Georgia Communities Pay Price as Politicians Shield Polluters

Paul Riverbank, 2/7/2026Dalton’s carpet prosperity left a toxic legacy: PFAS “forever chemicals,” woven into the region’s identity and bloodstream. As industry and regulators reckon with this slow-moving crisis, residents face lingering uncertainty—and a demand for accountability that remains unanswered.

Dalton was built, in every sense, by carpet. Folks here tell stories in lint and loops, recalling how their parents—or their parents’ parents—managed machines that ran day and night. In the 1970s, the hum of industry became a kind of local soundtrack, weaving the fortunes of two names—Shaw and Mohawk—into global behemoths. Just about everyone knew someone in the factories. But as the carpets flowed out, so did traces of something else, this time not so much a source of pride as of worry.

Chemistry, it turns out, played an unsung role in Dalton’s rise. PFAS—what scientists call “forever chemicals”—gave carpets the superpower of stain resistance. Stain gone, sale made. The slogan could have written itself. What no ad mentioned, though, was what happened next. PFAS don’t wash away. They don’t break down. Before long, researchers began spotting them not just in carpets and factory runoff but in river water, house dust, animal tissue—even, unsettlingly, in blood samples taken from local schoolchildren.

One story floats among the older workers, about Bob Shaw, longtime Shaw Industries CEO. He apparently once held up a carpet square across a 3M conference table. “That’s not branding, gentlemen,” Shaw supposedly quipped, finger on the Scotchgard tag. “That’s a bullseye.” There was a nervous laugh, but the message stuck. No one says what happened next. Stories splinter like that, passed kitchen to kitchen or at corner booths in the local diner.

Scotchgard stayed the go-to for years, and as word leaked about troubling accumulation in human blood, the EPA got involved. 3M pledged to swap out the suspect ingredient, but there was little clarity on the leftovers. “Fifteen million carpets are already in people’s homes,” Shaw pointed out during one deadlocked discussion, according to those present. “Now what?” Most in the room looked away or shrugged.

What happened was, mostly, substitution. Newer PFAS replaced the old—same intent, different names. Trucks kept moving, machines kept running, waste kept draining. For locals, the chemicals oozed into the water system, cycling through Dalton Utilities' networks and beyond—out to farms, fields, creeks, and on into Alabama. Generations drank from that.

The regulatory response? Tepid, to put it gently. Successive administrations, blue and red alike, shuffled the issue forward with more study, less action. Industry leaders pointed to their reliance on manufacturers’ word, noting compliance with whatever rules did exist. “I truly believe we meant well,” offered Kellie Ballew, who handles environmental affairs at Shaw. “Looking back, it’s always clearer. But the intention was good.”

Hindsight, as folks say, has a sharp edge. Faye Jackson, who clocked in more years than she cares to count by the riverbank, describes her health bluntly: high PFAS in her system, persistent unease, growing anger. “They should clean this mess up. They ought to pay for what’s happened to us.”

Walk through the old plant neighborhoods and similar tales surface: Lisa Martin spent two decades amid the automated looms, watching dyes spill into the river—bright red, sometimes blue, now and then a murky purple. Once, she caught sight of a dying fish tumbling downstream. “I knew it was wrong,” she recalls. “Raised the issue, got told, ‘That’s how it is.’ I went quiet after a while.” Today she juggles health problems and uncomfortable questions about what’s to blame. “How many folks lost good years just ‘cause nobody did a thing?” she wonders. Hard to say, and harder still to hear the silence.

Utility workers got caught in the grind too. Dalton Utilities, for a while, smudged numbers when reporting pollution—eventually racking up a million-dollar fine. Leadership shuffled, promises were made. But PFAS, invisible and overlooked, slid on unnoticed, as if following its own script.

Throughout the early 2000s, water samples taken near Dalton told a forbidding story—readings ranked among the highest worldwide. Scientists found the same chemicals in deer and wild turkey that wandered too close to the plant discharge points; farmers suspected the wells providing their water weren’t as clean as they’d hoped. Many later found their suspicions confirmed—tests registered PFAS concentrations well above new federal guidelines.

Medical professionals are left to pick up fragments. Dr. Katherine Naymick, who's practiced in Calhoun since floppy disks were standard, ticks off cases: young children struggling with thyroid trouble, rare cancers popping up where none should. “Chemical firms knew the risks,” she says, “but folks here didn’t. And blood tests these days? Most can’t afford ‘em.”

With answers in short supply, residents have turned to the courts. The city of Rome fought and finally settled for hundreds of millions to overhaul water systems, though the companies involved admitted nothing. The legal wrangling drags on; meanwhile, some lawmakers have sought to insulate carpet firms from any further blowback.

Today, regulatory bodies mostly wait on each other. The EPA, during President Biden’s tenure, finally set strict PFAS rules for drinking water. The Trump camp has promised to delay or water those down. State environment officials in Georgia, habitually cautious, default to federal pace and pin reporting obligations on the companies themselves.

For families scattered from Dalton to Rome, that means uncertainty lingers. New rounds of testing in private wells still reveal PFAS concentrations well beyond what’s considered safe. There are bottled water handouts for the eligible, and filters—if you’re lucky enough to get one. Otherwise, you make do and hope.

As evening falls on Dalton, the evidence remains woven into daily life. Cattle graze along water that once teemed with fish, and parents watch their kids splash in creeks less certain than before. Marie Jackson, who grew up trailing her brothers along the Conasauga, glances at the cattle gate and shrugs. “I’m sure it’s in them, and in us too,” she says, quietly. No one knows what comes next—not exactly. But the legacy, like the threads in a Dalton carpet, runs deep and wide.

