Jake is on the far right; he was about 19 in this photo.

Working at Nistler Farms is the first job for quite a number of local young folks; pretty common for them to work here through high school or a little after. I feel fortunate to work with them. Mostly, they are, by far, smarter, have better social skills and are worldlier than I was at that age. It’s great fun to ponder their futures; I look forward to them running ahead of me and leaving me in the dust. I envy the pride their parents must feel. I like to think I have some small role in their success, but really, I know, it’s them; what’s in them; what drives them.

I secretly hope that some of them will be my memory; that they’ll tell me stories when I’m old and can’t remember…or maybe listen to one of my blended garbled ramblings. That’s how it’s supposed to be; I think; I thought…

there seems to be a few too many exceptions to this orderly idea of life I cling to…yesterday, Jake Hughes died.

Jake was bright eyed and aware at a very young age. He started working here way too young; washing gourds, weed wacking. By the time he was 13 he practically ran the place. Jeeze he made my life easy. He could drive anything, fix anything, and often helped me figure out how to adapt machines to varying specialty crops. He started college at age 16 and entered the Carlson School of Management earlier than most. He didn’t struggle with school.

He started building computers about the time he started college. He built the one I’m using right now. He built one for himself and overclocked the processor, then water cooled it to make it even faster. I guess he was always pushing limits.

I don’t like to compare people who work or have worked here, because each has their own strengths. However, it’s interesting to me, that the best ones come back; when they are between jobs, or short of money, or just for the heck of it; they come back.

Jake owned a home, was engaged, had a good job down town as a tech guy for a law firm. Still, if I needed someone to run a crew on a Saturday morning, he’d come over and do it. He offered it up; made it easy for me to ask.

But now he’s gone. His folk’s hearts are broken. And we are left to ponder what might have been. And what we could have or should have said, or done, to avoid this. All of it, all of him, spinning around in our heads, heavy hearts, and tears; spinning, never arriving anywhere, because the unfortunate/awful/horrible/tragic truth is; he’s not comin back.