In loving memory of my dad, a true hero whose legacy continues to inspire and shape the person I am today.

He was my hero, a beacon of unwavering love and compassion. His heart knew no bounds as he and mom took in broken children, offering us a second chance at a life filled with warmth and acceptance. Their home, once a haven for those in need, became a testament to their boundless generosity.

His love knew no conditions; it was a force that embraced us all equally, creating a sense of belonging and security. Through his actions, he taught me the true meaning of family and the power of unconditional love.

He was my hero, a guide who opened the doors to a world of culture and creativity. The soundtrack of my childhood was a symphony of melodies from Harry Chapin, Neil Diamond, Barbra Streisand, and iconic musicals like Jesus Christ Superstar, War of the Worlds, and The Wall. Movie nights were filled with thrilling adventures, sci-fi wonders, thought-provoking dramas, and intellectual humor, always followed by captivating post-viewing monologues. Broadway came alive for me with renditions of West Side Story and the haunting melodies of Phantom of the Opera. With wisdom, he encouraged me to take advantage of the cultural offerings at Purdue, sparking a lifelong love for knowledge and the arts.

Special occasions like Christmas, birthdays, and Easter were not just events; they were celebrations of life, love, and togetherness. He instilled in me the importance of cherishing these moments and the value of shared experiences.

He was my hero, a wise mentor who reminded me to be open-minded and embrace the diversity of the world. Through his guidance, he rekindled my passion for learning, turning it into a lifelong pursuit.

And now, I am the hero, carrying forward his legacy by opening my home to those in need during challenging times. Inspired by his example, I raise my children with the same spirit of inclusivity and unconditional love. His lessons echo through the halls of our home, shaping the way I nurture relationships and approach life.

In honoring his memory, I strive to be the hero he was to me—a source of love, understanding, and inspiration. Though he may no longer be with us physically, his spirit lives on in every act of kindness, every note of music, and every moment of celebration. My dad, my hero, forever in my heart.

“Some people can read War and Peace and come away thinking it's a simple adventure story. Others can read the ingredients on a chewing gum wrapper and unlock the secrets of the universe.”

These are the inimitable words of Gene Hackman from the film Superman in 1978.

That quote, whenever I hear it, reminds me very much of Vince. That’s who he was. He looked at everything. He studied everything. He saw relationships and connections in everything. He was a real searcher, and I find that I am very similar.

That’s what made him so fascinating—endless conversations on every conceivable subject.

We spoke often about patterns and themes in the world—the bigger pictures. Sometimes these conversations would be very wide and cover a lot of ground; sometimes they would be very deep, but on a single subject. This is what I loved most of all about Vince. You never knew what he would want to talk about on any given day, but you could be sure that it would be good.

We shared many interests, Vince and I, so our dialogues often leaned towards those. Carpentry projects, things going on in the shop or barn, aspects of Paula’s and my business, art, technology, watches…definitely watches. Oh, and martial arts…and movies…you get the idea. Vince was a real renaissance man.

On movies:

Now I have to give some space to the topic of watching movies with Vince. This was our evening retreat as far back as I can remember. Some subset of the family would hop into the car and we would all take a road trip to see a show together. Sometimes we ventured to Noblesville, sometimes Indianapolis. Since the Schrader’s lived remotely, getting out to a movie always necessitated a drive, you see.

Over time the venues shifted, but the experience never did. We would see whatever struck our fancy. Usually sci-fi, frequently action, occasionally a drama. The films themselves were really irrelevant. It was the ride home that was the REAL show. This was where we would have deep conversations about whatever we saw, and its import. Now don’t get me wrong. These weren’t always great films. In fact, the worse they were, the more fun the return drive would be! The irony of having deep conversations about terrible movies was not lost on us. It was especially entertaining to hear Vince try to justify the quality of a movie simply because of a pretty girl who happened to star in it. We never bought it of course, but he kept selling it!

It was these conversation that made Vince particularly special to me.

I was raised by a father who took the job very seriously. My dad was a quiet and austere man who led by example and felt it was his most important role to be the parent to me as a child. To be a disciplinarian. That was his style. He was not a friend, he was a parent. And as such, I related to him AS a child, then as a teenager, then as a young adult. Through the majority of my life he was always the same father.

Then I got married and eventually had a child and a strange thing started to happen. I saw my relationship with him began to transition and soften to an adult one. One where we began to share things as an adult parent to another adult parent. He was especially smitten with my daughter after she was born. Things began to take a turn for the better. Unfortunately, I lost my father soon after that and we never quite completed that transition.

Looking back, it is clear that it was Vince who has been that dad. My adult dad. Someone with whom I could have THAT relationship. And I was lucky to have 32 years with Vince.

It’s not really that surprising when you think about it. Almost all of those closest to Vince were those he and Kay took into their family as their own. I’m blessed to be counted among them.

God speed Papa.

