The space seemed so much larger now without the enormous biodiesel tanks. Lyle had left the high perimeter catwalk in place, power-washed the thick coat of grease off the metal steps, and converted the second-floor lab into a bar. Matt, Bob’s former boss at SCS Global, had been Piedmont Biofuels Coop’s Executive Director for Lyle back in the day and it seemed the perfect venue for Bob’s retirement party.

Thirty-five SCS Global employees had flown in from the Americas, Europe, and Asia for a three-day retreat and to celebrate Bob’s illustrious stint with the company. Every one of them were garbed in a Hawaiian shirt to match the one Bob wore. Many had brought snacks from their country, strange-tasting cookies and candies, coffee, clothing, and even something for me: a bass-relief plaque of the white church at Suchitoto, El Salvador.

There was plenty of local color as well—close friends and people we hadn’t seen in years. Only two wore Hawaiian shirts and that was happenstance. The atmosphere was joyous. Bob holding court, the crowd swelling, cups of free beer, handshakes and hugs, laughter echoing from the high steel ceiling, bouncing off the catwalks, people balancing plates of food on their laps.

Matt took the mic and welcomed everyone, then turned it over to Bob. Lyle, standing beside me leaned over and said, “Uh oh, here comes Bob. Get the hook!”

“If anyone has a story,” Bob began, “of the stupidest thing you heard me say or the stupidest thing you saw me do, I invite you to come up and share it.”

Andy was already walking forward with his hand in the air. Bob went and sat off to the side on the stage. “Bob is the only person I’ve ever seen work the phrase, ‘anal leakage’ into a business meeting with people he didn’t know.” I searched Bob’s face for signs of chagrin as everybody roared.

Lyle went next, making us all laugh with a story about needing Bob to retire so he could sell more beer. Matt read a retirement tribute in the style of Kurt Vonnegut that he’d crafted with the help of ChatGPT. Trip teased Bob about his early bedtime. Ina told us how she came to realize that Bob wasn’t just a guy who liked to talk a lot, but that he was weaving a story, like a tent, and bringing her and everyone else inside.

Eddie from Brazil spoke about his first virtual meeting with Bob in which he was confounded by casual attire, and how he came to appreciate Bob’s informal approach. “He was normal,” he said. Normal, not formal. Colorful, not drab, allowing others to relax and be real human beings.

And that is what Bob does, he shows up barefoot in a colorful shirt, puts you at ease, allows you to be human, envisions a better world, and invites you to join him.

I’m pleased to report that everything went well at the Collective Biodiesel Conference. The formidable hurdles I’d predicted turned out to be mere speed bumps and I began wondering why. The short answer is: we all gave a little extra. From conception right through to the event itself, nearly everyone gave 110%.

It started in February when our local planning group began meeting in the kitchen at The Plant. It seemed a bit early to start planning for an August event but I’m glad we did. We met monthly for six months and then weekly in the month before the event. Ideas, problems and solutions came up at these meetings that made them well worth the effort.

We got to work right away. Lyle, Tami and Jenny aggressively pursued a fund raising plan. Bob drafted a solid working budget. Lyle solicited a great line up of speakers. Andy secured class rooms and a lunch chef at the college. I drafted a volunteer plan and started filling the slots.

During the opening remarks, Lyle joked that Bob was going to run this show like a Swiss Train. When Bob took the mic he noted wryly that the train was currently in Northern Italy. Soon enough though, he was pleased to announce that we had made it across the border into Switzerland. That extra step of communicating our intention of staying on schedule also led to success.

Our volunteers were great. They took their tasks seriously and thought of things we hadn’t, discovering needs and figuring out how to fill them. The vendors and performers also outdid themselves. The CBC founding board, who have been hosting this event since 2006 also went above and beyond.

Everything went according to plan giving us the freedom to wander around, keeping an eye out for surprises. When a speaker missed his cue, Lyle seamlessly stepped up and gave a presentation. When we ran out of coffee, realized we needed ice, couldn’t find an extension cord or needed help moving food from the College to The Plant, someone would magically appear and solve the problem.

