Recollections

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0><tr> <td valign="top" colspan=2 height=82 BGCOLOR="#003333" TEXT="#F7F7FF"> <div> <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FFFFFF" FACE="Arial" ><B>Georgia Region</B></FONT><B>     |     </B><A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Georgia Region"><B>home</B></A></div> <div> back to<B>  </B><A HREF="id18.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Hot Items"><B>Hot Items</B></A></div> <div> </div> </td> </tr><tr> <td valign="top" width=210 BGCOLOR="#003333" TEXT="#F7F7FF"> <div> <A HREF="letter_about_scott.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Letter about Scott">Letter about Scott</A></div> <div> <B>Recollections</B></div> <bR> </td> <td valign="top" height=398 width="100%" BGCOLOR="#006633" TEXT="#F7F7FF"> <bR> <bR> <bR> <div> Scott Clark 6/10/59- 6/6/08</div> <div> NSTRA Judge</div> <div> “Hey, who’s the Marlboro Man?”, I asked Ricky Gunnyon about fifteen years ago during a wet, cold, rainy trial about 50 years south of Atlanta. “I don’t know, but I think he’s here to plant birds or something.” Ricky supposed right back at me- head face-down to avoid a splash of sleet filled air. The dude did look pretty cool! He had his waxed cotton riding coat on, black cowboy hat, black shades, black mustache and looked about as cowboy as anyone can and be east of the Mississippi. Scott was there to plant birds off horseback for Bob Stapleton’s Trial in the balmy Georgia January sleet storm. That was how I met Scott Clark and not long after that, Melissa. </div> <bR> <div> I’ve got to smile when I think back to all the years he rode along behind me watching, Rocket, Ruby, Jette, Bo, Peaches and Ace. I think his favorite was Rocket, the cantankerous, non-backing Brittany with an attitude that I loved like no other. One day, Rocket came off the line, flew to the end of the field and locked up, pretty as can be. Scott was right on his tail, pushing his horse to keep up. Rocket looked a zillion bucks…..for about 30 seconds, then he kind of looked a little behind him, then looked all around himself. Scott said “Rocket don’t you do it!” to no avail. The knothead picked up the bird and flew back to me, handed it over very nicely, and said “Hey, fat boy, try to keep up!” Scott nearly fell off his horse as I inquired as to the status of my “find”. Later, Rocket backed, once again a long ways from me. No one would hold him as it was acknowledged as a good way to lose a finger. But Scott eased in from the rear and slowly took hold of the collar, sweating like a stuck pig. The man had some cajones. </div> <bR> <div> Another day he may have saved my life. I was trying to make the cut for the Region Championships and needed one more bird. A marked bird flew within thirty feet of me and my dog didn’t see it! What a great opportunity to make the cut! Right about then the other handler came marching up the field with his dog and hacked him right into the marked bird. Of course, the bird was taken out, thereby protecting the lead the other handler had with a different dog of his. I wasn’t the calm, unassuming fount of sagacity then that I am now…..I emptied my gun, set it down, and told Scott there was going to be a butt-whipping in about two minutes, and proceeded to head after the other handler. I can still remember Scott saying, “Randy, you really don’t want to do that, no kidding, Randy, don’t do it, and turn back around here……..” And I remember wondering why that stupid horse was constantly in my way. After ten or fifteen feet of listening to Scott, fighting a stupid horse, and deep breathing, I came to my senses. I picked up my gun and headed off for another bird. I never did find it, and I mended fences with the other handler over the years, but most of all, I realized Scott Clark was there for me, once again. </div> <bR> <div> It’s hard for me to think of trialing without him in the memory. Like the time I bought a new horse and the dang thing was pushing me all over the place. He was a big old boy, a retired Roping Horse, whatever that is. That sucker wouldn’t do anything for me- because he knew he didn’t have to- I was scared of him. Scott calmly asked me to go get the horse during lunch one day at my house. He slowly and calmly saddled old Zeke up, slipped on his big, old cowboy spurs, cinched up pretty good and eased in to the saddle. He looked at me, winked and asked if I minded if he took Zeke for a jog. Zeke felt the bit and the spurs about the same time and some wild, crazy, black hatted guy screamed in his ear! Zeke took off flying down the pines- grass flying- out of sight. We could barely see him make the turn, but we saw the hat fly down to the horse’s rump, and heard Scott yelling at the top of his lungs. Zeke was panting, lathered up and wide-eyed when he got back to the gallery. He knew he’d been ridden by someone who wasn’t going to take any grief. That was the best rein-broke horse I’ve ever ridden- a different horse after that, no doubt. (Whenever I went to saddle him up, he’d be looking over my shoulder for Scott, I swear!)</div> <bR> <div> He was the horse master. We still laugh about the time Scott was riding one of Jimmy Johnson’s young quarter horses. It was late in the day and the Georgia sun was beating down. The spaghetti and bread and cake was beginning to settle and we saw Scott loop his right leg over the saddle horn and make himself real comfortable, easing along behind a pointer (thereby in no danger of having to write down anything on the score card). Glenn Johnson just happened to mention that these horses had a real bad aversion to radios and squawking coming out of the saddle bag. An anonymous Georgia boy grabbed the radio and yelled something to Scott about a bye dog, or marked bird or something else and boy, the rodeo was on! That horse spun away from the noise, Scott hung on and the horse spun back around and took off. It took Scott about ten seconds to disabuse that horse of the notion of running off, but the damage was done. The “good old boys” laughed about that one all day- some so hard they had tears in their eyes. No one in their right mind would confess to the deed and since Jeff Welker is a good friend, I won’t either. </div> <bR> <div> Scott bragged on his family all the time and, when I met Melissa the first time, I knew why. That woman loved that man- it was obvious the second you saw them together. They came to every trial for many years until children required more of Melissa’s attention and we didn’t see her but few and far between. When Scott was diagnosed with cancer, Melissa only talked of recovery and the future. She was a rock. Not many men find one like her. </div> <bR> <div> Scott died at 0430 6 June 2008. </div> <bR> <div> Don’t be sad for Scott. Not only is it hard not to grin when I think about him, I’m a little envious of him right now. Melissa shared with me how she and Scott dedicated their lives to Jesus over the last few years. That means he’s living right now in the presence God! If that don’t get you fired up, your wood’s wet! We know there is no crying, no tears or pain- only pure, unadulterated Joy. Forever. Melissa said it was a close thing for Scott to come to this saving knowledge so late in his life. Close or not, he did it- and I am grateful he did. At any rate, another good thing about all that is the certain knowledge that I will see Scott again. We both hope to see you there, too. I sometimes wonder if there are bird dogs, or horses, in heaven. </div> <bR> <div> Did I tell you about the time Scott………..</div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>