by Tom Clynes
Taylor fills me in on mine terminology. The Red Bluff opening is an adit, meaning it enters the side of the mountain roughly horizontally (as opposed to a shaft, which enters a mountain at a vertical or steep incline). The darkness pulls in around us as we duck our heads and step inside; I can sense the weight of the mountain above. Swinging our flashlights, we see bats hanging on the support timbers, and rat feces scattered on the ground. (Unmentioned on the sign is the potentially fatal hantavirus, spread via rodent urine and droppings.)
We reach a winze, a side tunnel that angles steeply downward. Though winzes can drop hundreds of feet, Taylor’s light follows a sloping plywood chute to another adit only six feet below. He reaches down with his Geiger counter’s probe, and the ticking picks up considerably.
“Something interesting down there,” he says, already handing his light and radiation detector to his dad. He hops onto the wooden chute and slides down; Kenneth passes the gear to Taylor and we slide down after him.
Taylor quickly finds the radiation source. It’s a yellow vein of uranium running diagonally along the brown wall of the tunnel, crossed by a greenish trickle of water. When we move our lights away from the stream, it continues to glow faintly. “Ooh, man, radioactive water,” Taylor says as he shifts his flashlight beam from side to side, studying the tiny green-gold river from all angles, transfixed. I find myself watching his fascination with a fascination of my own.
“Liquid uranium,” the teenager says. “I wonder if it’s coming off some autunite up above. It’s a fluorescent mineral, hydrated calcium uranyl phosphate; pretty rare ’round here.”
We continue deeper into the tunnel until we reach a frail-looking brace. Taylor inspects the rotted wooden beams and cross brace, then shines his light down the curving passageway; the tunnel’s end is out of sight.
“We might-could go back farther,” Taylor says, using one of the double-modal expressions that attest to his Southern roots. “But it looks unstable to me.” Kenneth gratefully concurs, and we retrace our path toward the blast of daylight that meets us at the mine’s entrance. Once outside, Taylor climbs the fence and hoists his leg over. As he does, his Geiger counter probe brushes his thigh and emits a loud squawk.
“Huh?” he says. “What’s going on with my leg?” He hops down and runs the probe up and down his jeans. The detector shrieks. He looks worried.
“My pant legs are highly radioactive,” he says. “This is actually scaring me.” He climbs down the other side of the fence and quickly unbuckles his belt. “Uh, Dad, can you run and get the pancake probe real quick?” he says, yanking his belt from its loops and quickly pulling off shoes and jeans. He’s standing in his boxer shorts when Kenneth trots back from the Land Rover with the more sensitive instrument. Taylor snatches it from his father’s hands and runs the large, flat disk along his bare leg. When it doesn’t bleep, Taylor looks relieved. He goes over to the SUV and tests the seats, which are clean. Then he gingerly lifts his jeans and scans them. Halfway down the right thigh, the detector picks up the contamination, an invisible oval patch three or four inches long.
“It’s not alpha radiation, which should rule out the mine as a source,” Taylor says. “But it also rules out my pants shielding me. I could have absorbed a significant dose. That’s kind of embarrassing.” He holds the pants up to the sun. “I don’t get it. They were clean this morning when I put ’em on. My skin’s not radioactive, so it’s not loose contamination, which makes me think it’s been on the pants for a while. But—how? Generally, my jeans are not radioactive to start the day.”
“Where does it come from?” Kenneth says a few minutes later as we sit in a shady nook watching Taylor dig through the mine’s tailings pile. It’s a question that Kenneth and Tiffany have asked themselves many times. Kenneth is a Coca-Cola bottler, a skier, an ex–football player. Tiffany is a yoga instructor.
“Neither of us knows a dang thing about science,” Kenneth says.
“Sweet Jesus!” Taylor yells from atop the mound of yellow earth. “This is exceedingly radioactive dirt!” He’s wearing my spare shorts now, the bunched-up waist cinched, with his belt, around his slender torso. His pickax and shovel lie on the ground next to the clicking Geiger counter as Taylor claws with his hands through the dirt. He bends from his waist, knees locked, his thin, sun-deprived legs descending through swirls of yellow dust and landing inside untied sneakers.
