Celebrating40Years in the Outdoor Classroom - The Chewonki ...

DIRTY
JOBS—CLEAN
A day in the life of the
Sustainability assistant
TOM TWIST
Working in Chewonki’s Biodiesel Shed is kind
of like being in a sauna, with the proviso
that the sauna was first used to render lard.
The building has its own particular smell,
and every touchable surface is covered with
a greasy sheen. I like to tell people it is by far the least aesthetically
pleasing part of Chewonki, and no one seems to disagree.
This is where we convert waste vegetable oil into biodiesel,
which fuels Chewonki’s fleet of diesel vehicles: tractors, vans,
commuter cars, and a heavy-duty pickup truck. Each summer
we produce about 1,000 gallons, which is enough to displace a
quarter of our year-round diesel fuel use. The polyethylenecovered
shed is effectively a greenhouse, and in the summer it
can produce temperatures up to 120 degrees F.—which is good
for making biodiesel but bad for one’s personal hydration level.
On this early September day, I have a Chewonki Semester
School student with me for work program. The students
routinely help with our sustainability projects, doing everything
from making biodiesel to installing solar hot-water
systems to building their own solar iPod chargers. The
students are always excited about these projects, and the one
helping me today—Tucker Deane-Krantz from Riverdale
Country School in New York City—is no exception.
Tucker and I get right to work in the Biodiesel Shed,
tearing out the old plumbing and replacing it with a new, and
we hope more efficient, system. It’s a hot, sunny day, and the
temperature as I step inside immediately makes me start
looking for a chair to sit down on. Right away it’s clear to me
that Tucker is so enthused about the work that he is taking no
notice of the sweltering heat. We get to work on the plumbing.
About 20 minutes into the task, sweat is running down my nose
22 / Chewonki Chronicle
ENERGY
and dripping onto my work, and my hands are becoming too
sweaty to properly push the plumbing connections together. I
glance over at Tucker—he is working away, blithely unaffected
by the staggering temperature. After about 30 minutes, little
rivulets of sweat are poring into my eyes, making it hard to see.
Tucker turns to me and good-naturedly says, “It’s starting to
get pretty warm in here.” I grimace and say “Mmm.” I’m afraid
that if I open my mouth, sweat will pour in. Squinting in the
direction of Tucker, who is now only a wavy blur, I say, “I think
the plumbing’s about done. Let’s see if it holds.”
Tucker moves over to the control panel, as I stay near the
newly plumbed vegetable oil tank. “OK, turn it on.” Tucker
switches on the pump.
Even through my squinting eyes and fogged-up safety
glasses, I can tell immediately that something is wrong. From a
loose connection, a flume of warm vegetable oil is spraying
horizontally across the room. I move toward the plumbing to
close the leak but succeed only in changing the direction of the
spray so that it’s instead hitting me in the face. “Nope! Turn it
ugghff,” I yell over to Tucker, my words garbled by the
vegetable oil spraying into my mouth. “Turn it off,” I say again,
this time more with resignation. Tucker switches off the pump,
and the grease fountain cascades slowly to the ground. I stand
there for a few seconds, my head, shoulders, and chest covered
with vegetable oil. I can definitely taste that this particular
batch of oil was used to fry fish. I reach for a nearby towel and
start to wipe my face off, wondering vaguely about what effect
this will have on my pores.
I look back at Tucker and start phrasing an apology for this
disastrous work program. “I’m sorry it didn’t work. We can try
fixing it again tomorrow….” His expression cuts me off.