About halfway through the conference it dawned on me that the participants themselves were contributing to our smooth ride. I’d be walking towards a door with a box and someone would reach over and open it. This was more than a host/guest relationship. Everyone was giving a little extra and the result was a seemingly effortless flow of events.

I shouldn’t have been surprised given the ‘can do’ nature of biodiesel folk. When people commented on how nicely everything was going, I shared my observation. “Imagine how nice it would be,” I said “if everyone always gave a little extra.” And we’d bask in that notion for a moment before turning our attention back to conference.

This morning I stopped at the grocery store, pulled a cart from the stack, filled it up and paid. On my way out, I noticed someone had shoved their cart in the general vicinity of the cart queue but hadn’t bothered to line it up with the others. “Boy,” I thought as I nested both carts, “Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone took an extra moment to leave things the way they found it.” And then I thought of the biodiesel conference and sighed.

Yesterday both Bob and I worked in the Carolina sun all day, him wrestling pvc pipe into frame for a band shell cover, me battling blackberry in the garden by the biodiesel pump. Lyle built a floor and railings for the viewing stand at the campground. Tami flits back and forth all day, every day. Malcolm and Jules mow and mow and mow.

No one hugs in greeting these days because we’re all too sweaty. Sunburnt and often bloody, Bob and I arrive home in time to rustle up dinner and relax into a movie.

This is work I enjoy – the planning and preparations, the grounds keeping, being outside all day, turning chaos into order, making things pretty.

I spent one of my hours at The Plant yesterday crouched under the maple tree gouging weeds from the life-sized chess set and cutting them away from the edges of the sidewalk, then sweeping everything clean. As I was leaving for the day I took a deep breath of wet air and turned to admire the crisp lines of the liberated sidewalk. I was filled with contentment, pleased with my work and even forgot about my lower back for a few moments.

But despite having oodles of hours behind us, the highest hurdles lie ahead. Next week will be the ultimate test of my sanity as the plan we have painstakingly constructed begins to play itself out.

We may think we’ve got all bases covered but when the space fills with participants, speakers and volunteers I’m pretty sure there will be some surprises. One of the caterers might show up late or not at all. A camper could stumble into a hidden nest of yellow jackets. An enthusiastic biodiesel admirer may partake too freely of the kegged beer and clog the rest room sink. Someone will need a bandaid and they all will have mysteriously vanished. Undoubtedly, there will arise a condition we had not even thought to plan for which will require quick thinking.

In a word, it will be chaos.

For some, unexpected problems may be exhilarating or at least funny and definitely par for the course. Most of the planners will be able to see past the unforeseeables to the free-flowing food and easy camaraderie between long-time biodiesel supporters.

But for me, the little potholes in our road to success will spike my stress levels high into the maple tree. I’ll scurry and worry and wish I weren’t responsible. All it will take is for someone to spill 12 ounces of beer on our napkin supply or bleed on the tablecloth and I’ll wonder how such a well thought out plan went so awry.

Lyle said something about Interns a while back that I didn’t quite understand until now. We were sharing thoughts about a perplexing phenomenon, people who supposedly came to learn something about the sustainability business but were disinclined to listen or get their hands dirty. Not only did they fail to take instruction, they were “know-it-alls”. Lyle said they had likely come from privilege. “Trust fund babies” he called this particular type of volunteer. They were arrogant and not very helpful.

It made sense. Students who came to Piedmont Biofuels over Summer break weren’t the type who had to mow lawns or flip burgers to keep their creditors at bay. I didn’t fully appreciate that they might not even know how to cook or run a lawn mower until now.

Summer has come to Ghana, bringing us new faces from the States to share the FS2BD project workload. As part of the deal, we offer shared living arrangements in our home.

As a clarification, our “Summer” is actually the Rainy Season and it more resembles Winter. It’s the most comfortable time of year, with temperatures falling below 70 degrees Fahrenheit, sending me searching for leggings and a jacket. Allison, our wonderful ‘summer’ intern from North Carolina is dreading her return to North Carolina where the daily highs will be in the 90’s and beyond.