Kenneth squints and wipes a bit of sweat from his forehead as he watches his son dig. He’s in his late fifties, tall and solidly built, with smoky-yellow hair that’s transitioning to gray. He has a laid-back, aw-shucks sociability acquired at a lifetime’s worth of Southern barbecues. Like most of the Arkansas business class, he’s conservative in both politics and manners, though he breaks from that mold in terms of open-mindedness. Ask him a question of any consequence and you’ll almost always get a short pause as he ponders the matter and then a considered answer.
“Taylor,” Kenneth says, “I’ve got a pair of gloves in the car.”
“Don’t need ’em,” Taylor yells down, his glance carrying a hint of annoyance. “You don’t wear gloves when you’re prospecting for uranium.”
“Why not?” Kenneth asks. I wonder that myself.
“I don’t know; it’s just not done,” he says, continuing to dig. Then, a few seconds later, he adds: “Uranium is radioactive, but there’s very low radiation activity per the amount of material. You’d have to work in mines a long time for it to hurt you. And it’s not soluble, so you can wash it right off; it won’t go into solution inside your body.”
Taylor takes a couple of whacks with the pick and pulls out a softball-size yellow rock. He checks it with the detector, which screams its approval. “Code yellow!” he shouts joyfully. “Whoa, that’s a hottie!”
He sets the rock aside and goes back to digging, using the probe to guide the path of his pick and shovel and, mostly, his hands. The clicks quicken to the point that they become one long bleep. “This is going crazy up here!” he yells, prying out another chunk. “Look at how bright it is!” he says, holding the rock up to the sun as he puts the probe to it. “And appropriately radioactive for its color.”
The deeper he goes, the more excited he gets, calling out a play-by-play commentary that veers to flights of fantasy and speculation. “This is the highest-grade uranium I’ve ever found! I wonder—could this be the infamous natural radian barite, the king of all the hot rocks? Nobody’s been able to find it before in the U.S., but who knows? Maybe I’ll be the first . . .
“I gotta keep digging!”
Almost from the beginning, it was clear that the older of the Wilsons’ two sons would be a difficult child to keep on the ground. “Taylor has always been obsessed with things,” Kenneth says as he watches his son scrape away at the earth. “Whatever he got interested in, he just went crazy with it, nonstop. Even getting him to eat was a big trick. Sometimes it still is.”
Taylor Ramon Wilson was born in May of 1994 in Texarkana, Arkansas, just east of the Texas-Arkansas border. From the moment he could crawl, he wanted to dig. At their first home, Kenneth built Taylor a sandbox, but it was too constraining for the toddler; he needed a larger swath of diggable terrain. As soon as he could haul himself out of the box, he started tearing up the lawn, digging holes, pouring water in them to make mud, then digging some more.
When he was four, the digging segued into an interest in construction. That in itself isn’t unusual for boys. But Taylor the preschooler wanted nothing to do with toy dump trucks or other miniature construction equipment. He played with real traffic cones, real barricades. At age four, he donned a reflective orange vest, yellow boots, and a hard hat, then stood in front of the house directing traffic.
“The neighbors all knew him,” Kenneth says. “He’d set up at the side of Wade Trail and stand there with those big gloves waving cars around the barricades. He was shy back then, but that sort of thing seemed to bring him out of his shell. He loved it when people waved o
r stopped to visit with him.”
As Taylor’s fifth birthday approached, the family moved to a larger home in a new cul-de-sac neighborhood on Texarkana’s far north side. Taylor told his parents he wanted a crane for his birthday. Kenneth brought him to a store and showed him the toy cranes, but Taylor saw that as an act of provocation. “No!” he yelled, stomping his foot. “I want a real one.”
This is about the time almost any other father would have put his own foot down. Instead, Kenneth called a friend who owned a construction company, and on Taylor’s birthday, a six-ton crane pulled up to the party. The kids sat on the operator’s lap and took turns at the controls, guiding the boom as it swung above the rooftops on Northern Hills Drive.
