In a world that often measures success by how far one can travel from their hometown, Ken Snyder is a living testament to the road that leads right back home. A 1985 graduate of Newton Community High School, Ken has worn many hats over the years—administrator, entrepreneur, community supporter, father, and fireman—but the one he seems to wear most comfortably is simply “neighbor.” His story is steeped in the rhythms of Jasper County and framed by the relationships, values, and grit that only a small town can so reliably instill.

Ken was just a toddler when his family moved from Chicago to Newton. His parents had purchased the newly built nursing home from Maxine and John Spitler, establishing the foundation for both a family livelihood and a unique upbringing. “I grew up around elderly people in the nursing home,” he recalls, laughing a little. “That was the only world I knew.”

It’s no surprise, then, that his first professional path mirrored his early environment. After becoming a licensed nursing home administrator, Ken ran facilities in Danville and Decatur. But a call from his mother—who was returning to school to earn her PhD—brought him back to Newton temporarily. He agreed to help manage the home. “And man,” he chuckles, “that’s when I met a girl. And that always messes everything up.”

It wasn’t long before Ken knew he didn’t want to leave. But when the job in Danville ended, he found himself with a dilemma: he was rooted in Newton, newly married, with a baby on the way, and trained in a field with limited local opportunity. So he did what any small-town pragmatist with a big heart and a little bit of courage might do: he bought a Dairy Queen.

Yes, really.

“This Dairy Queen had just been built a couple years before,” Ken explains. “I was as dumb as I could be about it. I had never done anything like that. I had to go to Minneapolis for a three-week Dairy Queen management certification. Left my wife and baby at home and just went.”

The timing? Let’s call it less than ideal. “Pro tip,” Ken says with a wry smile. “Don’t buy an ice cream shop in November.” By January, the family’s savings were nearly gone. But with a little faith, a little more help from a supportive banker named Mark Daugherty at the Peoples State Bank, and a warm Valentine’s Day that gave way to an early spring, the tide turned.

“The community showed up. They wanted to see me succeed. They helped us get through that first winter, and then it just took off,” he says.

What followed were years of growth. The single Dairy Queen in Newton became a family of five stores across Illinois and Indiana, all in communities with populations small enough to know your customers by name—and their grandparents, too.

The small-town model wasn’t just a business strategy; it was a way of life. “Dairy Queen is a Midwest brand. It fits small towns. It’s social. It’s personal,” Ken says. “You sit behind your customers in church on Sunday morning. You hear their stories, their struggles, their joys. That’s community.”

That sense of connection is why Ken spent nearly 15 years as a volunteer fireman, even though every emergency call carried a personal weight. “Every house fire I went to, every car accident—I either knew the person or knew their family. That’s hard,” he admits, “but it also allows you to provide support that’s meaningful.”

One of the hardest moments came in 2003, when several young employees from his store were involved in a tragic car accident. Four lives were lost. “It’s still hard to talk about,” Ken says, voice catching. “But I’ll never forget what happened that night. Susan Lindley, the manager of the Marathon station two blocks away came up to my store and said, ‘We’ll take care of this. We’ll close it down for you.’ She didn’t even work there. That’s the kind of people we have here.”

Ken speaks often of how the town rallied—marquee signs went up, fundraisers were held, and families were held even closer. It’s a kind of empathy that doesn’t just show up in emergencies. It’s a daily way of living.

Of course, his high school years played a part in shaping that. Ken was both a track runner and a trumpet player, but it was band director Carolyn Dominic—affectionately known as Ms. D—who made the biggest impact. “She taught us how to be somebody,” he says. “She collected coats for kids in need, gave us responsibility, made us feel important. She once had me drive her Lincoln to the IGA to pick up her cigarettes. You knew you were in her circle if you got that job.”

He also remembers shop teacher Gene Purdy, who gently guided him away from working with his hands and toward working with his head. “He looked at the project I turned in and said, ‘Some people are supposed to work with their hands. You're not one of them.’ And he was right. That set me on a different path.”

That path, fueled by support from mentors, friends, and family, eventually led to Ken’s appointment to the board of directors at Peoples State Bank. It was the same institution that had taken a chance on him years earlier, when he was cold, broke, and praying for warm weather.

“When they asked me to be on the board, I told them the person who’d be most excited was my wife—because I’d finally have to buy some nice clothes instead of hoodies and ball caps,” he laughs.

But beneath the humor is deep gratitude. “If Mark Daugherty hadn’t believed in me, there’s no way I’d be sitting on that board today. It’s all connected.”

Ken’s story is proof that success doesn’t always come from leaving home—it can come from embracing it. From building a life not above others, but among them. From trading big city dreams for small town roots, and finding a kind of wealth that can’t be measured in dollars.

“I’m a blessed man,” Ken says, simply. And Newton—and Jasper County—are all the richer for having him call it home.