In northwest Georgia, if you follow the two-lane highways high enough into the foothills, a peculiar sight unfolds: warehouses and plants, some so enormous they dwarf the parking lots stuffed with dusty pickups. At their entrances, oversized banners declare “Welcome to the Carpet Capital of the World,” a line residents can recite from memory—and with good reason.Dalton was built, in every sense, by carpet. Folks here tell stories in lint and loops, recalling how their parents—or their parents’ parents—managed machines that ran day and night. In the 1970s, the hum of industry became a kind of local soundtrack, weaving the fortunes of two names—Shaw and Mohawk—into global behemoths. Just about everyone knew someone in the factories. But as the carpets flowed out, so did traces of something else, this time not so much a source of pride as of worry.Chemistry, it turns out, played an unsung role in Dalton’s rise. PFAS—what scientists call “forever chemicals”—gave carpets the superpower of stain resistance. Stain gone, sale made. The slogan could have written itself. What no ad mentioned, though, was what happened next. PFAS don’t wash away. They don’t break down. Before long, researchers began spotting them not just in carpets and factory runoff but in river water, house dust, animal tissue—even, unsettlingly, in blood samples taken from local schoolchildren.One story floats among the older workers, about Bob Shaw, longtime Shaw Industries CEO. He apparently once held up a carpet square across a 3M conference table. “That’s not branding, gentlemen,” Shaw supposedly quipped, finger on the Scotchgard tag. “That’s a bullseye.” There was a nervous laugh, but the message stuck. No one says what happened next. Stories splinter like that, passed kitchen to kitchen or at corner booths in the local diner.Scotchgard stayed the go-to for years, and as word leaked about troubling accumulation in human blood, the EPA got involved. 3M pledged to swap out the suspect ingredient, but there was little clarity on the leftovers. “Fifteen million carpets are already in people’s homes,” Shaw pointed out during one deadlocked discussion, according to those present. “Now what?” Most in the room looked away or shrugged.What happened was, mostly, substitution. Newer PFAS replaced the old—same intent, different names. Trucks kept moving, machines kept running, waste kept draining. For locals, the chemicals oozed into the water system, cycling through Dalton Utilities' networks and beyond—out to farms, fields, creeks, and on into Alabama. Generations drank from that.The regulatory response? Tepid, to put it gently. Successive administrations, blue and red alike, shuffled the issue forward with more study, less action. Industry leaders pointed to their reliance on manufacturers’ word, noting compliance with whatever rules did exist. “I truly believe we meant well,” offered Kellie Ballew, who handles environmental affairs at Shaw. “Looking back, it’s always clearer. But the intention was good.”Hindsight, as folks say, has a sharp edge. Faye Jackson, who clocked in more years than she cares to count by the riverbank, describes her health bluntly: high PFAS in her system, persistent unease, growing anger. “They should clean this mess up. They ought to pay for what’s happened to us.”Walk through the old plant neighborhoods and similar tales surface: Lisa Martin spent two decades amid the automated looms, watching dyes spill into the river—bright red, sometimes blue, now and then a murky purple. Once, she caught sight of a dying fish tumbling downstream. “I knew it was wrong,” she recalls. “Raised the issue, got told, ‘That’s how it is.’ I went quiet after a while.” Today she juggles health problems and uncomfortable questions about what’s to blame. “How many folks lost good years just ‘cause nobody did a thing?” she wonders. Hard to say, and harder still to hear the silence.Utility workers got caught in the grind too. Dalton Utilities, for a while, smudged numbers when reporting pollution—eventually racking up a million-dollar fine. Leadership shuffled, promises were made. But PFAS, invisible and overlooked, slid on unnoticed, as if following its own script.Throughout the early 2000s, water samples taken near Dalton told a forbidding story—readings ranked among the highest worldwide. Scientists found the same chemicals in deer and wild turkey that wandered too close to the plant discharge points; farmers suspected the wells providing their water weren’t as clean as they’d hoped. Many later found their suspicions confirmed—tests registered PFAS concentrations well above new federal guidelines.Medical professionals are left to pick up fragments. Dr. Katherine Naymick, who's practiced in Calhoun since floppy disks were standard, ticks off cases: young children struggling with thyroid trouble, rare cancers popping up where none should. “Chemical firms knew the risks,” she says, “but folks here didn’t. And blood tests these days? Most can’t afford ‘em.”With answers in short supply, residents have turned to the courts. The city of Rome fought and finally settled for hundreds of millions to overhaul water systems, though the companies involved admitted nothing. The legal wrangling drags on; meanwhile, some lawmakers have sought to insulate carpet firms from any further blowback.Today, regulatory bodies mostly wait on each other. The EPA, during President Biden’s tenure, finally set strict PFAS rules for drinking water. The Trump camp has promised to delay or water those down. State environment officials in Georgia, habitually cautious, default to federal pace and pin reporting obligations on the companies themselves.For families scattered from Dalton to Rome, that means uncertainty lingers. New rounds of testing in private wells still reveal PFAS concentrations well beyond what’s considered safe. There are bottled water handouts for the eligible, and filters—if you’re lucky enough to get one. Otherwise, you make do and hope.As evening falls on Dalton, the evidence remains woven into daily life. Cattle graze along water that once teemed with fish, and parents watch their kids splash in creeks less certain than before. Marie Jackson, who grew up trailing her brothers along the Conasauga, glances at the cattle gate and shrugs. “I’m sure it’s in them, and in us too,” she says, quietly. No one knows what comes next—not exactly. But the legacy, like the threads in a Dalton carpet, runs deep and wide.