My lovely wife, Kathy, and I went to the National Symphony on the Friday after Dad died. It was a memorable experience. During the concert and the conductor’s discussion that accompanied this wonderful evening of Brahms, I had an inspiration that I felt was worth sharing. It has to do with a series of motifs that when blended together really make up all our lives. We are a series of motifs acted out through different stages of our lives. Here are ones I picked for Dad. They blend together beautifully. - (Written by Harvey Snyder)

The Good Earth
Dad wanted to be known as a farm boy made good. “Tell them I was a farmer. Be sure to tell them that.” was one of his constant requests. I will leave the story of how he left the Illinois farm and went to Chicago to one of my brothers, but he did so only after unsuccessful attempts to get a teaching position in local schools (“You are just too young.” was their response.) In Chicago, he interviewed for a job with Western Electric dressed in an ill-fitting suit borrowed from a Phi Gam fraternity brother from Knox College in Galesburg. Western Electric hired him only with the understanding that with his first pay checks he would save for a new suit.

So we need to step back. When Dad was nearly 12 his mother died.

Because his father could not care for all the 5 children, they went to live with aunts and uncles. Dad, whose real last name was Deelsnijder, went to live on the farm with Uncle Bill, whom I remember quite well. Uncle Bill had already changed his name to the more common “Snyder.”

(William's room was a back bedroom on the 2nd floor, with no heat of course. Most 2nd floors at that time were not heated).         More Snyder Farm Photos

The farm never left Dad. As all in the family know, when Mom and Dad moved to 45 Rowan Road in Summit, he asked for and received permission to cultivate the property across the street from their small house. Dad hand-turned the soil in that field. It must have been close to 1/8th of an acre. It was war time, and he was going to make sure we had enough to eat. Mom was a great canner. The kitchen was always full of jars and good smells.

From 45 Rowan Road we moved to “36.” That, of course was 36 Beekman Terrace in Summit. That property was, and continued to be, Dad’s and Mom’s love and joy. The garden was at the bottom of the hill, along Springfield Avenue. Each spring, Dad would take the Husky garden tractor over to the Bennetts (next door) to get manure. The Bennetts kept horses. It was spread over the garden before tilling. What a relief it was to have a plow come to turn the soil.

I can recall one day when Dad lost control of the tractor…I don’t think it had any manure in it at the time…as he was going down the steep hill at the back of “36.” You see, if you pulled the levers, the tractor clutch disengaged. There were no brakes!!! Well, how he kept control of that tractor on the trip down the hill from top to bottom I just don’t know. I can still see him holding on for dear life.

Anyway, the garden, the flowering trees, the birds, the bees (yes we had two bee hives), the grass…anything that grew…was Dad’s domain. He always knew what to do with things of nature but never failed to seek advice from professionals when he needed it--whether that was the NJ State Beekeeper who appeared at the door one snowy evening or someone from the city to shoot squirrels that were getting into the house.

Dad planned our extensive garden, rotating crops annually. We almost always had at least 125 tomato plants, mostly Rutgers variety. There were, of course, corn, cabbage, lettuce, beets, radishes, beans, eggplant, pumpkins, and other vegetables. We also had productive trees--apple, peach, crab apple, and cherry for the birds. As young entrepreneurs, we boys were encouraged to sell surplus vegetables at our ‘stand’ on Springfield Avenue. It really wasn’t a stand, but an umbrella and a card table. I still have the scale that measured out tomatoes that cost $.10 a pound, as I recall. The price never changed.

We had great customers and often sold out. I recall one day going up the hill to find a cabbage for a customer. It was in the fridge, and I thought it was from the garden. Mom told me that night that she had brought it for our dinner.

There was a transition in store as Dad tried to figure out how to finance a college education for 4 boys. He came up with a horticulturist’s idea. In the late 1950’s a large part of the garden was turned into a nursery…Snyder Brothers Nursery. I still have the bankbook. Fortunately we didn’t have to rely on the nursery for college funds. As I recall, we planted about 500 trees and shrubs in one of the worst drought years in memory. Many died, but we did make enough over the years to just break even on the investment. I could go on and on about 36.

