Life with father—an adventure to the end

When urged to use this space to describe what it was like growing up within the household of Maryland Horse editor Snowden Carter, I deferred to my brother George, who vividly captured the experience in this eulogy delivered at our father’s memorial service, held February 14 at St. Stephen’s Traditional Episcopal Church in Timonium, Md.—Lucy Acton
We were planning to celebrate my father’s birthday later this month. He would have turned 84 on March 5. It was to be a quiet, family occasion with little fanfare. He appreciated our effort, but said: “Well, you can plan it, but I don’t know if I’ll make it that far.”

He didn’t, of course, and that’s why all his friends are gathered here for a much bigger occasion, a remembrance of Snowden Carter’s life. He’d be thrilled to see everyone today. This is his kind of gathering—horsepeople, friends of many decades, and his family.

Where to begin? At his computer, in his study, in his comfy chair surrounded by portraits of horses. He made out a deposit slip on the desk, and in his bedroom his watch and wallet are on his dresser. He’d left his sturdy leather shoes, with socks in them, lined up next to his bed. He hadn’t been feeling too well lately, diagnosed last April with serious illness. The last few months it had been slowing him down. But it hadn’t defeated him. It was apparent that he was anticipating another day. It was as if he stepped out, and it seems somehow that he could just step back in, returning from an errand.

The way he lived his life, that seems almost possible. Every day was an adventure, something new. And as he often told his family, he “had had a great run.”
He gave his children very little outright advice, and wasn’t one to lecture. He did give me one piece of wisdom long ago: “Find out what you really like to do in life, then figure out how to make a living doing it.” It seemed so obvious. But so many people don’t like what they do, and look back on their life with regret rather than satisfaction.

He found his path long ago—and encountered such great adventures along the way. From his cub reporter days at The Sun, where a boss dubbed him “Nick” Carter, came some rather pithy stories. His favorite: The one about how he was arrested twice—by the same police sergeant, who had developed a grudge against the impertinent young reporter who pushed the envelope perhaps a little too far for the 1940s.

He was a bold journalist, but never a rude one. He did not pull his punches. Let me have him speak to this. From a 1971 Maryland Horse article on Willis Lynch, a teacher at McDonogh School who remained a close friend and adviser until his death two years ago at age 95:
“ Two miles from Baltimore’s Beltway there is an 800-acre sanctuary where boys can ride through woods without ever seeing an automobile.

“ McDonogh School is a young horseman’s paradise—almost untouched by the sprawl of factories and suburbia which have crawled past its woods, meadows and streams.
“ The 785 boys who attend McDonogh wear uniforms. And they perform military drills. But some of the young teachers poke fun at the school’s military aspects. A few have their hair longer in length than permitted for students.

“ If McDonogh seems confused, it’s only because the world is confused.
“ But, happily, there are men at McDonogh who believe that self-discipline is a virtue and that a boy need not become a militarist to perform in a weekly drill field exercise.
“ Among this group is Willis Lynch. . .”

That article provoked a firestorm at McDonogh. A petition circulated denouncing his characterization, and my shaggy-haired English teacher confronted me, demanding to know if it reflected my philosophy. I always felt my grade suffered a bit. . .

What is striking, from a historical perspective, is how a horse magazine rendered such a vivid commentary on the sad, bewildering times we were in, the end stages of the Vietnam War. He didn’t write just about the horses, however. He wrote about the people who owned them, trained them, rode them and the world in which they lived.

McDonogh School played a central role in forming his own character. He began there in the second grade and quickly fell in with the spirit of the school—the sense of self-discipline, duty and humility that Major Lamborn and his staff drilled into the boys every day. Lamborn, the school’s headmaster, became an even bigger figure in his life after the death of his father, Dr. Wilton S. Carter, in a car accident in 1934, when Snowden was only 13 years old.
My father sent his two sons to McDonogh and subsequently bought a house on McDonogh Road, bordering the school property, and lived there for 41 years.

Like the great writer he was, my father knew how to develop a theme. And, as everyone here knows, the theme he followed was horses—specifically Maryland Thoroughbred breeding and racing. A friend to all, he genuinely celebrated the successes of others (even though his own racing ventures never brought him riches).

