When Jake was about six years old, he walked into my office. One of the benefits of working at home was being available to my children.

We chatted for a while about whatever was on his mind. He patted Buster on the head and headed for the door.

“I’ll be back,” he said, as he pulled the door closed behind him.

I went back to work.

One morning I came downstairs to find Jake gazing at his costume box deep in thought. I asked what was up.

“I want to make a Dr. Octopus costume, but I can’t figure out how to make the mechanical arms,” he said. We had just seen the most recent Spider-Man movie.

“Let’s go to the store,” I said.

One of his early favorites was the Wicked Witch of the West from the Wizard of Oz.

An even younger Jake had a black cape and a pointed hat that he wore around the house. He carried a broom and wore Alex’s ruby slippers whenever he could—always on the wrong feet.

The only time he took off the costume was when he had to leave the house. Even then, it was only because his mother required it. The ruby slippers were left neatly by the front door and went back on his feet as soon as he came home.

So I took the family to see Wicked at Baltimore’s Hippodrome Theatre. Jake was mesmerized. He stared wide-eyed during the finale of the first act. Elphaba climbed on her broom, rose up in the air and belted out Defying Gravity.

Jake looked at me and said, “I love shows.”

Once we were seated, Jake noticed a sign above the table. He asked his mother what it said.

She looked at the sign and hesitated.

“It says no shirt, no service,” she said. “It’s to make sure people dress properly when they come here.”

Jake looked perplexed. He looked at the sign again and looked at his mother. He could read more than she knew.

“Mom, that’s not what it says,” he chirped. “It says MEN, no shirt, no service. Women, no shirt, free food.”

Then he pondered the meaning of that. He thought about his mother’s love for a bargain. His eyes got wide and he shouted at the top of his lungs, “Mom, you can get a free lunch!”

That was the last time we went to Hooters.

Sometimes Jake’s curiosity got him into trouble. He learned to use his mother’s eBay account to order toys he wanted without permission.

Other times, we could use it to motivate him. Jake was fascinated with guns in elementary school. There were no guns in our house. I had never even held a gun, let alone owned one. But Jake was curious about things that were dangerous.

Other times, Jake channeled curiosity on his own. When he was in middle school, he started his own You Tube channel. He posted unboxing videos for products he acquired or how-to videos on technology problems he solved. He monetized the channel to earn money.

With his YouTube money, he started to buy computer components and built his own Minecraft server. He hosted that for a few years to make more money.

When it was time for high school, Jake decided he wanted to go to Harford Technical High School where they had a cyber security program that interested him.

His mother and I took him to the school’s orientation. We were told they admitted about 25 percent of the students who applied.

About two weeks before the application was due, I mentioned to Jake that we needed to get it done.

“I already submitted it,” he said.

“You wrote an essay and completed the application yourself?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said confidently.

“That might have been something to run by your mother or me,” I said.

I needn’t have worried. Jake got an interview and was accepted into the school.

During elementary school, Jake spent his spare time outside playing with friends. When he got to middle school, he spent more time in his room on his computer. He played games with friends online.

Once he reached high school, there was another change.

When I walked by his room I no longer saw games on his screen. Instead, I saw lectures.

I asked what he was watching.

“Physics lectures from MIT,” he replied.

That surprised me.

I once asked Jake what prompted his interest in science.

“Star Trek,” he replied.

As a Trekkie myself, I smiled.

When I asked him the same question years later, he said, “I wanted to understand how things work.”

Jake’s newfound interest in physics evolved into a project. He wanted to build a nuclear fusion reactor.

As a parent, that raised some red flags—not the least of which was, “You’re going to blow us all up.”

I wanted more information.

I learned that Princeton University was at the forefront of fusion research, and it was only about two hours away. So I made an appointment for Jake and me to tour the Princeton Plasma Physics Laboratory.

Jake had grown into a quiet teen. He kept mostly to himself.

We sat through a presentation at Princeton that was interesting, but basic stuff.

“I already knew most of that,” Jake said.

I pushed him out of his comfort zone.

“Let’s go talk to these people,” I said. “These are leaders in the field. Let’s tell them what you’re trying to build and see what they have to say.”

We walked up and introduced ourselves. After about two sentences, young Jake was back.

Jake, who barely said two sentences to most people, was fully engaged with one of the leading physicists in the world. I didn’t understand much of what they said. When the conversation was over, I asked one question.

“What do I need to do to make sure this is safe?”

The physicist answered and I was satisfied.

Jake built his reactor like Johnny Cash built his car—one piece at a time from parts scavenged from a number of different sources. Each time Jake got a payment from YouTube or a birthday gift, another piece arrived.

There were several failed tests but, just before Jake graduated from Harford Tech, he turned the reactor on and it worked.

Jake entered the University of Maryland as a physics major. During his first couple years, his interest turned more toward math. He graduated with a Bachelor of Science in Mathematics.

So the boy who didn’t ask for my help to write his high school application essay—where I could have been of some use—is now the man who wants my help with Homotopy Types of Spaces of 2-dimensional Functorial Field Theories.

I didn’t know what that meant. I edited the paper. I still don’t know what it means.

But if you want to know, just Google that title and you’ll find his paper on the University of Oregon website.

Jake’s current fascination surprised me again. Not long after moving to Oregon, he texted me one night.

“How dangerous is hiking at night? There’s a six-mile hiking trail to the top of Oregon’s third tallest mountain. I’m tempted to do it at night and get to the top at sunrise.”

Jake was not an outdoorsman. Neither was I. I offered the best advice I could. Bring light, food, water and bear spray.

With the same persistence he used to source parts for his reactor, Jake acquired the things he would need. One night, I got another text just after midnight. It was just a photo from the trailhead.

About an hour later, I got another text.

“Never mind. I vastly overestimated my endurance.”

I figured that was that. I was wrong.

He tried new things that didn’t always go as he planned, learned from each experience and kept at it until he was successful.

I regularly get photos from the summit of a mountain, a desolate glacier or a campsite with a spectacular view.

With each picture, I say the same thing Mr. Spock would say.

“Fascinating.”

Jake’s story is one of those that matter—the lessons from our family that reflect what the Alex Lebovic Foundation carries forward.

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