Monthly Archives: May 2013

Late Bloomer…

2013-05-24 07.25.54We were driving home tonight from Chatham Charter’s annual Athletic and Academics banquet when I was explaining to my daughter about how someday, she might be asked to lead others. If were to rely on our ancestral history as a guide, then it would be expected. I tried to convey to her that it may be years before she finally realizes her abilities to lead; I know I myself was a late bloomer in that regard.

That’s when it hit me; our similarities in life to the Kousa Dogwood, or more commonly known in our area, the Japanese Dogwood. The Kousa is a small deciduous flowering tree, a distant relative to our own Eastern Dogwood, which is indigenous to this area. However, unlike our local variety, the Kousa blooms nearly a month later; a late bloomer of sorts.

We always knew that when the Dogwood’s bloomed, it was about time for the fish to start biting. One of the first events in life that made me realize I had the potential to lead was fishing. You see, up to a certain point in my life, I always relied upon an adult to take me fishing. It was something that I never really gave much though too, but looking back, I understand my dependence upon others at that time and how fishing only exemplified that need. We never had a pond nearby that I could just grab a pole and go off too on my own. We usually had to travel to the nearest watering hole. Now, mind you, we grew up nearly on the banks of the Wabash River, but we were never allowed to venture near the river alone. There were too many tragedies to count from this sometimes treacherous confluence that flowed past our small town in southern Indiana.

It wasn’t until my last Boy Scout summer camp that I finally had the opportunity to go fishing without an adult. I don’t recall the other youth’s name who went with me, but since we weren’t allowed to go out in a boat alone at camp, I had another Boy Scout as a companion. I had recently learned how to row and was more or less practicing my new found skill, while taking the opportunity to wet a line. Once out on the open water, I remember feeling a sense of freedom and control I had never known before. The other boy and I made our way all around the lake that summer, becoming quite the fishing pair. I caught my first Crappy in that lake. Funny the things you remember.

From that summer on, I found I no longer needed an adult to take me fishing, but rather, I sometimes wound up taking others fishing with me instead. More often than naught, I went alone, learning my independence along the way. There were times that I would load a twelve foot long john boat into the trunk of my 74 Ford Torino, wedging the end in so that its weight kept it from bouncing out;  that must have been a sight going down the gravel road. I would take the boat to stripper pits where I would sometimes drag it several yards to launch it into some remote body of water that appeared as if they had been untouched by man or rod since their creation. These were all man made bodies of water left over from the coal strip mining in our area. They were never stocked but only had in them what the good Lord provided. It was on these crystal clear bodies of desolate water I found peace in solitude; being alone somehow made me feel closer to God.

As years went by, I eventually found the day I was able to take my own children fishing. There are few joys that compare to watching a child catch their first fish. My daughter seemed to be a natural. Her patience for sitting and waiting were well beyond her years, and her expected temperament. She now often goes fishing on her own on our farm in one of our three ponds. If she’s not fishing then she is out riding her dear pony Sugar. Her independence at such an early age is sometimes breathtaking.

As we drove home from the banquet, I realized my daughter might not show her leadership skills openly but she was already far ahead of where I was at her age; in this respect I can take comfort. My daughter is already a different type of leader than I had ever imagined. Where and how far she goes with it only Heaven knows.

We might be like the Kousa Dogwood when it comes to openly leading others, but hopefully when we finally do blossom; it is something that honors God. At least for us, it’s our ancestral obligation. For if we do nothing else, hopefully we can honor the Glory of God through all that he has given.

In this I pray, Amen.

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Book Signing Today, B&N in High Point NC. Saturday, May 25th, 1:00 – 3:00 PM

tronfamilybandCome join us today at the Barnes & Noble Booksellers in High Point North Carolina. We will have live music with Emily Schilling on Lap Dulcimer and the Tron Family Band performing along with signed copies of my book, “Bruecke to Heaven“.

Be one of the first seven customers and get a free loaf of “Faith Bread”, which has a special gift inside that keeps on giving.

Join us and become one with the journey; Let the Light Shine in the Darkness.

 

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The Pen is Mightier Than the….

I found myself today heading to the local discount store in Goldston  in order to purchase more of the flex grip gel pens. In the past, once I found a smooth writing pen, I would usually keep the pen and use it until the ink ran out, then discard it and search for another in the desk drawer. However, since I began journaling, I’ve found that the feel of a nice pen on the paper really makes a difference; thus my recent obsession with these gel pens.2013-05-16 22.46.35

It was while I was regarding one of these sweet writing pens in the presence of a math teacher this afternoon that I became aware of how writing utensils can be very persuasive and personable in their use. During my observation, Jenny the math teacher, reflected on how she never liked pens to be used by her students in their math work. I had to agree with her, since I took numerous math classes while attending college at the University of Florida. In fact, I mostly used mechanical pencils while at UF. We both agreed that the mechanical pencil was easily sharpened by just pushing the plunger at the end of the device which would feed more lead into the chamber which holds the material to be applied to the writing surface. She noted that she found herself using the number two pencils in school since they were donated, yet, she found herself constantly going to the sharpener during the course of the day. It seems there is a universal understanding that the feel of a dull number two pencil is akin to the sound of fingernails being scraped across the chalkboard: VERY IRRITATING!!!