To the assembled parents, all wearing hard hats, the Wilsons’ parenting style must have seemed curiously indulgent. Later, when Taylor’s interests turned toward more perilous pursuits, the Wilsons’ approach to child-rearing would appear to some outsiders as dangerously laissez-faire and even irresponsible.
“Some of what people were saying got back to us,” Tiffany says, “and even our friends were sometimes critical, though that usually came through in the form of jokes and kidding. But luckily, other people’s opinions don’t weigh on us that much. Not if they get in our way of what we want to do.”
If Kenneth and Tiffany were winging it at first, as they both admit they were, their parenting strategy was, in fact, evolving into something uncommonly intentional.
What they wanted to do, Kenneth says, was “help our children figure out who they are, and then do everything we could to help them nurture that.”
Taylor eventually settled on an interest that would stretch that nurturing capacity to almost inconceivable extremes. But in his preschool years, what Taylor would become was anyone’s guess. He hopscotched exuberantly from one infatuation to the next with a deep-focus, serial monogamy. In pictures and videos from that era, Taylor’s brother, Joey, three years younger, is typically smiling and engaged, whatever the situation. Taylor, by contrast, looks lost when he’s not in costume. But when he’s playing a part—excavator operator, archaeologist with metal detector, carpenter with suspenders and tool belt—he looks purposeful and confident.
Outside the Red Bluff Mine, Taylor has chucked his equipment aside and is using his bare hands to scoop out a hole he’s been working on for the past half hour. “I think I’m getting closer now to some sort of bulk radiation source,” he shouts, continuing his progress report. He scoops and digs some more, exposing the edges of a basketball-size chunk of ore.
“This here’s what’s gonna make it all worth it today,” he says, not looking up. “This could be, like, a thousand-dollar specimen. It may take an archaeological dig to get it out, but we’ll manage it—even if we gotta die trying!”
Kenneth chuckles as Taylor grabs the pickax, takes a few whacks, then works the tool under the rock, trying to pry it loose. He watches his son with bemusement, occasionally checking the time and glancing toward the sun, which is settling closer to the western horizon.
“Tay, you fixing to dig all the way to China?”
“If China’s got uranium,” Taylor says, standing up and looking his dad in the eye, “I will gladly dig that far!”
2
* * *
The Pre-Nuclear Family
BOTH TAYLOR AND JOEY were born at home with a midwife, not a common practice in the American South. Midway through her first labor, Tiffany began second-guessing her decision; the baby did not seem to want to come out. “I was panicking,” Tiffany says. “But the midwife said, ‘Once you start pushing, it will get easy.’”
It didn’t get easy. As Tiffany pushed, the midwife reached in and felt Taylor’s arm—and promptly got punched. Taylor was pushing back, apparently fighting to stay in the womb. In a struggle that went on for more than an hour, the midwife kept grabbing Taylor’s arm, and Taylor kept wriggling away. Finally, she managed to get a grip on him and pull him out.
Moments later, the placenta followed, but it wasn’t intact; it was broken up, smashed to pieces. “That’s when the midwife freaked out,” Tiffany says. “She said it was unbelievable and amazing that this baby survived. She kept calling Taylor the miracle baby, and she said she’d never had a kid fight like that. And I do believe,” Tiffany says, laughing, “that was one of the last times anyone was able to force Taylor to do anything he didn’t want to do.”
A slightly built brunette, Tiffany looks about a decade younger than she is. She’s fit and energetic and almost unfailingly upbeat, although a small line of worry (“Courtesy of Taylor,” she says) has crept between her eyes. Her parents grew up in Hope, Arkansas (the hometown of President Bill Clinton), but moved to Texarkana so Tiffany’s father could pursue business opportunities.
Southern Arkansas is deeply conservative country, and Tiffany’s father was a strict charismatic Christian. “When he was a kid, he’d get out at the picket fence with his Bible and stay all afternoon, preaching sermons,” Tiffany says. But her mother, Nell, was a freethinker who reacted to her own conservative upbringing by turning to alternative religions and unconventional approaches to health and wellness. Under her mother’s influence, Tiffany grew up as a rare granola child in the 1970s Deep South.
