Nor is there much consensus on how the practice affects air quality.
According to researchers at Cornell University, fugitive emissions of methane, a far more potent greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide, are released at every step in the process, from drilling to storage to its conveyance through pipelines and compressor stations. And a 2009 study conducted by regional EPA administrator Al Armendariz, then at Southern Methodist University, suggested that smog-forming emissions from oil and gas production in the DFW area were greater than those produced by cars and trucks. But a study commissioned by the City of Fort Worth found that emissions from natural gas production didn't pose an immediate health hazard to residents.
ZUMA Ralph Lauer/ZUMAPRESS.com
A natural-gas well, like this one in Weatherford, would have gone up 1,200 feet from the home of Southlake mom Kim Davis. Chesapeake Energy claims regulation championed by Davis kept the company out of the suburb.
James Berglie/ZUMApress.com
ExxonMobil CEO Rex Tillerson (left) and XTO founder Bob Simpson testify before Congress about the controversial drilling process called "fracking."
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Mothers like Kim Davis, then, can be forgiven if they have difficulty finding concrete answers to the questions that keep them up at night. It's their concerns, the anxiety they feel as they frantically download dense PDFs from every corner of the internet, that have brought the outcry over drilling from a murmur to a din as the Barnett Shale play moves from the ranches and single-stoplight towns into the cities and suburbs. Washington's business-centric rush toward "energy independence" has collided headlong with Main Street — especially in towns like Southlake, where parents worry not about job creation or Middle Eastern leverage but about the future and their health and, more than any of that, their children.
Gordon Aalund is an ER doctor at Baylor Grapevine Hospital with a night-shift tan, thick spectacles and a shock of ginger hair. He lives in a brick house cluttered with children's toys in the Whites Chapel neighborhood, a stone's throw from the Milner Ranch, the only drilling site ever approved by the Southlake city council before court orders and moratoriums tied it up. He says he bought the house a few months after the Milners — a landowning, longtime Southlake family — hosted a backyard barbecue lease-signing party.
By the time XTO came back around to clean up its leases, the price of gas had taken a nosedive and Aalund was offered $5,000 an acre, a fraction of what many of his neighbors got. He signed, but he worried when he heard XTO was asking the city council for variances on gas venting and reduced "setbacks," the distance between wells and homes or other buildings.
He began attending city council meetings, where he met like-minded residents, including Kim Davis. And he discovered the curious thing about the divide opening in Southlake: It knew no political ideology. It's a quirk that polarizing issues take on when they cease being talking points. Unlike Davis, Aalund describes himself as center-left on environmental and social issues. But he came to the debate looking at fracking through the eyes of a physician.
"People think we figured out cigarettes cause cancer because we did a study and said, 'Oh shit, this causes cancer!' No, that's not how we figured it out. Forty years later, when we saw all these people getting lung cancer, that's when we got the information," he says. "Do you want to be in the test group or the control group? I want to be in the control group that wasn't exposed to elevated levels of benzene while gas drilling was going on near my house.
"The reality is it doesn't make sense to take those risks. We don't need the gas like that. We don't need the money like that. I can live without gas, and I can live without gas royalties, but I can't live without clean air, clean water and my health and my kids' health."
At the same meetings, he came across Zena Rucker. The frail but fiery octogenarian describes herself as environmentally conscientious as any Southlake resident. She isn't some armchair treehugger who waxes green then hops into a Chevy Tahoe, either. As far as she knows, she's the only person in Southlake with a solar array capable of powering her rambling, vaguely neo-Mediterranean-style home. She recycles. She composts. She protested with all the other flower children during Vietnam. She's been a Tarrant County Democratic Party precinct chair for years. "I drive a Prius," she adds.
And she wants very much for the energy companies to start drilling.
"They're not worried about the environment," she says of drilling opponents, who she claims are "all Republicans." "That's an excuse. [The companies] are making drilling as safe as they can make it. The people here who don't have mineral rights are the ones totally against it, because Southlake has this attitude of, 'If I can't have it, you can't either.' Or, 'Not in my backyard.' They're very self-obsessed people."
Rucker is one of the largest landowners in Southlake, with 75 acres in the heart of the city. She and her late husband, an airline pilot she met when she was a stewardess, bought the gorgeous spread, with its old-growth trees and green pastures stretching far into the distance, back when Southlake was an unincorporated hamlet populated with Baptist farmers.
Southlake has changed a lot since then, and not for the better, as far as Rucker is concerned. "I used to buy eggs where Town Square is now," she says. "That was an egg farm." And the fact that the energy companies she was ready to make a deal with have been held up at city council, thanks to a bunch of petty Republicans, was, in her eyes, only the latest sign Southlake was headed south.