Heritage
A second motif would be heritage. I think it is pretty clear that throughout our formative years Dad tried to instill in us certain values: love of family, thrift, hard work, education, ethical business dealings. His roots were deep. Is there anyone here who didn’t know Dad was Dutch? He was very, very proud of his heritage. There is no question of that. When he and Mom came to Germany to visit me, we took a memorable trip to Holland where we drove to the small town of Baflo in Friesland, northern Holland, where his grandfather lived. It’s not too far from the Zuider Zee.

It was early summer. Picture, if you will, a small Dutch Reformed church yard with the tiered, red brick houses lining one side of the square. You are standing on the church steps. On the right hand side about 30 yards away are eight or ten of these small houses. Large elm trees grew in the plain, unfenced cemetery directly in front of you. Typically unostentatious, there are no standing gravestones, just stones on the ground.

It was dusk, and we were looking at names on the embedded stones, searching for something that said “Deelsnijder.” You can just imagine what we must have looked like—heads down, bending over the ground. The warm glow of lights shown from the windows of the homes, and an occasional head popped out of a door or window. They certainly must have been wondering who these curious people were in their town, a place not at all known as a tourist attraction.

After about ten minutes, as the light faded a bit more, little boys and girls—probably no more than ten years old—came out of the houses and walked ever so slowly nearer to us on the church steps. After a bit of chattering among themselves, one of the young boys asked Dad what we were doing. Dad’s response was a shock, for in his best Dutch that he probably had not spoken in 25 or 30 years, he responded that his grandfather had grown up in Baflo, and we were looking for his gravestone. The response in Dutch delighted the children, some of whom went scampering off to tell their parents, who, undoubtedly, had sent them to find out who we were. He valued his heritage greatly.

Community
Dad tried in his own way to repay the Summit community. Dad and Mom lived in Summit for about 40 years. Much of his volunteer energy was spent with the Central Church, YMCA, Boy Scouts, PTA, school district committees, and the Summit Historical Society. He served on the board of trustees of the United Campaign when it was just a small enterprise. And when Dad believed in a cause, he stood firmly. In the early 1950’s he took a stand with Al Devanney, the executive director of the YMCA, that led to the combining of the predominantly African-American Lincoln “Y” located over toward Railroad Avenue with the Central Y, less than a block away. We did not need segregated Ys in Summit.

When the Lackawanna Railroad was seeking to increase service, and the unions were against it because they feared loss of union membership, Dad took a stand that led to a threat on his life. I watched as his face paled when he took a threatening phone call after a letter of his was published in the Newark News in support of the railroad. He never did like unions. (I don’t think brother Don dared to mention to him that he is a union member.)

Dad also supported local businesses as an investor and a consultant. Among the friends he developed through these connections were Webster Van Winkle, (Van Winkle Corporation), Ken Merkle (the Nameplate Company), and others.

Church
His church was so important to him. I’ll tell you a related story that has to do with music here in the church and at home. Dad and I and I think a couple of other brothers were standing to sing a hymn…right over there under that window that I will mention in a moment. Dad’s mother sang and played the organ, but Dad could not sing a note. He reminded me recently that one time when I was small, he was really squawking away…way off key. I turned to him and simply said, “Dad, don’t try so hard.”

While he didn’t play the organ, he did play the piano…well at least one song that would waken any Saturday morning loafers. That song was particularly for Mom. It was “You Are My Sunshine.”

Thank you to Dave Woodbury for being a friend and being there when we could not be, and thanks to the Braunworths and Pete Wood. He had so many friends here who never forgot Mom and Dad and ministered to them throughout their lives, especially while they were at Fellowship Village. The Church was almost like a second calling for him as he changed responsibilities from deacon to elder. He used to say that the only thing he couldn’t do is to marry us. His service to the church extended for all the years that I can recall. I think he felt his crowning achievement was the stained glass window here. There is, of course, more to this story. He felt that God had told him to tell the Old Testament stories in three windows. He conceived of and oversaw the installation of the first window when he was 95. He completed the design for the second window and initial sketches for the third. The second window was to depict the story of Noah’s Arc. Noah, it seems, went aground for a while in committee because of a flaw in construction. But this was set aright. We, his four sons and their spouses, have committed ourselves to doing everything we can to complete this window. The third window he had in mind was for the 23rd Psalm, his favorite. He has initial sketches for this but nothing more.

