Text from article: Years later, when I was writing for the Texas Observer and other publications, my mind could still see Snow sitting there. I wasn’t reporting from some Austin newsroom; I was writing from the kitchen table, or pulling over on the shoulder of some two-lane road to scribble notes before they got away from me. I drove all over East Texas chasing stories nobody else wanted. I wrote about Annie Ray Dixon, an 84-year-old Black woman shot dead in her own bed when a drug task force botched a raid in Tyler (they meant to hit the house next door). I covered the day Dallas bulldozed the makeshift homes of the homeless under the I-45 bridge so the Cotton Bowl would look prettier for the World Cup. I traced the story of Bobby Frank Cherry, the Mabank man the FBI arrested and convicted of bombing the 16th Street Baptist Church in Montgomery, where four little girls died in Sunday dresses. And I met Lee, who carried Juneteenth into the national light. Every time I filed one of those stories, I thought of Snow. He was the first to show me that history wasn’t past at all. It lived in the choices people made in front of me, the injustices that carried the same old smell no matter how they tried to perfume them. I carried those lessons into courtrooms thick with lies, shotgun shacks sagging under poverty, city halls that reeked of power and mildew.