Topeka Capital-Journal
September 1960
(While Dick’s Snider is in Europe, with a tour sponsored by the Capital Journal, friends and critics agreed to serve as guests in this space. Today’s writer is Paul Tompkins, with the Sergeant Insurance Company and a neighbor.)
By Paul Tompkins
At last, long-suffering neighbors have a chance to tell their side of the story. What’s it like living next to Snider? You asked for it, Richard, old boy. Here’s my rebuttal.
From the first day we moved into the new house and Snider waited until all the heavy stuff was off the truck before showing up, from the day he Tom Sawyerd us into helping build and paint the yard fence, from the time it was 110 in the shade and he left Max Kiene and me with 14 tons of wet cement to finish his patio, I knew this slick talking Okie would bear more than a little watching.
Snider is probably the cleverest guy in the area. This was proven to me the time he talked that shrubbery salesman into letting him have more non-blooming, high-priced bushes than anyone else on the block.
As he and I sat in the shade the other day watching my wife dig crabgrass out of our front lawn, he assured me the frost would take care of all weeds next fall and do it a lot easier. I think he is probably right because the July sun took the snow off his driveway, just like he said it would last March.
He’s an optimist, too, this Snider.
When he planned his trip to Europe, he asked me to mow his lawn, trim the shrubs., weed the flower beds, and look after the place in general. Now, he knows I won’t do that. And he went to look at my place and see that I don’t even do that at home.
Our neighborhood is different than most any other, I suppose. We don’t necessarily do our yard work when it needs it. We do it when the tools are available. When there is only one spading fork among all of us, you spade the flower bed when no one else wants to use it.
My neighbor, Max Kiene, is probably the luckiest fellow in our part of town. When the Snider family pet Manfred the Wonder Dog gets out the pen, he comes over to see my two dogs, and when my dogs get out, they go over to visit Manfred. Kiene lives right between us, so he gets the benefit of having dogs, but he doesn’t have to own one. There aren’t many people who would be willing to share their pets like Snider and me.
If you’ve ever read this column before, you know that Snider is a keen student of city politics. He has made some pretty broad statements about our city fathers. At one time you will recall, he referred to one of them as a “cheap politician.” Now this isn’t true. There’s nothing cheap about them. They’ve cost this town plenty of money.
I was sort of sort of sorry to see Snider move up from the sports desk. There doesn’t seem to be near as many free football tickets now as there was in the old job. I suppose managing editors don’t have as much influence as sportswriters
Sometimes, I don’t believe he appreciates the little things people do for him. Take last year, for example.
When Northwestern ran Oklahoma clear off the field and gave them the worst beating in years, we all sent him a sympathy card and put a black crepe ribbon on his door. To this day, he hasn’t sent any one of us a thank you note.
Along this line, Snider, I hope you’ll take good care of the suit and have it back to me by the middle of August. The wife and I plan to take a little trip to Kansas City and it is the only suit I have with two pair of pants.
We’ve watched with a great deal of interest the growth and development of the Snider family.
We all waited breathlessly for the arrival of the little Amy. We’ve watched both Stephen, Kurt climb on the school bus and go off to their first day of school. We all struggled through the housebreaking of Amy and Manfred.
With apologies to the jovial dentist of Medford Avenue, I pulled Steve’s first tooth, while his dad, the Joe Garagiola of Cornwall Street was off with Dev Nelson giving the color and background as K-State pushed its way forward from its own four-yard line, third down and 25 to go. (Note: Carnes and I have signed a nonaggression pact now. I promise not to pull any more teeth, and he won’t sell any insurance.)
Snider speaks two languages, English and profane. I sometimes wonder just how he manages to stay on the air after hearing his expressions when one of the boys breaks off one of his $18.95 night blooming cranberry bushes.
Uncle Sam could do a lot worse than the leave Snider over in Europe as a roving goodwill ambassador. With his ability to return your rake with the handle broken out, to explain that he can’t find the claw hammer he loaned him a couple of weeks ago and his knack for setting settling disputes among the four kids and there are only three popsicles to divide, I think he could convince Nikita that we’re on his side after all, and that nobody ain’t mad at nobody.
There it is, Dick, old boy. Now you have your choice, to stay in Paris, sipping a tall cool one at the sidewalk cafe and watch the mademoiselles go by or return to Cornwall Street, where ivy is growing every place except where it should, and face the wrath of an irate publisher for turning your column over to an amateur journalist who had an axe to grind.
PS: In case you do decide to stay, OUI means yes in French.
Dick Snider 