to write short stories, my brother Mark took me in so that I could try my hand at writing a novel. His only requirement was that I “work all day, every day.” And I did that. I suppose I should also be grateful to the mice in our attic that have done a great service to literature by using those early manuscripts as nesting materials.
My parents, Ann and Don, belong high on the list. I should thank Mom for offering me her typewriter as a toy for me to play with in elementary school. And for her deep love of reading and rigorous intellect. And I should thank Dad for consistently giving me the courage to try things, even when they fail. He always used to say, “You’re young. If it doesn’t work out you can always do something different.” He doesn’t say that so much anymore, but that’s OK. One of these days one of my ideas is going to hit it big, Dad. Honest.
And of course I need to thank the people of Piedmont Biofuels, and everyone else associated with our project. I don’t dare name them all for fear of leaving an important person out, but these stories would not be possible without the hard work and dedication of everyone — from interns gone by to former employees and tenants, to those who have stood beside me in a grueling quest to find a “different way of being.”
I do need to specifically thank those who have shared desks next to mine in our Control Room. That would include Piedmont cofounders Rachel Burton and Leif Forer; the creator of our designbuild business David Thornton; and the creator of our Research and Analytics arm, Greg Austic. And I would be remiss if I forgot to include the sheer delight I derive from my working relationship with Chris Jude and Nick Fox, both of whom perpetually annoy me by wasting my precious time with the “facts.” I’ve also greatly enjoyed the company, ideas, and performance of both Spencer and Amanda, who try to keep their desks far from mine in order to get their work done.
I must also thank John Breckenridge for his sage wisdom and advice, and Fran Hamilton for the same thing, plus her skilled massages. And I would like to thank Betsy Breckenridge for allowing me to use her splendid house on Topsail Island where I could work to the rhythm of waves, rather than the sound of children screaming over their Wii conquests.
I also need to thank my readers, who have criticized, fed back, complimented, and cheered over the years. I think of John Ousterhout, who occasionally vents, often comments thoughtfully, and sometimes merely corrects my thinking. And I think of those readers of Energy Blog that have posted, and railed and sometimes cheered for the ideas I have published there. To that end I need to pay special thanks to Ingrid Witvoet for not only leaving her island of Gabriola and making the trek to Pittsboro, but also for pulverizing ideas with me and encouraging me to write even when the struggle was evident.
I’m grateful to Bob and Camille Armantrout and everyone who attends Thursday Night Potluck at our bend in the Moncure Road. Bob and Camille arrived in our community thinking it would be a good place to weather the impending collapse of society, and they have become esteemed elders and dear friends along the way.
Of course I need to thank those dedicated and downtrodden workers in the “policy layer” — from grant-makers to scientific advisors to law-makers — who have taken the time to wrap their heads around our project and support us in various and sundry ways. Special thanks go to Larry Shirley, who is now North Carolina’s “Green Jobs Czar,” for inspiring us to keep the faith, and to Steven Burke at the North Carolina Biofuels Center for his patience, understanding, and commitment to the biofuels endeavor.
Finally, I thank our customers, which include everyone from Coop members who drive around on our artisanal fuel, to eaters who consume our sustainably produced food, to those who buy our co-products, to oil companies who buy our biodiesel. I am especially grateful to Brian Potter of Potter Oil for sustaining a vision of biodiesel in North Carolina and for including us in his journey.
“INDUSTRY” IS A FUNNY WORD. Sometimes it is a compliment. Think of the honeybee, which we generally hold in high esteem for its “industrious” nature. And sometimes it is an insult. After all, it is “industry” that pollutes the river.
I am an accidental “captain of industry,” which I suppose makes me a cross between the virtuous honeybee and the evil polluter. I circle the word “industrial” like a hyena approaching a carcass — not sure if the lions are done feeding.
I once went to a weekend retreat that was staged by the good people of a popular environmental magazine. Everyone said they offered the best environmental writing in the country. I’d never heard of them. And I don’t really care for retreats. But they had recently featured my friend Matt Rudolf in their magazine, and he was driving to the coast, and Bob and Camille were riding along so I reluctantly jumped in.
It was a beautiful fall weekend in North Carolina. The soybeans were still drying in the fields and the tundra swans were starting to arrive from Canada. I had just come from a meeting with Wes Jackson and Wendell Berry who had convened a group to discuss the formation of a “Fifty Year Farm Bill” for then-presidential candidate Obama.
The weekend guests were primarily self-absorbed “activists” and writers who could barely wait to read their latest poem or tome. They were swapping tales of how they strapped themselves to concrete barricades in order to stop heavy equipment from rolling. I sat quietly. I routinely order the services of bulldozers. I listened to their heroic stories of how they used activism to effect societal change. And I decided that I am not an activist. I use heavy equipment to clear weed species and trash from the woods so that another acre of sustainable produce can be put into cultivation, or so that a barn can be built.
Whenever I clear land in North Carolina I get criticized for destroying the forest. After the objectors have wandered off, I set about picking up the shards of plastic and glass and the vast amounts of metal that clutter our forests. I have never found the woods to be virgin. They have always been trashed by previous generations. At my house in Chatham County I can tell you about the previous owner’s heart medication, and drinking habits, shoe size, and favorite snack foods. After eighteen years of concerted effort, I still have garbage piles I haven’t yet approached.
Kimberli Matin’s brushed aluminum “Pond Scene” adorns the hill above the plant.
On my retreat weekend I strolled along a marshy boardwalk with one of the author hosts. In her poems she wrote about the winds on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where she lived. I asked her opinion of harnessing those winds for electricity production and I explained that I was in the wind business in Canada with my brothers.
She said, “Not industrial scale wind I hope.”
Drat. I was at odds again. It is “industrial” scale wind. My brother Glen has built 13 turbines in two discrete parts of Ontario, and each one is 1.6 megawatts or better. They have 40-meter blades, require a big gust to get them started, and they are beautiful when they are spinning. Hold the protest for a moment: we need to harness wind energy if we are to sustain human life on this remarkable planet.
In North Carolina, wind is something we write poems about. Not something we use to power our economy. And guys like me, who invest in “big wind,” are suspect at writers’ retreats.
It made me reflect on vocabulary. “Industrial” is synonymous with pollution, environmental racism, corporatism, war, and all that is wrong with the world.
That’s too bad for me. I’m not an activist. I’m an industrialist.
I work at Piedmont Biofuels. That’s a grassroots sustainability project that started in my backyard, became a cooperative fuel-making venture, and ended up as a community scale biodiesel plant. Our project sprawls across an abandoned industrial park that is currently home to over a dozen discrete, like-minded businesses ranging from hydroponics lettuce, to biopesticides, to sustainable produce, to worm castings.