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Sales Success Magazine | Sales Training | Success StoriesHow I Went From a Shoe Shine Boy to a Millionaire and Found Passion for LifeA Series Written to Inspire Those Who Want Passion for Life Chapter 3: Frozen Artist Click here for "Millionaire" directory. Timothy L. Drobnick Sr. SALES SUCCESS MAGAZINE ©2001,2002,2003 Published 7/20/2003 
She-ri-dan, Wyo-ming sits in a val-ley at the foot of the Big Horn and Rocky Mountains. Our summers are short and the winters fierce. Survival of extreme elements is taught to the young because it is a necessity.
I remember several periods during the winter when the temperature dropped to 30 degrees below zero, (without the wind chill factor), and stayed there for two weeks. One of these winters I was delivering newspapers in this temperature and two foot deep snow on my bicycle. Riding down Main Street, I looked at the Bank of Commerce temperature sign, and it read minus 50 degrees. I had to stop back at home several times to warm up over our gravity fed heat vents. To survive these temperatures, I wore snowmobile boots, which have a rubber exterior, nylon top, and a 1/2 inch thick 100% wool liner inside. Wool will keep your feet warm, even if your feet become wet. Inside the boot I wore wool socks pulled over two pair of cotton socks. Thermal long johns covered the rest of my body and limbs up to my neck. I wore two pair of pants, two shirts, and a down filled coat. These temperatures are too cold for gloves, so I wore down filled mittens with leather palms and a pull tight nylon wrapping at the wrist. My head was covered with a pull over ski mask, and a insulated hat over this. A woolen scarf surrounded my neck. The air was so cold you had to breath it through your scarf or you risked frozen lung. In these conditions, all residents of Sheridan continued with business as usual. Few people understand what it is to live in these conditions. I remember dad coming home from work in his 4 wheel drive. To insure that it would start in the morning, he squeaked opened the hood, unbolted the battery, and brought it in the house. A fully charged battery will freeze overnight in this weather. When frozen, it will not start your car. Dad then pulled an extension cord from inside the house through the crisp deep snow. The snow was so crisp it crunched with each step. The extension cord was for the core heater on his 4 wheel drive. A core heater is a heater installed on the radiator hose to warm the engine. This enabled the engine to turn over in the morning. Without a core heater, the oil in the engine thickened to the consistency of molasses. This prohibited the pistons from moving, and the vehicle from starting. The only other choice you had was to use synthetic oil, which was $5.00 per quart back in 1970. It was worth it, however. Temperatures like this are so severe, that even with gas anti-freeze in your gas tank, your car gas line will freeze while you are driving, stopping your engine cold. Because of this possibility, Sterno, (a clean burning substance used a lot for heating food on buffets), was standard in your vehicle along with dry socks, warm blankets, matches, food and water. If need be, you would light the Sterno, open the windows an inch for ventilation, cover in the blankets, and wait until someone found you. You never started walking for help unless you were a few city blocks or less from shelter. It seemed every winter, someone tried it, and always died. As I delivered newspapers, listening to my bicycle tires crunching through the snow, hearing every breath in and out, the fog from my breath steaming my glasses freezing immediately, I thought about many different things. I wondered if this was all life was to be. I knew that I did not want to have a job that was day in and day out for the rest of my life. I was not lazy or irresponsible. My paper route was always finished, even in these extreme conditions. As a matter of fact, I loved to work. But I knew that death would be better than a lifetime enslaved to unproductive and unrewarding work. I decided that when I grew up, I would not be part of the masses, to be owned by an employer that would tell me how to live my life. I decided that no matter what, I would not accept the fate that befell my Father. Dad was, and is, a wonderful man. He has maintained the same job for 34 years. He is honest, hardworking, and everyone's friend. But he does not receive hope from his work. I believe that if you do not have a work that is your love, you should immediately start taking steps to find that work. Because once you have that, you will never work again. Never work again? Let me explain. You will be laboring, but it is a labor of love. When you jump out of bed on Monday morning, anxious to get to work, you are not really working. Most people work to make a living, but some people live to make their work. When your work is your passion, you labor long, and you labor hard, for energy comes from outside forces to push you on. Your labor of love is fruitful, and is beneficial to many besides yourself, and has rewards beyond the money you earn from it. It adds life to your soul, and spark to your spirit. Your mind is stimulated, and an inner joy burns slowly in your heart. I had decided this at the age of 5. I would watch my Dad walk from the house everyday to work, and come home everyday. It seemed that this was his prison, his life's sentence. What could life possibly offer in punishment to those who would buck the system, that could possibly be worse than this? What would a person have to lose by trying? It seemed, that not to try guaranteed the worst fate. By the time this cold winter day I speak of had rolled around, I was 10 years old. Every activity was scrutinized to see if it would bring me away from the punishment of life imprisonment of futile work, or toward it. I had decided that delivering a newspaper over and over to the same houses everyday, was most certainly possible of training me to accept the wrong path. I chose, however, to make it a step toward freedom I demanded. I would challenge myself each day to make the route a few minutes shorter than the day before. I would make it a