Almost every other day, some guy named Brendan sends me an email that says something like, “We will be performing a small amount of rock removal on the project site, weather permitting. You may feel a minor rumble during this activity — please do not be alarmed.”
And every other day following those emails, I do, indeed, hear a rumble. Sometimes it’s minor. Sometimes it’s not. Every time it leaves a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
There are currently 4,211 data centers in the United States, with more being built as we speak. Georgia already has 211 with at least a few more to come. I went to a wedding in a more rural part of the state a few weeks ago, and along the drive, I passed dozens of “no data center” signs. I felt bad for those residents in their well-loved homes that had obviously sat on the land for decades in their quiet communities — the kind of sympathy you can only have if it’s something you’ve already experienced.
Pretty soon, there will be three shiny new data centers in my quiet little part of metro Atlanta that, up until a few years ago, didn’t even have a gas station.
Yesterday, the “rumble” wasn’t so minor. It actually kind of took me by surprise, but I was sitting outside when it happened, right next to the beautiful butterfly bush that I’d bought my mom for Mother’s Day a year or so before she died. It’s slowly coming back to life after the winter. I was also sitting in the patch of dirt where my grandfather used to plant endless rows of tomatoes and green beans up until the summer he died at 89 — I still use his tomato cages. I was sitting near the spot near where my great-grandfather planted a big field of azaleas decades ago and where my great-great-grandparents kept their farm animals long before I was born, and on the land where I used to ride bikes and play with my cousins when we were kids, and where, a few weeks ago, I got started on my own gardening plans for the year and planted some cabbage and potatoes, possibly for the last time.
The writing is on the wall. My county plans for this entire area to become industrial over the next few years. No one really asked us, but it’s a done deal. I’ve made peace with it, but I won’t let it go easily.
Last year, one of the data center companies bought out a lot of the property around us. In the end, I opted not to sell just yet. The offers felt like insults. How do you put a price on a place that has been a part of your family for over a century — that was built up by ancestors whose names you only know from family legends, fancy headstones in the city cemetery, and old black and white photographs, but whose grit and spirit you feel in your soul?
I won’t miss the place itself when I have to go. The two homes my dad and I own here will always be my parents’ and grandparents’ in my mind, and I’m ready to have something of my own again. I’ve never loved the layout of the land, and I’ve been trying to get out of this town permanently for most of my life — family is the only thing that kept me coming back, and now most of them are gone.
But I will miss the memories that replay in my mind every day on every inch of this land.
Yesterday, after the not-so-minor rumble, I took a stroll to my favorite place on the property: my pool. Technically, it’s only been my pool for a few years, but the truth is that it’s been my pool since I was three years old. The story goes that the elder members of my family begged my grandfather to build one for years, but little me, the first grandchild, came along, learned to talk, told my grandfather we needed a pool, and suddenly, there was a big beautiful swimming pool in the midst of what we used to jokingly call the “Anderson Compound.”
Somehow, it became the heartbeat of this place; at least, it did for me.
It’s where my great-aunt taught me how to swim. I’m pretty sure it’s where I gained my storytelling chops — my aunt said she’d fall asleep on a float while I was telling her a story and wake up an hour later, and I was still talking. It’s where my cousin and I planned our futures. It’s where we hosted many a cookout to mark a holiday or birthday and countless family reunions. It’s where my school friends and I used to spend our summers and where I saw some of them for the last time at a big graduation party that got cut short due to thunderstorms. My dog Gabby, who was partially paralyzed in a train incident, was rehabilitated there. It’s where, a few times in my life, I’ve gotten into the best shape I’ve ever been in.
That pool is where I’ve done some of my best thinking and decision-making. It’s where I had long talks about life and politics and sports with my grandfather. At some point, he began teaching me how to take care of it. I didn’t realize that he knew he was dying at the time. The following summer, when he was gone, I inherited his duties.
And let me just tell you that that big, beautiful swimming pool is now a pain in my a**.
First, it’s in the middle of the woods, down a steep hill that’s grown up with weeds and roots and poison ivy and things over the years. It’s like hiking a mountain to get to it. Second, if you’ve ever had a pool surrounded by trees, you know that trying to stay on top of the algae is much like I imagine working for Donald Trump is like — you just want to take a day or two off, but he keeps going. The slightest of wind gusts means a nice layer of leaves and pine needles on top of the water, and don’t even get me started on the wildlife. Some years, it feels like every frog and snake in Georgia comes for a dip, and occasionally, some bigger creatures too. There’s always something wrong with the filter, but it is nearly as old as I am, and I feel like there’s always something wrong with me lately, so I won’t begrudge it. Over this past winter, a huge pine tree fell into it. I still need to clean most of that up.
And yet, every year, I drag myself out there (my dad helps, too — he’ll yell at me if I don’t say that), spend hundreds of dollars on chemicals and equipment, spend countless hours on maintenance and repairs, and keep it going, so I can spend the next five or six months enjoying it.
When we do eventually sell the place and move, I will have a pool. That’s not negotiable. And it will be a pool on flat land right outside my backdoor and without a thousand Georgia pines draping over it. And will be big enough for me to continue swimming my laps.
But as nice and enjoyable as all of that sounds, it will never be the same as the one I have now. I’ve moved away from here a few times, but I’ve always been able to come back, or I’ve always known I could come back if I wanted, and I’ve simply taken comfort in knowing my family and my memories of those long gone were here. When I leave this time, my pool will likely become a parking lot, my houses will be torn down, and the butterfly bush and azaleas will be gone.
Losing those memories is what scares me the most about all of these changes. Every time Brendan sends out an email and tells me not to be alarmed, I’m tempted to write back and tell him that the fear of never feeling as safe and comfortable in a place as much as I do in the swimming pool my grandfather built for me when I was three is what I find alarming. I couldn’t care less about his rock removal rumbles.
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