Over the years I’ve used everything from art pencils to mechanical pencils in work that I’ve done. Like the pens and pencils that I use, I find various idiosyncrasies that match their use. Art and mechanical pencils are sometimes both for drawing, but both for very diverse reasons; one was for creative artwork, the other for drafting structural steel. The art pencils, unlike the yellow number two pencils are best used when they are not sharp. In fact, most shading techniques require the muted tip of a softened lead, which allows the artist to blend the graphite on the paper smoothly. I rarely used a pencil sharpener to sharpen the art pencils. It was best to regain a semblance of tip by using a knife and whittling it back in shape. Just the act of whittling a wooden pencil, throwing tiny shavings onto the floor, makes one feel as if something special is about to take place; let the drawing begin. Art pencils, like their craft, were meant to be very tactile in nature; unlike the mechanical pencil, which was cold and calculating.

The mechanical pencil not only created a sharp, crisp purposeful line, it was also something that made excellent text for drawing requiring verbal comments or definitions. The mechanical pencil’s use would often be the gateway tool for the ink pen. Since lead can only be a mere gray-tone of color, the black ink pen would become even more of a statement. So it was when I began writing that I sought out the dark line of the black ink pen. With this black ink, I can also include pen and ink drawings using the ever more cross-over tool known as the “Ultra-Point” pen, which takes us back to the artistic side of the equation.

I can remember an art class once that the teacher required us to use only drawing pencils. We could use nothing but the 2B, B, and HB rated pencils. During this class we were required to perform all types of shading and drawing with our reliable “B” pencils. One project I vividly recalled today when thinking back to this time was our job to draw a white and brown egg. Not only were we to draw a shape that looked like an egg, but we were also required to make it so that the viewer could easily discern which egg was brown and which egg was white. The shading had to be just so, so that each egg’s shape could be seen, yet gentle enough to make the brown and whiteness of the shell to be apparent. It was from this feel of shape and hue that I came to know the line that the point of the drawing device could make and what variations to expect based upon what utensil was being used. From this deep learning from feel and sight, I became prepared for what lie ahead based upon which device I held in my fingertips.

Many years later, I had a math professor in college from Romania who would swear to us that, “You learn through our fingertips, up our arm and into your brain,” and that in order to do so, we had to manually write down everything he wrote on the board, then quote it back to him exactly as he had written it on the board, verbatim. At the time, if felt like cruel and unusual punishment. However, as time would pass, I would find that memorization of what I would see was more often reinforced from when it would pass through my fingertips, from the tip of the pen or pencil and eventually into my head.

So today, as we discussed our favorite devices for whichever activity we were performing, it became obvious that the point at which the paper and our chosen utensil met, became the catalyst for what would transpire from thought into reality and back again to thought. And so it goes, in life; we choose our comfort points, our devices of fluidity that allow thought to become real and then and only then does the purpose of living become one with the world around us.

I think I’ll put that down in writing.

But a thought before you leave, “If the pen is mightier than the sword…what is the pencil?”

Blessings…

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Porch Swing…

porchswingAs of late, I’ve found one of my favorite places to spend a few minutes in quiet reflection is the porch swing. The wooden swing that hangs at the end of our porch, sits in a little alcove I built on that end of the house, which creates its own little special corner. There, underneath the overhanging branches of the cherry tree, I can sit and listen to the waterfall in the Koi pond as I look out upon rich green pastures.

Today was ever more the special intoxicating moment. The air was crisp and clean following the rain shower that had just passed moments before. The sunset was muted, but shown through the ever darkening foliage on the trees that caused the light to flicker through to where I sat, gently swinging. I closed my eyes and lay back on the swing, as the momentum from the earlier push kept me swaying, ever so gently. I felt as if I were back in New Harmony once more, sitting next to my Grandma Tron, there on their little front porch, as she gently swung us. At times, she pushed us so lightly, I could barely tell we were moving, yet with her quiet disposition and mannerisms, the action was one with her being. She would talk to us or sing hymns as we sat there, usually snapping beans or doing some type of chore. Late on summer evenings, after all the work was done, we would sit there on that porch sharing stories and listening to the sounds of the world around us.cattle in blooms

Today, as I swung, nearly as softly as did my grandma, I hear the birds sing their chorus of anthems to spring. The air is so fresh you can almost hear it whisper as the breeze caresses the low hanging leaves that now tickle the reflection of light in and out of the corner of the porch where I sit. Time slowly ebbs, the swing rocks to and fro and life goes on, one blissful second of eternity after another.

From here, nothing else matters as the last drop of rain falls from the cherry tree in random sprits upon the damp earth below.

All God has given, and to all we must cherish each moment as if it were never to be seen again, but all ours to own.

Thank you God for another beautiful moment in my swing, and enjoy your ride with grandma in yours up there.

 

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