Lyle’s comment finally hit home after we experienced a most arrogant and un-coachable intern. It was an engineering student who had come to the U.S. from abroad. He arrived, dressed in black, panting from the heat like a dog and was obviously unprepared for the world he found himself in down here.

It seems he had the wrong impression of Kumasi from the beginning and admitted he hadn’t taken the time to read about it. He was shocked to find that free wifi wasn’t available everywhere and that the power and water often went out. Further, he was perplexed as to why we would be growing and cooking our own food and didn’t understand the concept behind our compost pile.

Yet, he refused to listen to our simple advice about pretty much everything. Within a week or so, his failure to take our advice about drinking lots of water resulted in disaster. He succumbed to dehydration and heat stroke and nearly died.

Bob and Allison sat on either side of him for two hours, willing him to live as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Jay, Jeremy and I scrambled to provide support and Eric sent a taxi to bring his wife Linda, a registered nurse to the scene. At one point I was convinced I was going to see my first human being die. My heart thumps in panic as I write these words. It was a horrible experience.

Sharing was not part of his skill set, as he was quick to state in a disdainful tone of voice. Group assets soon became his and his alone. He quickly alienated his lab mates with his sense of entitlement. And yet he brought nothing to the party, nothing of his own to share. So in reality, he was quite accomplished at sharing the assets of others as long as he didn’t have to give anyone else a turn.

We weren’t surprised. We knew who he was when within minutes of arrival he asked to borrow a pair of our shoes. He went on to help himself to food others had purchased and prepared. As well as pillows from around the house, including the spare bedroom.

By sheer luck, I discovered that he had been ‘sharing’ the neighbors’ trash bin the whole time he was here. I was mowing the grass outside our compound wall and saw him walk across the street to place three full bags of garbage atop their already full bin. “Did Albert give you permission to use their trash service?” I asked. “No, but no one’s ever said anything.” was his flippant reply.

I immediately crossed the street to retrieve his garbage and apologize to Albert. Albert asked who had put the trash there and when I told him he nodded his head vigorously, “Always.” he said. An obroni had broken the unspoken code about sharing and it was outside his comfort zone to confront him. I wished I’d noticed sooner.

Before his term was half finished, Bob took steps to send him home and waited for the inevitable to happen. Sure enough, this young man’s arrogance soon became so intolerable that his work mates began to complain. In writing. Not only was he reluctant to share the lab equipment, but he was talking down to his co-workers, particularly the Ghanaians.

Finally, he spilled methanol all over the lab floor because he was unwilling to use a funnel. To add insult to injury, he refused (when asked politely) to clean it up. Rather than breath the toxic fumes, one of his lab mates got a mop and bucket and cleaned up the spill.

Watching her co-worker clean up after her housemate was the last straw. Allison reached her breaking point and contacted Bob. “That’s it!” Bob said, with the trace of a smile, “If he’s pissed off Allison, he has got to go.” Let it be known that Allison is the most even-keeled person on project. She is extremely level-headed and emotionally mature. A pragmatist not given to drama. I was both shocked and relieved to hear her story.

To be fair, he was quite young. But given that Allison is even younger makes his age no excuse. Unlike Allison, who works in the garden, ‘gets’ the compost thing, follows our household trash protocol, buys and/or harvests her own produce, cooks for herself and knows how to mow a lawn, our more privileged intern had never learned to cook or touched a lawn mower.

When his lack of skills began to come to light, I was perplexed. “How could he have reached this age without knowing how to do these simple things?” I wondered aloud to our friend Nauzley. “Oh, I’ve seen people who came from abroad and didn’t even know how to dress themselves.” she offered. “Seriously?!” I asked. “Sure,” Nauzley affirmed, “Back home someone picked their outfits and dressed them.”  Wow!

I now have a new appreciation for Lyle’s role as Intern-Coordinator. As well as a better understanding of how privilege can lead to arrogance which can lead to a blindness of sorts. The kind of unseeing that comes from never having to do for ones’ self. And a sadness that those who have the most to give sometimes end up taking the most.

