For nearly 40 years, Bordeaux’s West Hamilton Place was a rustic, sleepy neighborhood flanked gracefully to the south by 60 acres of undeveloped grass and hay bales. But when a businessman purchased that property to dig, store, and sell topsoil, neighbors complained, saying that the swirling dust, summertime mosquitoes, and mounds of dirt have hurt their quality of life and devalued their property.
“It’s been the greatest threat to the neighborhood since I’ve been here,” says Pazetta Mallette, who has lived on West Hamilton Place since 1963. “Who would want to buy property out here with that site in view?”
Defending the aesthetics of a topsoil site may be a tough task, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s an illegal operation. Next month, Davidson County Chancery Court Judge Carol McCoy will hear a lawsuit filed by one of the neighbors that questions the legality of the company’s operation. And while Metro was also named in the suit, local government officials concede that the company has been—and may continue to be—in violation of local zoning regulations.
In 1995, Vincent Scalf, owner of V&T Topsoil, purchased more than 70 acres of property between Clarksville Highway and West Hamilton Place. Shortly after that, he applied for a commmercial grading permit. City officials say they were under the impression that Scalf was going to develop part of the property for commercial use.
But now city officials speculate that Scalf simply applied for the permit so that he could dig up topsoil—and that he never had any intention of building anything. Rather, they say he has taken advantage of Metro’s storm water ordinance, which encourages landowners in a flood plain to “cut” their property if they plan to develop any of it for commercial use. The purpose of the ordinance is clear: if you’re going to develop or fill up part of the flood plain, you have to dig out a corresponding amount in order to prevent storm water runoff.
But, city officials note, Scalf might be removing topsoil under the guise of following the storm water ordinance. In actuality, city officials speculate, the only reason he is removing topsoil is so he can sell it. That exercise, they contend, might count as “mineral extraction,” which would be against local regulations.
“If he had come straight to us and said, ‘I want to take topsoil and sell it,’ we would have said ‘No,’ ” says Don Swartz, the chief zoning inspector for Metro Codes. In fact, as many have pointed out, in the five years since Scalf applied for a grading permit, the field remains completely undeveloped. While it may be difficult to discern what Scalf’s original intent was for his land, whatever plans he might have had to develop it haven’t exactly come to fruition. And that’s not a testament to the slow process of development. After all, in those five years since Scalf received his grading permit, Gaylord has built Opry Mills.
“Clearly, if there is going to be development, some progress has to be shown,” says Metro Legal Director Karl Dean.
Scalf, whose company has sold topsoil to such projects as the Adelphia Coliseum construction, declined an interview. However, in his response to the lawsuit, he maintains that he eventually plans to develop his property. If he can convince the court of that, he might be able to continue to dig and sell topsoil while he ostensibly prepares his land for construction. But if the court finds he is not serious about developing, it might halt his business altogether.
But as the technical legality of Scalf’s operation is mired in legal and bureaucratic red tape, his violations of some of Metro’s rules and regulations are better documented. On two separate occasions, Environmental Court Judge Gloria Dumas cited Scalf for violating a stop-work order and openly selling topsoil from the residential portion of his land. (While it’s not clear whether Scalf can remove topsoil from his property, he is not allowed, under any circumstances, to sell it from the residential portion of his land.) For that second offense, Scalf was found in contempt and sentenced to five days in jail. The judge later amended the sentence, fining Scalf $1,000.
As far as the neighbors are concerned, they’re just tired of living with a company whose main operation is to dig and sell dirt. “There’s just so much dirt and dust,” Mallette says. “It downgrades the entire neighborhood.”
While Metro has issued stop-work orders and is challenging the legality of the business, neighbors say city officials still haven’t done enough to regulate V&T Topsoil. Given that Bordeaux has been home to such scruffy operations as an animal control facility and a city landfill, residents question whether other parts of town would ever have to suffer the indignity of a neighboring topsoil operation.
“You wouldn’t find this in any other neighborhood in the city,” says Sheila Jones, who along with her parents has filed the lawsuit against V&T Topsoil and Metro. “I’ve called every Metro office you can think of, and everyone tells you their hands are tied. This should have never gotten to where it’s gotten.”
Metro Legal Director Karl Dean says he is sympathetic to the concerns of the neighbors and notes that the lawsuit will clarify the scope and intent of municipal regulations once and for all. “Metro has done a lot. We’ve taken the company to environmental court and now we’ve gotten involved in the lawsuit,” he says. “We appreciate the frustration of the neighbors. That’s why we’re in court trying to seek some answers.”
As if this neighborhood dispute weren’t tense enough, the thorny issue of race is a subtext of the dispute. Most residents of West Hamilton Place are black, while Scalf is white. Residents wonder whether Metro officials would have allowed just anyone to run such a business. “You don’t want to throw race into it, but put yourself in the place of the people who live here,” Jones says. “A lot of people here don’t trust Metro.”
That might not change even after the dust has settled.
