My memories of Swan Pond are not near as vivid as some of my friends who still live there, or who still own property there, or whose parents and grandparents have lived there for generations, and still live there.

But I will share anyway. I grew up during my “wonder years” on the lower end of Highland Drive, just off Pine Ridge Road leading into Swan Pond. Except the coal trucks, there’s more traffic on Highland Drive today than ever was before, thanks to the sludge.

When I lived there, the coal trucks would travel through umpteen times a day. At some point the State wanted to construct a route through Highland Drive to make it easier for the coal traffic. Having suffered enough broken windshields traveling behind the trucks, among many other important issues, my dad fought that route. I remember being so proud back then when my dad was on the nightly Knoxville news taking a stand for the neighborhood against the proposed route. Thankfully, the route never was built and the trucks were re-routed.

During those “wonder years” I had a neighbor who was also my very best friend. Almost every day after school we would ride our ten speed bikes around the “circle”. We called it “Route A”, in addition to our “Routes B, C, and D”.

Route A was our most frequent and favorite. Anyone who travels Highland Drive down into Swan Pond knows there’s a serious grade downhill. We would put our bikes in tenth speed downhill and pedal as fast as we could until we were moving so fast our bike pedals would just spin freely. It was sheer exhilaration, the wind in our faces, no cars in sight. And in the 1970’s, no helmets…pure freedom, liberating and in hindsight, unsafe.

We would usually stop just around Hassler Mill Road at a creek, wade our feet, cool off and laugh until we almost (once or twice actually did) peed our pants. I lost my very expensive-at-the-time glasses in that creek once. After a brief anxiety attack, we moved on.

Somewhere in the area there was a wall of tall trees. It was so huge we could never imagine there was anything behind the trees but more trees. One day we stopped to walk through the trees to see what those trees were hiding. Just through the first few rows of trees we found acres and acres of beautiful open fields. We never thought twice about our bikes left behind out of our sight, lying at the side of the road. I remember running and running, then laughing and lying down on our backs in the middle of the green, looking up at the bright sun. I remember this awesome feeling of being one with the world. And then I remember my friend penetrating the silent moment to pose the profound question on that crisp spring afternoon….”can I get a tan through my jeans?” It’s funny now, but we were very serious then.

After we turned left on Swan Pond Circle, we would just travel leisurely until something caught our attention. It was so quiet on the circle back then. On Sundays, at my urging, we would stop and watch people being baptized in the lake there. This was always fascinating to me as I was used to “sprinkling” and not at all accustomed to “dunking”.

We generally found another friend or two outside in their yards and would stop and discuss the worst teacher ever of the week. Sometimes we were selling things for school door to door. We even sold shampoo and conditioner one year for the Harriman High School Band. Folks would invite us into their homes and discuss the shampoo and conditioner. There was Cucumber and Strawberry, even Coconut. But really, we would just talk for awhile and then make a sale.

We would almost always stop at the Circle Grocery if they were open. We would buy a drink and a snack and stash it in our packs on our bikes. After riding a bit more, we would stop at another creek, or sometimes just by the side of the road to enjoy our snack.

Eventually, we would pedal the long way home around Swan Pond Circle just before it got dark. By way of bike, that is a pretty darn long haul for a couple of thirteen year old girls. On one occasion, when we got an early start or it was light out later, we rode to the “plant”. It was always there. We saw it (at least the stacks) from most points of our journeys and from our homes. We watched each day and week as the two new tall stacks were built to replace the several smaller and shorter older stacks. We imagined what it was like working on a tower that tall. In my memory there were huge steel hooks protruding out of the growing stacks and pointing up toward the sky. We heard stories of how men had fallen off during construction. We heard one had fallen on a steel hook, which pierced him straight through his middle, leaving his body dangling in mid-air. Pardon me if this was true or just a myth, and just excuse it to the workings of the minds of thirteen old girls.

It was there at the plant they had irresistible black hills. After we properly removed our “good” tennis shoes, we attempted to climb the hills in our white socks. When we got home, our mothers whined and moaned about the black dirt and swore we could never go outside again.

But the next week we would have shampoo and conditioner to deliver, or some other reason to be back on our bikes again headed into Swan Pond with the wind against our faces.

Those are just a few of my memories of Swan Pond. I have so many. When the water was low my dad and I would go walking the shore in front of the plant hunting for arrowheads. We found a lot more than arrowheads. Sometimes my family would go fishing there at the steam plant. It was there my older sister always caught what my dad called “tree fish” because she inevitably cast her line most frequently into the nearest tree.

The other day I rode into Swan Pond to pick up my daughter at one of her friend’s homes. It’s a route I still make frequently, only by car these days. I rode all along the circle, stopping and talking to some of my friends who live in the area. It was surreal. Groups of ten to fifteen people in hard hats walking the road. Government cars coming and going. Helicopters overhead. The taste of metal in my mouth. The unusual smell in the air. The beautiful dog running through an open field into a sludge-filled pond to lap a drink of water. The feeling in the pit of my stomach isn’t describable. A blend of anger, great loss, bewilderment and empathy…all at once.

Swan Pond has a special place in my heart. Those are just my memories. I can hardly imagine the memories of those who actually live there and have for generations. They are the faces of my friends, and I think of them daily now.

We left the Circle and drove through Wendy’s in Harriman to get my daughter a bite to eat. It smelled of sewage as usual on that end of town. And I wondered, for the first time out loud, what the heck was I thinking when I moved back home from college to raise my kids in this place?

I still see the stacks from my own family home now. I saw the sludge as it drifted down the lake and stuck itself into my dock. And I really have to say I am very quite bitter about Zach Wamp fearing TVA might get a bashing at a hearing. I would like to say to Zach, “you have no idea what some people truly fear, at the least those in Swan Pond, so just be quiet Zach.”

I know there will be a few opportunists, but there are many who could never be repaid for what they truly “own” there in Swan Pond. Come on Erin, hear our story.