Ultimately, our privileged intern called a taxi and left without saying goodbye to anyone or thanking them for sharing. Or for saving his life. Blind to the impact he had on all of us. Blinded by his own arrogance and sense of entitlement.

We were about to turn our rent in to a mortgage which would involve withdrawing ten thousand dollars from savings and doubling our monthly housing payment.  We’d been a one-car family for nearly five years, embracing the many benefits of this arrangement.  Shelling out $2,300 for a second used car seemed like folly.

But I agreed to ride up to Bynum so Andy and Jill could take a look.  Jill and Andy agreed with Bob that the 1987 Mercedes TD300 was a good, solid car for a price we couldn’t pass up.  Although there were nearly 300,000 miles on the odometer, she still ran as smooth as a youngster, purring along on the road with hardly a bump.  I was outnumbered.

She had seating for seven which included a third seat for two that faced backwards and folded down for to make a flat bed.  Ditto with the back seats.  This car was capable of acting like a pick up truck when she wasn’t serving as a party car!

We all considered Bob lucky for spying her in Diaz’s lot before anyone else had.  Andy said if we didn’t buy her, he would.  That’s when I started thinking about names for our new car.  Lilly was the first name that came to mind.  As in “Lilly White.”  It seemed like a good tongue-in-cheek Southern name.

After nearly two years of running alongside the biodiesel crowd in Christine, our 1995 gas powered Ford Escort, we’d be driving a car many of our friends spent their days making fuel for.  We would finally be able to put our Piedmont Biodiesel Coop membership to good use.

On the internets, we found that the 1987 Mercedes Touring Diesel 300 sold for $40,000 when new.  We loved the write up about this 300TD on a blog titled Hoopty Rides in which the author said:

With absolute conviction, I can say, the 1987 Mercedes 300TD is one of the very best automobiles ever made. Though I don’t have 7 friends, should I acquire a few more, I will be able to bring them with me in absolute comfort. It is a 6 cylinder turbo charged diesel and it was only available in 1987. The W124 body cars (the 80s E-classes) were the last true Mercedes that felt like they were machined from a single block of steel.

That writer also quoted the Mercedes Illustrated Buyer’s Guide:

The modest 300E hides its capabilities… The 300E is among the world’s best cars for the driver. Precise steering and comfortable ride make them particularly good long-distance cars… Discussing the handling of these cars is academic. Anything that you can do to break them loose on the public road is not only irresponsible and illegal, but also unlikely.

At this point, Lilly seemed like too frivolous a name for our new Mercedes.  Her real name revealed itself to me while I was washing my hair.  Head full of white suds, “Blanche!” suddenly popped into my head.  As in Blanche DuBois from “A Streetcar Named Desire,” the southern belle who always relied on the kindness of strangers.  As in a woman from an earlier generation when women were made of sturdier stuff.  As in my initial reaction to Bob’s suggestion that this might be our next car.

“Is this for real?” I wondered when I first saw the contract for the bus tour. The contractor was Das Frachtgut which seemed like an odd name for a tour company but what really caught my eye was the vomit clause. We owed them $500 for the two hour bus tour but it would cost us an additional $300 if anyone threw up on the bus.

A week later, Bob and I were in San Francisco for the annual Sustainable Biodiesel Summit and were getting ready to board a Biodiesel powered bus labeled “Teacher With the Bus.” I couldn’t help wondering what kind of outfit this was and whether or not our group of biodiesel enthusiasts would come out clean.

The tour turned out to be one of a few highlights of our trip. First off, we soon realized that the seating arrangement was very conducive to friendly networking. As soon as we began moving everyone began talking.

German-born Jens-Peter Jungclaussen, the sandy-haired driver and owner was quite proud of the seating design. No matter where you sit, you have your choice of six people to yak with. And if none of those options suit you, you can just get up and move.

As Peter explained it: “Say you’re sitting up here beside the not so pretty girl and you really want to be sitting by the pretty girl further down the bus. How easy is it to get up and change your seating in any other bus? But the way we have our seats laid out, all you have to do is stand up, wander down the aisle and plop down beside whoever you want to talk with!”

