John Levy

Married to Diane since 1990; play piano (mostly classical); Buddhist practitioner (Theravada);

Ten years in the computer industry (DEC, Tandem, Apple), ten years as a consultant, then 6 years at Quantum, returned to consulting in 1998. Book on managing high-tech development published in May, 2010, "Get Out of the Way." Consulting practice is now (2022) entirely expert witness in patent-related lawsuits.

Stanford (Computer Science) PhD 1973
CalTech (Electrical Engineering) MS 1966
Cornell (Engineering Physics) BEP 1965

Jake’s Farewell [in memory of Jacob Skilken, 1910-1993]

By John Levy


Seid umschlungen, Millionen!
Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt!
Brueder - ueber'm Sternenzelt
Muss ein lieber Vater wohnen.
-- Friedrich Schiller



From 7000 feet, the Rio Grande basin in New Mexico looks like a wide sandy beach surrounded by hills. Below us, the river glistens like a silvery snake, twisting past unseen rocky substrates. Flying south in the noon sun, I watched from the copilot’s seat in a single-engine plane, listening to the air traffic controller’s exchange with the pilot, Jim.

Diane and I had arisen at 4:30 AM and driven from Santa Fe to the northern outskirts of Albuquerque to watch the balloon ascension. Once a year, in October, hundreds of balloonists meet here to join in the largest hot-air balloon event in the U.S. We wandered among the preparations, watching the colorful nylon being filled with hot air from a propane torch. As the sun rose, wave after wave of balloonists launched themselves in groups of ten into the cool, clear New Mexico air.

We sated ourselves on the view after a dozen waves of launches and climbed back into the car for the return to Santa Fe. I delivered Diane to her acupuncture conference by 9:00 AM, and drove to the Santa Fe airport.

The Santa Fe airport is a small city’s airport – like Palo Alto, California, or the Blue Ash, Ohio, airport of my childhood. No apparent air traffic and only a few hangars. I found my way to the largest hangar and went in through the only open door. There, Jim was waiting for me. We had arranged a charter the previous day. He was to fly me to Las Cruces and back for a few hundred dollars.

Immediately after taking off from Santa Fe, I could see down the valley to Albuquerque. The balloons were still floating and the air traffic controller warned us to keep well to the west of the balloonists’ range. Not far south of Albuquerque we saw our guide for the rest of the trip – the Rio Grande.

The river traverses the whole state of New Mexico, from Colorado in the north to the Texas border in the southeast. Across the Texas border is El Paso and the heavily traveled border crossing to Mexico. I had briefly made that crossing on my last visit to Las Cruces by making a wrong turn on the freeway in El Paso, heading for Mexico instead of New Mexico. Las Cruces is just a dozen miles west.

The plane set down in Las Cruces in bright sunlight with a view of the multi-colored mountains to the northeast. Jim borrowed the beat-up car usually available to general aviation pilots at small airports and we drove into town. He asked to be left off at the university library. I drove on alone to visit Jake and May Skilken at their apartment.

Jake and May had moved to Las Cruces from Massachusetts about 6 years before. On my previous visit, they had just moved to a new place designed for older people. Jake had told me how disappointed he was that the people in this place were not very interested in keeping up with current events or science and technology. Jake had given talks on new developments in chemistry and geology, but few people had attended.

The sun was beginning to beat down hot as I arrived and walked up to their door. May greeted me and Jake got up as I came in. He looked weaker than I remembered him, but genuinely happy to have a visitor. We sat down and talked.


In September 1959, two weeks before my 17th birthday, I started my senior year in high school. As a senior, I was at last ready to take Chemistry AP. My brother, Bob, who was three years older and already a junior at Cornell, was inspired by Jake Skilken to change his major from Mechanical Engineering to Chemical Engineering. I knew I had to excel in this class, though I had little idea of what was to come.

The first day of class I sat in the front row on the left – directly in front of Jake’s desk. Jake came in, a fatherly presence with a no-nonsense manner. He told us what to expect, how to succeed by searching for answers ourselves and sharing our discoveries with each other. He challenged us to understand the unseen mechanisms of chemical combinations. With every statement, I was with him, hoping to be worthy, to be sufficiently appreciative, to be visible.

At the end of class, as others were standing to leave, Jake said, “John, would you come up here, please?” I was pleased and appalled to be singled out. After all the others left, Jake said quietly that he noticed my eagerness, and that it came across to him as if I were “a stuffed shirt.” I cried. My desire to make an impression, to be noticed was all too successful. He assured me that there was nothing more to be said, just to notice the effect it had to be so over-eager. I left the room loving this man who paid such caring attention to his students.

That was the year they made a film of the advanced chemistry students presenting their reports. We all loved that class and the man who made it possible. He delighted in us most when we were delighted with learning.


At my 25th class reunion someone asked me if I knew where Jake could be found. With a single phone call to the 505 area code directory assistance, I located his number in Las Cruces and passed it on to my classmate.

For 33 years I had kept track of Jake and twice before visited him. I started recording our dialogue on the second visit, tracing Jake’s career and interests. I learned how he came to be a teacher, and how much he felt that it was his calling. Each time I visited, he seemed pleased to hear not only about my own life but also about all the classmates I knew. We were all indebted to him for showing us the pleasure of learning and dozens kept in touch with him regularly.

Before this third visit, I had heard of his brain tumor and that there was no further intervention that would help. I recorded our conversation again. After I ran out of tape, we sat quietly for a while. He appeared to have a sense of his mortality, but not in a way that showed he regretted a minute of his life.

I took a picture of Jake and May together. Then May suggested a picture of Jake and me. I sat down on the couch next to him as May focused the camera on us. Jake took my hand and held it tightly. I held his just as tightly. May took the picture. We sat side-by-side holding hands for several minutes, teacher and student, two men, 83 and 51 years old. I felt in his grasp his gratitude for the devotion he received from me. And through me from the hundreds who loved him. And I knew he was saying goodbye to all of us.

I picked Jim up at the library and we returned to the Las Cruces airport. The sun was far into the west as we flew north towards Albuquerque. The air traffic controller again warned us to steer west of the balloons, and we could see the colorful globes floating in the air below us, softly brilliant in the setting sunlight. At Santa Fe, the sky was nearly dark as the plane sank to the runway. I thanked Jim for the flight and the day in Las Cruces. I clutched my camera and my tapes, knowing these contained the last record I would have of Jake. But the feel of his hand holding mine is what I shall always remember.