For those who may not know, I was adopted at the age of 12 in 1977. I had only met them a few times before moving in, and as you could imagine, it’s very odd to move in to a new home, in a new town, and a new school, and be with people you don’t know well, and start calling them Mom and Dad. It didn’t take me long to call Kay “mom”, but for Dad it was different. I was raised in an all girl house, for most of my childhood, where Dad's were not a real part of my life.  A few months went by, and I just was so scared to call him Dad for the first time. The longer I waited the more ungodly awkward it became. I guess I was waiting for him to tell me I could call him “Dad”, and he was giving me time to acclimate and felt I’d start calling him Dad when I was ready. I remember standing outside his watch room several night, scared to death, nervous to go in and talk to him about it. He kept saying to me “Edie, do you need me for something”……. And I’d pace and say No. This went on for what seemed like forever, until he finally one night he came out, sat down, and said “ Hey Kid, what’s wrong?” By the end of the conversation, we were both crying and hugging and from that point on, he was forever my dad. Through the good and the bad.

That was the first of a million of special conversations with my Dad where he made me feel safe and comfortable, and that I could say anything and it would be okay. It was also the first of millions of times of hearing him say to me “Hey kid or Hey Kiddo”, which now, I will miss more than I can ever express. Thank the Lord for cell phones and saved voicemails.

Dad had a deep respect for Family and made it a top priority throughout his life.

I loved our weekend trips to Chalmers/Reynolds to have breakfast with Great Grampa Wilbur and Grampa and Gramma Smith at the Green Gable restaurant. Jon and I drove up there last summer so I could show him the area. Dad thought that was cool.

There were also frequent trips to Lafayette from Wabash to spend time with Gramma Schrader and Dad’s siblings and spouses out at the cottage playing spoons and cards, or gathered in Gramma Schrader’s kitchen eating tons of food and her amazing German potato salad. It would be loud, with laughter and talking and I loved every second of that feeling of being part of a big family.

It was at one of these family events, that I saw my Dad cry for the very first time on December 8, 1980 with the news that John Lennon had been killed.

For a few years, after I moved in, we would have Thanksgiving at my Aunt Jane and Uncle Bruce’s who owned a Christmas tree farm in northern Indiana. My first year with the family, I was so excited to pick out a big beautiful Christmas tree. I had never had a real tree before. We always had a silver aluminum tree with the 4 colored circular light underneath. After dinner, we were off on the hunt for the perfect tree. We walked through rows and rows of beautiful pine trees. It was a cold day and there was a light snow falling, and I remember how absolutely beautiful it was. Y’know, One of those memories that’s almost like a snapshot in our mind. One that you know in that moment, that you will never forget……. Mom and Dad walking in front on me, hand and hand looking, just like me, for the perfect first tree for our first christmas as a new family, and then I heard my Dad say.. there it is,Kay, that one’s perfect. I looked at this beautiful, tall, perfectly shaped tree, with long needles and it smelled so good standing in front of us, and I thought yes, it is indeed perfect, Dad. Then the feeling of excitement changed to horror and shock when he bent down in front of the ugliest tree I had ever seen standing next to the most perfect tree and he started cutting it down. It was lopsided, it was leaning, it had huge bare spots and not at all what I had imagined. I honestly thought they were pulling my leg. However, they were not. I’m sure the look of confusion was easily readable on my face, and My Dad said, we pick the ugliest tree and we make it beautiful. You just wait and see, kid!!! Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed, and could not even begin to imagine how that tree was going to be anything but ugly.

We went home and my mom pulled out all sorts of materials, beads, glitter, and she blew out the inside of eggs, and we spent the weekend creating ornaments, some of which we still have today on their tree. When we completed putting on the old and new ornaments and added garland, strings of popcorn and cranberries and lights, it was just like you see in Charlie Brown Christmas show……… it was the most beautiful tree ever. In fact, it touched me so much, that I carried on that tradition for many years with my 2 boys, and as I look back at that memory, it really exemplifies, so much of what my Dad believed in, and how I felt for so many years.

He saw beauty and potential in what others would look past. That not everything that is shiny and new is as good as it appears, that sometimes the old and used will last a lifetime with care. Hard work, effort, determination can get you anywhere. That the purely simple way of living brings great joy and closeness. That money and material things don’t mean anything compared to helping others, teaching others, seeing the beauty in nature and in building relationships with those you love.

In many ways, I’ve always felt like that ugly tree. Flawed in so many ways, but praying to be picked for all that you are and for all that you can potentially be…..Who adopts a 12 year old little girl who came with so much emotional turmoil? Mom and Dad had NO idea what may lie ahead with all that I had been through, but Dad told me numerous times, that as they looked through the pictures of those in needing adopted, that the minute he saw my big brown eyes and big smile, that he knew I was the one. I can’t tell you how that made me feel. They saw in me, that broken, scared, and confused girl, something special, beautiful, and had no doubt that with time, hard work, effort, and love, that they were going to provide me every opportunity to shine bright in this world just like that ugly Christmas tree. That’s the kind of person, my Dad was always seeing the potential and inner beauty of those around him. Faith that in time, just like that tree, you’d come out in the end a much better version of your original self. He wasn’t only that way with his children, but with his hundreds of students over the years.