Peter seemed very comfortable talking about his company, so I asked him about the name on the contract. It didn’t match the name on the bus, for one thing. Apparently, the bus used to have Das Frachtgut on it but that was too confusing to the American Public. So they searched for a name that would be easier to understand without flagging them a party bus.

Which brought us to the vomit clause. Peter was happy to fill me in. He said they didn’t start out with that clause on their contract but after three or four incidents, they decided to encourage people to treat the bus with more respect.

Peter pointed out that other party bus companies have the same clause in their contract. And then he confided in me that some of those companies encourage their clients to vomit by keeping the bus windows closed and turning up the heat.

At the end of the day, we all had a great time and didn’t have to pay an extra $300 clean up fee.

The post DON’T THROW UP ON THE BUS first appeared on Plastic Farm Animals.]]> https://troutsfarm.com/2009/02/03/dont-throw-up-on-the-bus/feed/ 0 113 https://troutsfarm.com/2007/11/19/biodiesel-shooters/ https://troutsfarm.com/2007/11/19/biodiesel-shooters/#respond Mon, 19 Nov 2007 19:58:58 +0000 http://troutsfarm.com/?p=1178 Here’s what kind of fun we were up to this weekend: watching Frankie Abralind making Biodiesel Shooters at the Atomic Ranch House in Olympia Washington. Who but a Mad Genius, indeed!

Bob and I were in San Antonio for the Sustainable Biodiesel Summit on Saturday and the National Biodiesel Conference Sunday, Monday and Tuesday and decided to take a break and have dinner with Charlie and his wife, Jane. We chose the Blue Star Brewery because it was within walking distance and they had a nice stout on the nitro tap.

We knew about the stout because Jane and I had stopped in earlier that day. We had walked up a thirst while our husbands were working the conference. What we didn’t know was that Tuesday night is ‘Big Band’ Jazz Night.

So there we were, Bob, Jane and I, drinking stout, knoshing on appetizers, waiting for Charlie to join us. Bob went up to ask the guys behind the bar a few questions about their brewing operation. He’s been thinking for some time now that running a brewery might be a whole lot more fun than running a biodiesel plant and perhaps a bit less risky.

After Bob returned to the table, Joey, an unassuming guy in a navy blue work shirt came over to the table and began talking to Bob about biodiesel. Joey had been to the Summit on Sunday and seen Bob’s presentation on fuel quality.

Joey never came right out and said it, but we finally figured out that he was the owner of the Blue Star Brewing Company, one of the sponsors of this year’s Summit who owned “Joey’s” another San Antonio pub. I couldn’t get over this and have vowed to follow his example by allowing others to find out, all on their own, just how great I am.

About this time, Jane noticed there was something going on in the back room. It looked like a parade of musicians were coming through the back door and setting up to play. Meanwhile, Charlie arrived and began to bring Bob up to speed regarding the past hour or so of conference.

Jane kept rubbernecking towards the back where the musicians had begun to play. Finally, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She picked up her beer and went in to hear them. I followed a few minutes later and couldn’t believe the sound! It was SO big it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I mean, WOW!

There was a sixteen piece orchestra with piano, bass, guitar, drums, four saxophones, four trumpets and four trombones. The acoustics in the room were perfect and the tunes were blowing us away! Yet another cool thing that unassuming guy in the blue work shirt was helping make happen.

After a bit, Bob and Charlie joined us and were instantly caught up in the adrenaline rush. We soon found we were listening to the ‘Crimson Jazz Orchestra’ and that they played on the first Tuesday of every month. In fact, the Blue Star Brewery featured ‘Big Band’ Jazz every Tuesday.

I kept looking over at Bob and his smile was even bigger than mine. Everyone in the room was tapping their feet, yelling after solos and clapping for all we were worth after each fantastic song. You can listen to some of their tunes by going to this page and clicking on the links. Keep in mind that the digital version is a small fraction of the live version.

Bob was especially taken by the contrast between the cohesiveness of the band members while they were playing and the way they drifted off in different directions between songs. It was a great example of how a group of people can create something wonderful as long as they agree to be on the “same page of music.”

