This morning I received word that Bob Snively has gone gone terminal. The kidney cancer that he’s been battling for several years has spread suddenly and that he has a very short time to live.
A few words about him, that maybe he’ll read or hear about before the universe shuts down his computer for the last time. Geneologists would say that Bob was the husband of my Nana’s first cousin, in practice he was more like an uncle, but really while I was away at school in Northern California, he was my father-in-abstention.
He and his wife Sandy and their children Jill and Stormy have become some of the biggest members of my support network, shaping me into the person that I am today.
Bob is one of the most bright and analytic people that I have ever met. When I was younger he always took my inquisical nature and quirky sense of humor and encouraged it. Always an open ear on a trailhead or driving me back from San Francisco to take me to their farmlet in Morgan Hill. He listened and gave exceedingly practical advice about women, driving, and life.
His relaxed and nerdy masculinity was always something that I idolized him for — it was good to be smart and geeky in Bob’s world. He was the first person I knew to have a gigabyte harddrive. I remember seeing it and telling my friends back home and not having them believe me. It was like I was telling stories about dragons or having an orgy, or having an orgy with dragons. It was such a large capacity that it couldn’t be believed.
Bob and Sandy have always been supportive of me. They came to parent’s day in college and we took the tour of the University farm. Bob was the only one that asked questions. Though he was a brilliant engineer, he seemed happiest in the rural setting. And that day loved digging into the minutiae of how the animals were raised and the crops rotated. I was more fascinated in the student tour guides meticulously pressed Wranger jeans and the ominously swinging chain and hook outside the meat “laboratory”.
They also came up and did a major bike ride when I was into such things. They rode a 100 miles (or maybe it was 60) in the Chico Wildflower century. It was more about spending time with me than the event.
They also were part of the investors who made AskANinja.com possible. We had a risky business plan, a lot of hope and an idea that wasn’t even Ask A Ninja yet, but they just gave me a hug and a check.
Bob had a very accomplished career, chairing several standards committees over the years and working at IBM, SUN, and Brocade. But professional Bob wasn’t someone I knew, because once it was the weekend and time for family he was an enthusiastic hiker/biker/fruit farmer. We went canoeing, biking, or sea kayaking. Never played football or baseball, and you didn’t watch TV when you were there (except they were years ahead on the Iron Chef craze, but they watched it on the local Japanese broadcast station). In college I remember that I had to explain who Martha Stewart was to them.
To know the Snivelys, is to receive fruits and nuts from their numerous trees, or to drink the wine that their vines produced on their small plot of land.
To live near the Snivelys (or with them as their children and endless supply of exchange students can attest) is to become an unpaid farm hand. There is always some sort of picking or pruning happening around there, and I quickly learned that there’s no escaping merely because you’re a guest (they’ve got several extra pairs of mudboots for new helpers).
One bright and sunny morning it was decided that it was wood splitting day. The whole gang of us fed the freshly rented log splitter ginormous logs and stumps into the splitter to make fire wood. Me and John (their future son inlaw) decided we’d do it the old fashioned way with an axe. After about three whacks we’d gotten the axe stuck, as well as a wedge or three, and Bob had to help us out.
There’s also the famous story of the Eastern Block exchange student, placed at the Snivelys with limited english and not totally settled in on his first night being awoken by the family to help cover the fruit trees to protect them from the frost. He thought he was in some some of forced labor camp and spoke of his misgivings to his mother the next day.
Right now I’m told Bob is at home, surrounded by his children, grandchildren, brothers and wife. They are trying to put on the bravest face for the young ones, so that they’ll not be forever traumatized by this sudden decline. Sandy said he’s been giving out his todo list of chores — the light flickers when you use the hair dryer and how to fix it, and the types on canoes and kayaks his brothers should buy. He’s taking this in stride (much more so than me right now) and making his peace.
That house has always been filled with love, family, stories, and food, and I’m sure it’s where he wants to spend his last moments.
I want to wrap this up with some sort of bland “we’re going to miss you statement” but I can’t muster anything right now, because I’m crying a lot and I’m a bit pissed off at the universe right now. Angry that the pat cliches creep up on me: it’s not fair, it’s the cycle, we all die, life will go on, etc.
Bob,
Thank you for leading your life as an example. For being a great father, grandfather, husband, and geek. Thank you for giving me something to aspire to in life and in death. I love you. You’re being taken too soon. I miss you already.
UPDATE:
Bob Snively passed away 1/17/09 surrounded by his wife, children, and grandchildren. His last words were, “Thank you.”