A manic entrepreneur, Robert Bearden spread himself thin with numerous ventures: cattle and construction, nightclubs and barbecue joints. Tiffany’s mother believed her husband would work himself to death, but it was Nell who had the first major health scare. When Tiffany was only three, her mother was diagnosed with cervical cancer. The doctors gave her radium implants—and five years to live.
“That changed everything,” Tiffany says. “Mom was in her midthirties, and with the cancer, she got really heavy into health-food stuff with me and my sister—although she never could switch my dad. He was a meat-and-potato man and a smoker till the end.”
Nell set up Texarkana’s first yoga studio, which Tiffany would later expand into a health-food café and juice bar. When Tiffany was in middle school, twelve years after her mother’s cancer scare, her father was diagnosed with lung cancer. Within six months, he was dead.
Tiffany is convinced that her parents’ lifestyle differences accounted for their contrasting cancer outcomes. She followed her mother more deeply into yoga and health food, and in 1981 she went off to the University of Texas at Arlington, just outside of Dallas, a three-hour drive from Texarkana. “I didn’t have any strong interests in any one subject,” she says. “To be honest, I just wanted to have fun and stay fairly close to my mom.”
Kenneth, too, has deep roots in southwestern Arkansas. His maternal grandparents were farmers; his paternal grandfather brought the family bloodline into the merchant class when he opened a general store in the town of Nashville, Arkansas. After setting up a bottling operation in the store’s back room, Forrest Wilson acquired the rights to produce and distribute Coca-Cola in the region. On New Year’s Day 1911, a store employee named Hence Wilder filled and capped the first bottle of Coke.
The Coke business took off so fast that Forrest sold the store and threw all his efforts into the bottling operation. His rising fortunes allowed the Wilsons to become—and in some cases literally provide—pillars of the community: their trucks carried the stones that now serve as the foundation for the American Legion Building; their donations built the Nashville Scrappers’ baseball park; their scholarships sent local high achievers to college. Forrest cofounded the local Rotary Club, the country club, and the annual Peach Blossom Festival. His son Ramon (a decorated World War II veteran who fought in the Battle of Iwo Jima) and Ramon’s wife, Nelda, were fixtures at nearly every community event, often with Kenneth and their two other children in tow.
Sandy-haired and solidly built, Kenneth was popular, easygoing, and a standout athlete. “It was football, basketball, track and field, and baseball—then back to football,” he says. “I never had a break, never wanted one. My life revolved around sports.”
When Kenneth was in
high school, his grandfather hired him, at fifty cents an hour, to sweep the Coke plant’s warehouse and clean its restrooms. The teenager’s path was clearly being laid out for him.
At the University of Arkansas, Kenneth joined Kappa Sigma, the campus’s oldest and largest fraternity, and majored in business. After graduation, he headed back to Nashville. He settled down, joined the Rotary Club, and in 1988 became the fourth Wilson family member to be company president.
A natural problem solver, Kenneth had already assumed the role of company troubleshooter. “My dad didn’t train me; he’d give me a problem and let me solve it. He wouldn’t meddle. Some of my mistakes hit his bottom line, but that’s how I learned. I got good at finding solutions.”
Kenneth’s laid-back style seems incongruous with his business acumen and his capacity to build on the advantages he inherited. By 1981 the company’s production had grown from seventy-five bottles a day to four hundred bottles a minute. Pursuing more growth, in 1988 Kenneth acquired the regional Dr Pepper soft-drink franchise, and by 1997, sales had quadrupled, and Kenneth’s company’s territory had the highest per capita Dr Pepper consumption in the world.
On one of Tiffany’s frequent weekends home from school, she went out with her cousins to a Texarkana restaurant; Kenneth was there with a group of his friends, and he started a conversation with the petite and cheerful woman nine years his junior. Kenneth had gotten married but was recently divorced, and he told Tiffany he often traveled to Dallas to visit his young daughter, Ashlee, then living there with his ex-wife. Tiffany invited him to give her a call the next time he was in town.
“She was into healthy lifestyles and I was into fried food,” Kenneth says, “but before long I started liking the things she liked. And before you knew it I managed to talk her into coming back to live with her mom. Once I got her back to Texarkana, I thought I had a pretty good shot at her.”