He navigated the worlds of the backstretch, the grandstand and the press box with skill and enthusiasm. He put 25,000 miles a year on his car, a series of Buick LeSabres, driving to horse farms and race tracks. His readers were so much the better for his energy. Whether he was interviewing Alfred G. Vanderbilt or an exercise rider, he was always interested in getting their story and sharing their unique perspective of the game.

That wasn’t always so easy. Once, about 35 years ago, he was approached at the office by some wealthy Germans who were looking for a good broodmare or two. He took them out to the farm of a prominent Maryland horseman, who he knew had such a mare for sale. The Germans bought the mare, and paid around $10,000, a handsome sum in those days. Expecting a nice finder’s fee, he promptly received—a ham and a thank-you note. He was annoyed, but it later evolved into a family joke of sorts. “Yeh, you’ll get the ham for doing such a nice job.” A bitter experience became grist for humor.

I once asked him if he had any enemies. He reflected. “No, but there was one guy I didn’t care for.” He told me the story of a press box colleague who enjoyed lording it over people in service jobs. In particular, this man had sexually harassed a young waitress, sending her away from the table in tears. My dad’s lesson: He didn’t hate the man, he just lost all respect because of the way he bullied people who were helpless to resist him. That was another lesson to me, of course. Treat others as you’d have them treat you. “Show some class.”
He was a family man too, of course. He put his three children through private school and college, and was always there for us. In retirement, he put on birthday parties for his grandchildren, graduation parties, sometimes throwing up a tent in the yard or renting a room in a restaurant. He nursed my mother through her final illness 10 years ago with patience and devotion.

A few years later, he found love again. He met Margaret “Sis” Cromwell in church. They married and enjoyed eight wonderful years together. And we thank him for bringing her into our family.

Growing up as Snowden’s son was such an adventure. You see, we didn’t go to Disney World—we went to Ocala Stud. We didn’t go to the beach in the summer. Instead, we went to Timonium in late August, soaking up those last hot, humid weeks of summer on the midway and running back and forth to the family box in the grandstand, where my grandmother could often be found looking for some winners and greeting old friends. We went to Keeneland, to Saratoga. I once asked my mother if he ever got vacations. “Well,” she said. “He does take vacations.”

“ But he goes to Saratoga or the Kentucky Derby and writes about them,” I replied.
“ Yes, well, that’s his vacation.” He could go someplace else if he wanted, but why would he? He was doing what he loved and the distinction between work and pleasure simply did not exist.

In the obituary in The Sun, Mike Pons said he turned a newsletter into the National Geographic of the horse world. He would have loved that line. He was pioneering in his use of photography and layout, all printed on high-quality stock. He hired great photographers and ran their pictures big. He had an artist lay out the magazine. These are standard practices in journalism today, but 40 years ago? There was action in those pages. On a bookshelf in his kitchen are bound volumes of The Maryland Horse, from 1961 to ’86, the years he was editor.

Since he retired, I’ve enjoyed occasionally picking one up, testing my memory of a specific horse, a specific event, a date. It’s always there, and it’s so much fun flipping through the pages before you get to the one you were looking for. Talk about a side trip. When I was at the house on the evening after he died, I was drawn to the “books” again. I sought out a particular story he wrote about Major Goss L. Stryker, his mentor at The Maryland Horse and a dear friend who died in his sleep at the age of 93. Again, let me quote Snowden:
“ When he was 89, his driver’s license was suspended as the result of crossing over a solid center line while hurrying to the Maryland Horse Breeders Association office to sign checks. He was required to take a driving test to regain his license. He took it and passed. Then he resumed his trips around the countryside in his flaming red Buick.

“ Frequently rude to persons he did not fancy, the Major was skilled in the art of deflating those whom he regarded as egotistical. He disliked talkative persons—particularly those who had few thoughts to offer.

“ Those persons he liked were always greeted with a ‘dearie’ or a ‘honey,’ irrespective of their sex.
“ His passing is an incalculable loss. There can never possibly be another man to take his place.”

Nor, Daddy—Snowden, Nick—can another man ever take your place.
George Carter is a copy editor with The Philadelphia Inquirer.