Several times between songs, Bob nearly jumped out of his chair, exclaiming, “It’s anarchy – there are at least four different conversations going on! But watch what happens next!” And the transformation was amazing. Band leader and saxophonist George Briscoe would start snapping his fingers and everyone would pick up their instruments and come in on the same note.

Although we had originally no intention of staying out late, we were unable to even consider leaving until The Crimson Jazz Orchestra finished their last, rousing song at about 11:00. Bob made a point of going around to some of the musicians and telling them how great they were and how fortunate we felt at having been there tonight.

About 11 PM, the four of us walked home to the Bed and Breakfast in a state of euphoria. A light fog had come up, bringing out the smell of the green, growing things and a half moon lurked behind the haze. It was a magical way to end a long day and we are still wondering how we came to be so lucky.

According to Reuters:
1. 2006 is set to be the world’s sixth-warmest year since records began 150 years ago

2. The ten warmest years have all occurred in the last 12 years

3. Global warming is a contentious issue, but most scientists now agree that world average temperatures may rise by between two and six degrees Celsius this century due to emissions of so-called greenhouse gases like carbon dioxide, released by burning fossil fuels for power and transport.
Time to park the car and start walking! Or, at the very least, start burning Biodiesel or Ethanol instead of fossil fuel. And buy only locally grown food. And locally manufactured goods, which means stay away from those big box stores. More ideas on what you can do here.

We were attending a Biodiesel Conference aimed at home brewers, which drew about 130 people for a weekend of fascinating presentations. The organizers had reserved an auditorium and three classrooms to accommodate more than 30 talks on a wide range of Biodiesel related topics from grease trap oil collection to marketing.

The conference drew a nice combination of idealists (mostly the home brewers who simply wished to escape the grip of Big Oil) and Entrepreneurs, those visionaries who knew a good thing when they saw it and were interested in riding the Biodiesel wave to fruition.

A short program in the big auditorium Friday evening, set the tone of the conference with personal perspectives from the home brewer, the engineer, the educator, the community-based producer and the small scale producer (Bob.) In his talk that evening, Bob had invoked the visions of Ganhdi, Shumacher and Vandana Shiva to explain how he had come to be involved in the making fuel from used cooking oil.

Having removed his rubber slippers for comfort, Bob was obviously enjoying himself. He peppered his presentation with jokes, descriptive gestures and frequent dialog with his audience. Asking for a show of hands for those with lab experience or a chemistry background, he tapped into the audience’s expertise, pointing out the person with a PHD who “works in a REAL lab.”

Regarding calibration, Bob said the GC was “almost as much fun to maintain as boilers.” He was clearly tickled by how much he had learned since attaining the GC seven months ago. When ordering a replacement syringe over the phone, for instance, he learned the correct way to describe his problem when the buyer said, “Oh, you Zee-ed our your syringe!” “I’m a lab rat, now!” he told the room, with a joyful little hop.

He pointed out that the compressed gasses used in the GC cost between $50 and $70 per tank but that compared to the other costs involved “this is chump change.” At this point, the moderator motioned to him and he said, “I get to go until 11:30?” and turned to the audience with “If you need to doze off – please feel free!”

He showed a slide of lab equipment and supplies, which included a box of latex gloves. A moment later, he was quick to say, “These are my see-through gloves” when we came to a picture of him placing a vial into a glass box while not wearing gloves.

For safety reasons, he stressed that you should never put lab chemicals in the same refrigerator as your lunch. Then he told a story about something that shouldn’t be done involving “the guy who no longer works for RMBI for reasons like the one I’m about to tell you.”

It was obvious that Bob has thoroughly enjoyed learning the technology and playing with vials, pipettes and rubber bladders. To measure an exact amount of liquid, the procedure involved “taking that little Pasteur pipette with the fun rubber bulb” squeezing it and drawing the liquid into the pipette.

At the end of his ninety minutes, Bob had taken us on a fun romp through Lab Land, given us a much better understanding of a complicated process and left us chuckling over what could easily have been a very dry presentation.