point to greet as many customers as possible with a warm hello! I believed that if I could brighten the day of another person, I was helping to make the world a better place. I would work on throwing the newspaper so that it would hit the door and roll open, showing the headline. Sometimes I would even stop and help an elderly person with a chore, of course this would blow my time for short route, but I always felt good about it. I held this job for a year, and believed that I had learned all there was to learn from this route, and passed it on to the next person waiting for it. On this cold winter day as most days, as the skies darkened, and the frozen quiet overwhelmed me, I thought of my future. What would I do when I was grown? What do I want to do? If I were to pick my dream job at this point, it would have been the occupation of artist, selling paintings of untethered creation. I believed that this was a possibility, and never considered or understood the harsh realities of selling art. With this as my goal, I started working on it right away. My little brother Sam, was quite the sports enthusiast. I drew a picture of one of his favorite football players one day. He carried it to school and bounced home requesting pictures for his friends. Apparently the picture was a hit, many of the other boys in Sam's class wanted one also. I agreed to draw them for $1.00 each and Sam took orders the next day at school. This was a fine start. I believe we sold about 15 of them. After this however, the market dried up. I pursued this dream for many years. One of the most memorable times in my pursuit of artistic freedom, was a tour of the junior high school. Every year the 6th graders are given a tour of the 7th and 8th grade school. The most impressive part of this tour was the art room. These students were serious about their art, and the teacher was also serious, and a little scary. Nancy Buening, was a woman of incredible talent. I never understood why she was teaching in a junior high school. One of her many paintings she sold was of a black Christ on a cross. Amazingly enough, the Utah State Museum purchased it from her for $15,000! Nancy was a stern, stalky woman with short dark hair. She wore slacks and a loose fitting shirt at all times. The hem of her slacks were always a few inches from the ground, and she spoke in a tone that made you set straight up on your stool.. Miss Buening was devoted to her art, and I suppose this may have been why she never had time for marriage. She still teaches today at the Junior High School in Sheridan, Wyoming. I know she must have enough money to retire, but her love of art keeps her teaching and sharing her life's passion. Miss Buening and I became very good friends, and when I visit Sheridan, I still stop in to see her. The room Miss Buening taught in was over crowded with drawing desks. The walls were lined with pigeon holes. Splatterings and smears of acrylic and oil paint graced the walls and furniture. Each corner was filled with a mismatch of supplies and art material. A wonderful scent of acrylic, oil, and tempera paint, wet paper, markers, and clay engulfed the room. Each desk had projects in various stages of completion waiting for its artist to return. Miss Buening was an idol for me. She totally plunged herself into her love of art. When she taught, you had to take her serious, because art to her was serious. My heart and soul stayed there in the art room with Miss Buening, no matter the class I happened to be attending. I was able to see here, that you could make a living following your passion. Miss Buening entered all of her art class students in a national poster drawing effort sponsored by the Jaycees. The theme was the environment and pollution. The Jaycees were to give away a trip for two to Disneyland, to the artist of the poster they thought demonstrated the best communication of conservation, and showed good art technique. My poster showed two boxers in a ring, one dressed in black, the other in leaves. Of course one stood for nature, and the other for pollution. At the bottom were the words, "Who will win?" This was a simple thing really, but it stayed with me. I did not win the trip, but I did receive a ribbon. Miss Buening seemed upset about it however, because in the end they ended up tossing a coin between first place and second place. She told me I had received second place. I asked her if she was upset I received second place. Miss Buening, sighed, looked at me, and slowly explained, "It does not matter if people like your art. All that matters is that your art expresses yourself, and that you put your passion into it". After an extended pause she continued, "I believed that your art deserved enough consideration to have the choice of a person not a coin". This simple statement showed me that art was an important part of life. Another important thing I learned from Miss Buening she explained like this, "You will learn, that if you follow your heart, many things will not be understood by anyone but yourself. And many pieces you create will be hated. But only through following and expressing your passion, and allowing the world to hate or love your work, will any of your work ever be appreciated." At this point in my life, several important things had happened. I had reached a decision to make a living following my passion, I had met two artists who were doing just that, I witnessed the prison of soulless work my Father was trapped in, and one of my art pieces attempting to raise the awareness of the need to preserve our Earth, had received national recognition. These events were important in shaping my life. I began to feel a calling inside of me to serve the better good of humanity in addition to my desire to make a living following my passion. I also wanted to escape the poverty that possessed my family. Many times, it seemed that these were conflicting desires, and my future would seem confusing. Click here to go to chapter 4. This article is copyrighted by Timothy L. Drobnick Sr. and no one has permission to copy or reproduce any part without written notarized permission from Timothy L. Drobnick Sr. ©2001,2002,2003 |
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