.png)
“Art washes away from the soul, the dust of everyday life.” — Pablo Picasso
While hanging the painting of a sad, wet dog on the wall in my newly refurbished “music room/ library” last week, words from some 30 years ago came back to me.
“You collect some heavy stuff, man.”
They were uttered by Judy Snouffer in July 1993, the same day I accepted a generous offer from her and her husband, Chuck, to help unload truckloads of household belongings at my newly acquired Hill Country home near Pipe Creek.
As the newest editor and publisher at the Boerne Star, my charge included producing the Boerne newspaper and looking after other Granite Publications — later Granite Media Partners Inc. — properties in Bandera, Gonzales and Fort Stockton.
Judy (better known to friends and co-workers as “Jet”) was the composing supervisor and graphic artist at The Star. Chuck worked for the city of Boerne. What I didn’t know was Judy’s artistic skills reached far beyond that of just newspapers.
What Chuck and Judy didn’t know was that I collected unique but heavy stuff: books, artwork, phonograph records, jukeboxes, neon signs, gas pumps … and cars.
I knew Chuck and Judy owned a car. I don’t remember ever seeing it, but I did hear them talk about one. Their daily transportation was matching motorcycles. Not just any motorcycle, but Moto Guzzis, which are manufactured in Italy and also are the oldest European bike in continuous production.
Jet parked her motorcycle by the newspaper office’s back door every morning, far outclassing my Honda Shadow whenever I rode it.
She was different. A cool kind of different, like a refugee hippie from the 1960s. She was an artistic soul who worked and thought outside the dust of everyday life. She wore black fingernail polish before it was a thing. She personalized her work area with stars, moons and crystals. Those provided motivation for her creative vibe.
And creative she was. Jet surprised me one day with the painting I still have of a sad, forlorn-looking dog in the rain. The dog closely resembled Max, the adopted basset hound who made the move to the Hill Country with me.
He hung out at the office on Fridays, quickly becoming known to the staff as “Office Max.” Jet was moved by my story one day about Max getting wet in the backyard before I got the doghouse built. That’s when she gave me the gift of her painting titled, “Dog Day Blues.” It was noted on the back as “No. 507” and dated Jan. 22, 1994.
It blew me away. “This is beautiful,” I said. “I knew you were an artist, but I didn’t know you painted.”
Jet was humble, shyly showing me photos of her other work plus a feature story from the San Antonio Express News about her artistic awards. Jet wasn’t the only one who contributed to my lifetime of acquired pieces I’m still hoarding today in my music room/library.
“How would you like a Boerne fire hydrant for your quirky collection?” Chuck asked one evening.
“You’re speaking my language,” I said.
“The city’s replacing old ones. A pile at the yard is headed for scrapping,” he said. “Go with me after work tomorrow and we’ll get you one.”
I was thrilled until I grabbed one end of it.
“You didn’t tell me a fire hydrant weighed as much a Buick Roadmaster station wagon,” I said with a laugh.
“‘Bout like your Seeburg jukebox or that Mobil gas pump we unloaded,” he quipped.
I left the Hill Country in 1998. It was a few short years later when a message arrived from a mutual friend in Boerne. It was an obituary.
The obit read: “Judy ‘Jet’ Atkins Snouffer died tragically March 18, 2004. The way she would’ve wanted to go — on her motorcycle. She ‘died with her boots on.’” According to the notice, “Jet (was) survived by her loving husband, Chuck Snouffer of Boerne. Judy grew up between Texas and Germany. She worked at the Boerne Star. …. Judy was a very free spirit, living life to the fullest. Aside from being a very eclectic personality, Jet was a very creative and talented person; a ‘Jane of all trades.’ She was a recognized artist having won several awards.”
The obit concluded with, “Ride on Jet!”
I think of Chuck and Jet when I glance at the painting.
And I still hear, “You collect some heavy stuff, man.”
