The Hottest Town in America

By Peter Stoler

For nearly 20 years it has been burning--and fuming On the surface, at least, Centralia looks much like dozens of neighboring towns in the hard-coal country of eastern Pennsylvania. A casual traveler topping the hill where Route 61 swings up from the south can take in the entire community at a glance, from St. Ignatius' Catholic church at one end of town, past the wooden row houses and empty storefronts in the center, to onion-domed St. Mary's Russian Orthodox church at the other. But a more careful look reveals something else: acrid-smelling steam coming from the ground. Centralia sits on a bed of fire; it is its own hell on earth. The steam rises from pipes in the middle of Route 61, from vents in the yard of a gas station, from six tall stacks on a hilltop to the right of the highway and from holes that have opened in the ground itself.

Centralia's residents are steaming too.

They have posted signs (example: SAVE OUR TOWN--PUT OUT THE FIRE) everywhere, on homes, storefronts and automobiles, demanding that the Federal Government put out the fire that has been smoldering for nearly two decades in the abandoned mine shafts under their town.

Unless the fire is extinguished, many of the 1,200 people who live in this small community 100 miles northwest of Philadelphia may be forced to move. Laments Joan Girolami, 38, who has lived there for 15 years: "The town is dying, and nobody's doing anything to save it."

Centralia's ordeal began in 1962, when fire from a refuse pit southeast of town spread into one of the coal seams and then into the mines, eventually forcing them to close. At first, no one seemed terribly concerned. A 1965 attempt to locate and excavate the blaze--the only way to extinguish an anthracite fire--was abandoned when local funds ran out. A number of subsequent attempts were also unsuccessful. Many townspeople assumed that if they ignored the fire it would eventually burn itself out.

It did not. Sulfurous smoke and steam, produced as the fire has heated underground water, have continued to rise through vents in the surface; heat has continued to build. Tom Coddington found in 1979 that the temperature in the underground gasoline storage tanks at his Amoco station had risen to 172DEG F. He was forced to drain the tanks to avoid an explosion. A few months later Coddington, who lived with his family in an apartment above the station, was overcome by carbon monoxide and rushed to a nearby hospital. Since then he has moved his family to a trailer set up on the town's ball field. Five other families were forced to move after monitors installed in their homes by the U.S. Department of the Interior's Bureau of Mines measured high carbon monoxide levels. "It got so we couldn't close our windows," said Tony Andrade. "We just gassed out."

The experiences of the six displaced families forced state and federal officials to take the fire more seriously. Then, last Valentine's Day, Todd Domboski, 12, went out to investigate smoke he saw rising from his grandmother's backyard, fell into a fuming hole that suddenly opened under his feet, and was saved only because a cousin had seen the accident and was able to pull him out.

The Bureau of Mines, which has statutory responsibility for mine fires and other problems resulting from bad mining practices, began the process of buying out 27 families whose homes lie within the "impact area" most threatened by escaping gases and steam, and moving them elsewhere. But the bureau has yet to take any steps to locate the fire and excavate in order to reach it, a process that would cost $80 million, or to relocate the more than 100 homes that could be affected if it did excavate.

Nor is aid for Centralia likely to come from anywhere else. Two men appeared in April, introducing themselves as representatives of an unidentified company interested in purchasing Centralia. They offered to buy out homeowners and establish a new town a few miles away in return for the right to mine the coal under Centralia. Most residents did not take the proposal too seriously. Says Tom Larkin, president of the Concerned Citizens Action Group: "We're not that desperate."

But some Centralians, unable to sell the homes that constitute their earthly wealth, are getting desperate. A number of parents believe that the fire down below is having a psychological effect on their children, many of whom have expressed fears of falling into holes like the one that nearly swallowed the Domboski boy. Others fear for their families' physical safety. Christine Oakum, 28, keeps a canary named Fred and an electronic monitor that checks for carbon monoxide and other gases in her home; she has taught her four boys, ages two to seven, to leave the house immediately if the alarm sounds. "As long as Freddie is singing and the monitor is beeping, you know things are all right," says Oakum, "but it's a nightmare." Katherine Jurgill, 20, who keeps an ear tuned to the monitor in her home, shares that anxiety. Jurgill's daughter Katrina, 2, was sick much of last winter. Her second child is due in mid-July. "The Government says we're safe," she remarks, "but it's hard to see steam coming out of the ground on both sides and believe that we are."

Some Centralians insist they will never leave their homes. But a growing majority say they are willing to move. In a nonbinding referendum that drew 80% of the borough's electorate last month, townspeople voted 434 to 204 to move if necessary. "You can replace a home," said Girolami. "You can't replace a family. A lot of us would be happy if the Government moved us. We've been waiting 19 years for them to put out the fire."

The people of Centralia may have to wait a bit longer. An underground mine fire at Carbondale, 50 miles to the north, burned for 33 years before it was finally extinguished in 1965. That fire asphyxiated six people before the Federal Government dug it out and smothered it with water and slurry. Centralia's fire has not killed anyone yet. --By Peter Staler

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