My Dad was my best friend, my biggest supporter, my biggest ass kicker, and my constant. And yeah, I’ll admit, sometimes my biggest irritation. But, now I learn how to move forward without him. He helped teach and guide me, he advised me, gave me confidence, was beyond proud of me, and thanks to my Dad, I no longer feel like that lonely ugly tree, that people pass by without a second glance….

. The last 4 years, have allowed me to give back some of what my Dad gave to me all of these years. I adored him, I’d do anything for him, and I pray that I served my parents well, when they needed me most. I am blessed to have been able to help and be there through it all.

To you, my partner in life, Jon, I cant think you enough for walking this road with us. For being there, for being a confidant to my Dad, for giving him every ounce of respect and dignity, for being a bright light to him, for being his protector, his angel, and for dropping everything anytime he or Mom needed anything. Thanks for making my Mom giggle, and making her smile. Thank you for helping my Mom with the garden that they so loved. It Just proves that I found a man who loves me just like my Dad did……. what a wonderful man you are and a true friend to My DAd. I love you.

And to you my Dad I am forever proud to be Schrader’s kid……… and btw, the first woodpecker you sent last week was pretty impressive, I’m sure looking forward to seeing what you do next visit!

My dad was a storyteller. He could tell stories from his childhood or last week, with detail, embellishments and engagement that never failed to impress me. He could tell stories for hours, even about the simplest events, and the way he told them made you feel like you were there. All my life I’ve lived with stories… spoken ones, written ones, ones put to music.

And so stories always made me think of my dad, and the simple things we did together. We didn’t take grand vacations or do outrageous activities… we shared a love of word games; the pleasure of putting a puzzle together; getting up at 6am with a whispered “photo opp!” because ice crystals had frozen on the trees; staring up at the night sky talking about the infinite universe; or watching really bad sci-fi movies together.

I didn’t realize when I was young how fast those years together would go by. I didn’t realize at the time how much things would change when I left home. I didn’t realize that all those years he was teaching me. Teaching me to be a well-rounded person. To discover my passions and to drink in the world. To know joy in simple things. His experiences and stories, games and long talks set the stage for most of what I have become.

But I was busy living my life… going to college, moving across the country, getting a job, getting married. It was all so exciting and I couldn’t wait to get going. I never thought about how it felt from the other side… about being the one that was left behind.

I think about the story of my life. And of my daughter and how she has changed that story. I think of the things we do together that don't seem special, but they are. Of nature walks that end in the discovery of a banana slug; of the simple pleasure of having a chick fall asleep in your hand; of reading to her every night even when she was old enough to read for herself. Suddenly she looking at colleges, and soon I will be the one who is left behind while she begins her exciting life. I see now the conflict that my dad experienced, at once both proud of all that I was becoming, and missing me so much that it hurt.

The last few years have been hard ones. My dad’s wonderful gift of words was stolen by Parkinsons. Where once he could talk for hours, it dwindled to only minutes. And often he couldn’t remember all those beautiful details that made his stories so rich. But I remember them. The memories are as clear as ever. They are the stories of our life.

I miss my dad. So I put on an album, and I listen to the stories with a different perspective. Music by Jackson Brown and Bruce Springsteen. Rock operas like Jesus Christ Superstar and Jeff Wayne’s musical version of War of the Worlds. And of course Harry Chapin and Pink Floyd. Songs I would listen to for hours with my dad. Now I listen to them to remember him, and I feel like we’re together. 

My dad always called me a “neat kid”. It was the highest praise I could ask for. I like to think that I am raising my child to be a “neat kid”. Someone different, someone who loves life, someone who finds joy in the simple act of rhyming words.

Someone like my Dad.

There is a new star in that endless sky now, and while we will never again discuss how far the universe extends on a cold dark night, I know I’ll never see the stars alone. I’m so glad you were part of my life and I know we’ll meet again somewhere out there.

My thoughts and prayers go out to Kay and the entire Schrader family. Vin was my first cousin and we lived just a few blocks away on 18th street.  He was one of best friends in those days and we often got together to play euchre, go out for Arny's pizza, or just plain goof around. I, like Vin, have been a high school teacher, and when ever I came to Lafayette, I would make an effort to visit him and Kay. So farewell my good friend,  may the good Lord welcome you with a warm embrace as you are now re-united with your Mom and Dad and those whom you have loved.

Br. Edward Libber, c.s.c.

Vince was a personality like no other.  A dry sense of humor.  Very active on the Lafayette Jefferson High School paper, The Booster!  We were the last class to attend all four years in the Old Jeff on 9th Street, Class of 60 .

Vince shared a lot via telephone and in groups on Facebook.  He and Kay attended the last lake outing on Morse Reservoir.  Vince was the center of attention telling stories about classmates and highschool adventures.  

During one of our many phone calls he shared,  with a great deal of excitement, the arrival of a new riding lawnmower so he could continue to cut grass.  Later he explained how he loved his new wheels to get around.  

His pride in his family was boundless as was his love for Kay.

Heartbreaking, I know, but Parkinson's is no longer rearing it's ugly head.  Rest well, Vince, rest well.