Values: Thrift, Industry, Honesty, and Loyalty
I already told you he graduated from Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois. How Dad ever chose Chemistry as a major is a mystery. What I didn’t tell you was that he was a night clerk in a hotel in Galesburg. He told us that he lost that job when he wouldn’t let individuals of, as he called them, ‘less than desirable character’ rent a room for the night.

We all have silly stories we could tell about our upbringing. It’s interesting how the stories, just like a symphony are intertwined to create a story of life. Here’s a story about mice. Mice often are part of the lore of our home at “36 Beekman” and the “39 Sussex.” At 36, we were paid $.10 for each mouse we caught. This was, believe it or not, connected to the legacy of dimes given out by John D. Rockefeller, whom he admired greatly. At 36 in the winter, it was almost certain that we could make $.20 or $.30 over a weekend. (At 39 Sussex, we had mice in the garage. We had set a couple of traps, but one of the mice that we didn’t catch jumped in to Mom’s newly prepared (but uncovered) vegetable soup that was sitting in the garage to cool. The mouse looked very satisfied but when we found it, it looked like it had been there for a day or two, so we didn’t bother to resuscitate. You know, DNR. No, we didn’t serve the soup.) Speaking of dimes, we also got $.10 or $.15 for polishing shoes. While we all had a so-called “allowance,” I can’t even remember collecting it once. I think it was something like $.25 per week. Maybe someone can confirm that.

I would be remiss not to continue a bit with at least one story about the Rockefellers. Dad was hired as a bookkeeper and became Comptroller at Rockefeller Center, Inc. He has many wonderful stories, and he had a wonderful 38 year working relationship with the Rockefeller family. That continued as a friendly relationship with David Rockefeller to the day Dad died. The relationship continues, of course, through Bob.

One evening two years ago, when I noticed at The George Washington University, where I’ve worked for 34 years, that Dr. David Rockefeller was to comment on his most recent book, I asked if I could sit in on the interview and discussion. There was quite a nice size audience. At the end of the program we were given an opportunity to visit briefly with Dr. Rockefeller and to purchase his book. When it was my turn, I asked Dr. Rockefeller if he would please sign a copy for Dad. He looked up at me and said right away, “Oh, you must be Bill’s son. I’ll be happy to.” One of his staff had already alerted him. You can’t even begin to imagine the respect that Dad had for the Rockefeller family.

The move to Fellowship Village, where Mom and Dad were to spend their last years, was a natural. It was perfect…except for the fact that it was 4 hours from Virginia for us. It was right next to the English Farm, where we used to come to get eggs and broilers for our 4th of July barbeque over maple coals. It was within easy driving distance of Summit and Murray Hill. And surprise after surprise greeted Mom and Dad at Fellowship Village as some of their Summit friends found a place at the Village for themselves as well.

So, if I were to put into just a few words what Dad’s life means, those words might be industry, integrity, ideals, and inspiration. He loved his God. He loved his family. Surely he lived an imperfect life, as we all do. Long ago, he sought forgiveness for his shortcomings and was certain of that forgiveness through Jesus Christ. As Morris Massey, a contemporary industrial psychologist says, “We are what we were when….” His reality was a farm boy who had a wonderful, 73 year marriage, had a great career, and a loving family. His reality was a life lived in a context of the depression, near poverty, and then fulfillment because of his choices in life, the love of his wife, his children, his family, and his friends.

So Brahms has nothing on Dad or any of us for that matter. It’s just that Brahms expressed his life in his music. Dad expressed his life in his living, just as we all do, if we are alert enough to capture it that way in our minds. Dad’s was rich heritage, and one that I hope we can pass on to our own children.

It was raining fiercely as we took Dad to celebrate his 99th birthday at a restaurant in Basking Ridge. As I reflect on it now, metaphorically, it seemed as if Hemingway had written the script. At the conclusion of dinner, Dad shook his head slowly and said in a soft voice expressing amazement—“99, 99.” A life well lived.

Snyder / Deelsnyder Family History
Obituary - William Theodore Snyder