Making Clouds

I grew up near one of the world’s 439 (and counting) nuclear power reactors. We drove past these massive, cement structures at least once per week as they are located adjacent to one of the major thruways in Montgomery County. As a child I was convinced that these twin monstrosities were responsible for all of the cloud production for the tri-state region. I also considered Limerick Generating Station to be one of the many wonders of the world at this point in my life. What kid would not be excited about two gigantic towers creating enough cumulus material to blanket the Philadelphia metropolitan area in a blanket of white, fluffy sky?!

I was able to enjoy this fairy tale until I learned how to read. It was the beginning of the school year and I had spent all summer before 1st grade began brushing up on my “See Spot Run” so I could be sure to get into the best reading group. They always give you a pile of papers to slip into your ‘Take Home Folder’ during those first few days. Our papers contained the standard emergency contact info, lunch ticket forms, medical history and PTA newsletter, but at my elementary school we also received a brightly colored informational guide on what the school is required to do in the event of a nuclear emergency.

Not only did this orange and black sheet of paper completely shatter my ideas as to what the seemingly benign structure beside the highway actually was, I was spooked. Within the pages of this handout were a detailed description of how all of the schoolchildren would be bussed, in an orderly fashion of course, to the nearest university where we would wait in the gymnasium until our parents were able to pick us up. Even at 6 years old I knew this was not a feasible plan, and judging by the way my classmates at the time acted – one insisted on peeing on the mirror every time he used the restroom – I had little hope for our survival if such an event were to happen.

The Chernobyl disaster happened when I was 3 years old, which ironically is the same year the first unit at Limerick Generating Station was brought up. I suppose these informational packets were an attempt at putting parents’ minds at ease in the event there was a mishap. We never did any practice drills of any sort for a nuclear disaster, unlike the one day a month we spent walking in a single file line outside while the school pretended to burn down or sitting in the hallway curled up in a ball, away from the windows, while a phantom tornado tore the roof off.

Over the years this orange paper became just another form amongst the masses that I took home for my parents to sign. I tried to ignore the many articles purporting that there were increased rates of cancer and leukemia in areas immediately surrounding the reactors. I became successful in ignoring the blaring siren scream that happens every first Monday of the month, like clockwork, letting residents know that Limerick is ready to alert the masses if they have already been exposed to toxic levels of radiation; I fail to see how the system could work any other way, unless they are unknowingly harnessing some powers of future prediction, a proprietary software which I am sure the meteorologists would love to get a hold of.

I never let go of the cloud idea though, I knew there was no way the powers that be were actually pumping nuclear by-products into the atmosphere without any 3-legged children running around. I also knew that the power plant was not built next to the Schuylkill River by accident and, in lieu of a theory that rests on the river as a convenient waste receptacle, I decided to do some research. Turns out that the Limerick Generating Station operates a boiling water reactor that uses water from the Schuylkill to cool the towers’ waste heat generated by nuclear fission. The heated up water it emitted from the tower is in the form of water droplets, a.k.a. a cloud. Always trust your first instinct.