I am sick to shit of death
In the past four years, I’ve won three first-place awards for the Best Outdoor Page in the Nation by the Outdoor Writers Association of America. Since 1999, when the paper first started its Outdoors pages, I’ve never placed lower than second.
And I say I like I do it all myself.
True, I am responsible for nearly all the copy. But it was my designer, Steve Jacobs, who made my words, and the photographer’s photos, sing. Those best page awards were as much his, as they are mine. He was shirt-busting proud that I included his name, as well as my own, on all three plaques.
Steve Jacobs died July 17 of a heart attack. He was 59.
His wife said he didn’t feel like eating breakfast. He was teaching an art class at the library when he collapsed. He died nearly instantly.
Steve was one of the good guys. He was always ready for a challenge. He always anticipated what I wanted and gave me more than I expected.
More than that, he was a good friend, where we could both come together to share common gripes about the business.
He was tickled when I went out fishing or hunting, because I always made sure he got taken care of first. A salmon fillet here, some rainbow trout there. A few quail to try; he even got a load of pork from the first wild hog I shot.
He once paid me one of the highest compliments I have ever received. Because it was personal, out-of-the-blue.
He had asked one afternoon if I could get him something. Hell, I don’t even remember what it was. I do know, I brought it in the next day and set it on his desk.
When he came in, he picked up the item and came over to my desk, where put his hand on my shoulder, and said:
“You’re the only person I know who always does what he says he’s going to do. The only one.”
Steve was that kind of a guy.
I will miss him.
To honor him, I will always do what I say I’m going to do.
For the rest of my life.
And I say I like I do it all myself.
True, I am responsible for nearly all the copy. But it was my designer, Steve Jacobs, who made my words, and the photographer’s photos, sing. Those best page awards were as much his, as they are mine. He was shirt-busting proud that I included his name, as well as my own, on all three plaques.
Steve Jacobs died July 17 of a heart attack. He was 59.
His wife said he didn’t feel like eating breakfast. He was teaching an art class at the library when he collapsed. He died nearly instantly.
Steve was one of the good guys. He was always ready for a challenge. He always anticipated what I wanted and gave me more than I expected.
More than that, he was a good friend, where we could both come together to share common gripes about the business.
He was tickled when I went out fishing or hunting, because I always made sure he got taken care of first. A salmon fillet here, some rainbow trout there. A few quail to try; he even got a load of pork from the first wild hog I shot.
He once paid me one of the highest compliments I have ever received. Because it was personal, out-of-the-blue.
He had asked one afternoon if I could get him something. Hell, I don’t even remember what it was. I do know, I brought it in the next day and set it on his desk.
When he came in, he picked up the item and came over to my desk, where put his hand on my shoulder, and said:
“You’re the only person I know who always does what he says he’s going to do. The only one.”
Steve was that kind of a guy.
I will miss him.
To honor him, I will always do what I say I’m going to do.
For the rest of my life.
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