The Lion's Last Roar

A Leo in all ways (photo by Leslie Jewell).

For the past year and a half or more, communications from Gene went from very occasional to silence.  Removal of a large kidney tumor preceded by months of illness with no real diagnosis had knocked him out of contention.  But for a big spirit like Gene's I thought he would surely come back, if not roaring, still as the master of his world.  The onset of Parkinson's Disease changed any hope of that in a permanent way.

Gene Richard Snow passed away in hospice care on May 11, 2020.  His ashes will rest out in the Virginia countryside beside his mother, which is beautifully appropriate as they were always quite a larger-than-life pair. The Snow family lived a few houses away when we were high school age.  I clearly remember his mother owning a white 1957 Cadillac hardtop.  Intelligent, confident and loud, she was more Elvis than Doris Day.  As an adult living in Richmond (Gene told me from his treasury of stories) he knew he was being followed.  Mom told him the reason for that: she was seeing George Wallace (he proposed but it was not reciprocated) so they were both on a Federal watch list.

Gene began classical piano lessons in childhood and was diligent in practice to develop his talent.  But he felt it was not an early enough start to lead to a professional career.  In his last year of Music and Composition at the University of Richmond, a professor confirmed that fear by stating he was not going to succeed in his goal.  Gene was devastated.

The arts still called as he found himself again as an actor.  I still -- and hope a few others do -- remember him owning the stage in Marat/Sade at the Virginia Museum Theater.

As roommates on Park Avenue by the VCU campus, we had an uproarious life.  Erik from our old suburban neighborhood joined us in the Great Late Ape Show as we hooted and caromed like chimps from the open third floor windows at the hapless rush-hour commuters below.  Some rude gestures from the audience showed their lack of appreciation for our presentation.  Ah, misspent youth.  We all three moved to a large first floor flat in an old Stafford Avenue house with porches front and back.  There is a picture, taken by frequent visitor and friend-of-all Leslie of Erik and I studying at the kitchen table on a hot evening -- we actually did that, but there was always time for something else less, say, productive.  Gene immersed himself in music still, listening to a huge classical LP collection.  I greatly appreciate his introducing me to one exciting new book after another, often on animal and human behavior.  Quite apropos, upon reflection.

Many years later Gene moved back to Richmond from Norfolk and fate pointed him unknowingly to Leslie's neighborhood.  A chance re-meeting led to marriage and they happily completed an arc begun long before in a different time.

One of that Stafford Avenue gang of four is now gone, taking his memories with him.  A piece of the foundation is missing and that is something you cannot ever replace.