to dry clothes on the line, or whether to open their windows on a warm spring afternoon. Many live with a constant, simmering fear that they or their children will develop cancer or leukemia. As a result, some residents of these communities are becoming political activists for the first time in their lives. Many are fighting Metropolitan Edison, the utility company that runs the power plant and that is now trying to pass the cost of the accident along to the area’s consumers. Many, worried about the reopening of Reactor Number One (which was shut down for refueling before Reactor Number Two almost melted down) are circulating petitions demanding that all nuclear generators in the area be closed forever. Thousands who had been hostile to political demonstrations traveled to Washington for the giant May 6 antinuke rally. Of course, not everyone here shares those views—not by a long shot. These are hardy, stoic people, conditioned to natural disaster by the vagaries of the Susquehanna. Many have lost children, spouses, friends to the river. Many lost their homes or businesses during floods like the ones that followed 1972’s hurricane Agnes. They are proud of their ability to endure, proud of their ability to fight back. At places like Kuppy’s Diner in Middletown, or the King's Arms Bar in Goldsboro. you often hear more criticism of the media—which people think blew the episide out of proportion—and of specific reporters—who kept grabbing local people off the street for a quick interview—than you do about the utility companies. People will tell you that they're tired of thinking about the accident—and that they don’t want to worry about their health. Their bravura is usually backed up by an argument. They insist that Reactor Number One has to be reopened in order to keep jobs and money flowing into the area. And they assume that the generator—which would constantly be subject to public scrutiny—-will be equipped with the best safety devices, the most highly trained personnel that the utility companies and the government can provide. Nevertheless, no matter which side people are on, they were deeply affected by the trauma of the near-meltdown and were eager to discuss their experiences with me during my two visits to the area. Frightening Evacuation, Frightening Return Jim Hurst, 33, works in Harrisburg as a budget inspector for the Pennsylvania Liquor Board. His wife Ann, 33, stays at home in Middletown so that she can spend time with their children, Lee. 9, and Andrew, S. They are among the few people in Middletown who had reservations about the nuclear power plants before March 28, Jim's doubts developed when he read about the dangers of nuclear waste—“ I couldn't figure out why the utility companies were more concerned about making profits than about the fact that they might be jeopard- iz.ing human lives." But he and Ann often felt like heretics when they shared those doubts with friends. On Wednesday, March 28, “ I went to work as usual," Jim remembers. “ I heard on the radio that there was a problem, but that there were no measurable leaks. I was very suspicious, of course. But 1 talked it over with Ann that night and we decided there was nothing to worry about.” Jim travels the 10 miles from Middletown to Harrisburg in a carpool. It wasn’t his turn to drive that Friday morning, so he left his pick-up truck in a garage. At 10 a.m., someone came into his office with the news that the problems at Three Mile Island had become severe, and that Governor Dick Thornburgh was thinking of ordering a four-county evacuation. Jim felt alarmed—and stranded. "My first reaction was to call Ann, but the phone lines from my office were jammed. So 1ran down to the first floor of our building where there are pay phones. But there were long lines of people waiting to use them. I ran out of the building and next door, to a pay phone at a gas station. While I was standing in the phone booth, people kept charging up to the gas pumps to have their cars filled. It was like a scene from Aihg Kong—you know, 'Here comes King Kong. Let's all get out of town.' It was scary. People were running out of the building where I work with their coats on their arms. You could see fear on everyone’s face." Jim assumed the evacuation rumor was true. (It wasn’t. Only pregnant women and small children who lived within five miles of the power plant were told to leave.) He wondered how he’d ever find his family. “ I dialed our phone half a dozen times, but no one answered. Then I tried my mother’s phone. 1couldn’t even get into the Middletown dialing area. All the phones were jammed." Finally, he went back to his office. That, at least, was a fixed point—a place where Ann could call him. But she assumed that he was driving back to Middletown so she didn’t even try to reach him. "While I was sitting at my desk 1noticed I was trembling," Jim recalls. “Most of the people in the offices around me had gone. One fellow was still there and he was more scared than me. His wife was pregnant.” After a frantic half hour, he finally managed to get through to Middletown. "My
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