12/15/2025
Momma grew up loving the story of Harry and Snowman. It began a mission in her heart to help, rescue, and love the unwanted furbabies
February 1956. The auction was over. Harry deLeyer, a Dutch immigrant struggling to feed his family on a riding instructor's salary, had arrived too late at a Pennsylvania livestock yard. The horses nobody wanted were already loaded—destination: slaughterhouse.
Then the truck started moving, and through the wooden slats, one pair of eyes found his.
A grey gelding. Body covered in scars. Hooves worn down from years pulling plows. The kind of horse successful trainers wouldn't look at twice. But something in those eyes stopped Harry cold.
He flagged down the truck. He negotiated with the slaughter dealer. And he handed over $80—money he desperately needed—to buy a horse everyone said was worthless.
Harry named him Snowman. The plan was simple: use him as a gentle school horse for beginner riders. Safe, slow, forgettable.
Except Snowman refused to be forgettable.
No matter how Harry built the fences, Snowman jumped them. Four feet. Five feet. Six feet high. This "worthless" plow horse was flying through the air like he'd been born for it. And Harry realized: I didn't rescue a school horse. I rescued an athlete.
He started entering Snowman in competitions. Judges laughed. Wealthy owners with their $50,000 thoroughbreds sneered at the rescue horse with the farmer's build and the gentle eyes.
Then Snowman started destroying them.
Jump after jump. Competition after competition. The eighty-dollar horse was beating horses worth more than most Americans' homes.
1958: Snowman crowned National Horse Show Champion—defeating every pedigreed show jumper in the country.
1959: He won it again.
America lost its mind. LIFE Magazine put them on the cover. The Tonight Show brought them on. Sports Illustrated wrote features. In the 1950s—when conformity and status ruled—Harry and Snowman became proof that greatness doesn't come from bloodlines or bank accounts. It comes from heart.
Millionaires offered $100,000 for Snowman. Harry's answer never changed: "He's not for sale. He's family."
Snowman competed for years, then retired to the deLeyer farm, where he lived to age 26—a lifetime longer than the hours he'd once had left. Harry, who passed away in 2021 at 93, spent his final decades telling their story. Their bond was immortalized in the 2015 documentary Harry & Snowman.
But here's what makes this story matter in 2024:
Somewhere right now, someone is being dismissed. Overlooked. Written off as "not worth it." A student everyone says will fail. An employee nobody will hire. A dog at the shelter marked "unadoptable."
Snowman's story is their story.
It's proof that the world's greatest champions are often the ones everyone else gave up on. And sometimes, all it takes is one person who looks closer. Who sees the soul beneath the scars. Who's willing to bet everything on potential everyone else missed.
Harry deLeyer didn't just save a horse that day.
He proved that value isn't stamped on a pedigree certificate—it's revealed when someone cares enough to look.
"The ones everyone overlooks are often the ones who change everything."
