my grandfather passed away today.

He was 93, so it wasn't a big shock. I'm still upset, obviously. I'm going to miss his service, so I wrote a eulogy to be read by my mother:



Peter V. Snyder: a Memorial

I’m sitting on the 7th deck of the MV Explorer, trying to figure out how to start this whole process.  This is the first eulogy I’ve ever written and I’m not quite sure how it should begin.  So I’ll start with the truth and keep it short.  I’m beyond lucky to have been able to truly get to know my grandfather as an adult; at 21, most of my peers’ grandparents have long passed on.  Not only was I able to watch “Sesame Street” with him as a child, but I’ve also been fortunate enough to really get to know him as a person, not just as “Papa.”

I wrote a long list of things I think of when I think of Papa – a little scrap of paper with fragments like “skiing when he was 70,” “crossword puzzles,” and of course, a Snyder favorite, “wine.”  I think of Papa eating lobster with the whole clan in Martha’s Vineyard, of his funny bucket hat that he wore when we went boating or to the beach, how he used to swim every single day, like he wasn’t a senior citizen.  I’m convinced he was in better shape than I’ve ever been, despite his penchant for vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce and cookies.  I think of his favorite phrase – “trust me, I’m a lawyer,” and the blank stare he’d give you before saying something sharp and hilarious; he had flawless delivery.  I think of his stories of his glory days at Yale and Harvard, and his service during the war, as well as his description of Mimi as the “most beautiful girl he’d ever seen” (and her inevitable response – “oh Pete just stop!”).  I think of how he’d joke with a waiter or waitress and receive a sincere smile from him or her, of his intense love for boating and being on the Atlantic Ocean.  Oh, and he loved to fish.

So today, upon hearing of Papa’s death, I decided to do the things that he loved to do.  I finished a Times crossword puzzle.  I swam in the pool on deck seven.  I looked out at the ocean and tried to spot pelicans diving for fish (but we’re in the middle of the Atlantic so that just wasn’t possible).  I had a big brownie and some ice cream for dessert – and I kept exclaiming how good it was.  And of course, I delivered a flawlessly sharp comment that my entire dinner table laughed at.  I’d like to think that I’ve learned a lot from Papa, and that I will continue to keep his memory alive.

I want to close this by sharing one of my favorite stories about Papa.  It was two years ago during the holiday season, when he and Mimi visited Milwaukee for Christmas.  After a long evening of cocktails, dinner, stories, and cocktails, my mom was getting ready to drive the two of them back to the nearby hotel where they were staying.  I hugged and kissed Papa good night, and told him I’d see him tomorrow.  He turned, looked at me with that blank stare (I swear you could see his mind at work sometimes), and he said, “Kristina, at my age…I don’t make any promises.”  His sense of humor was unparalleled – he could make even the darkest subject matter humorous and light-hearted.  Although he was an incredibly intelligent man, he was, at heart, a goofball.

So instead of mourning the loss of our beloved patriarch, let’s celebrate his life.  It was a long one, full of happiness, love, family, and fishing.  I know that if he were here today, he would make a joke to lighten the mood.  And the entire table would laugh.