Posted by Henry B. Stelling, Jr. on March 22, 2004:

For those of you who don?t know me, I?m Chris, Barbara and Tom?s youngest and it is my privilege to speak to you today about my dad. I want to begin by having each of you close your eyes for just a few moments. Try to remember the first time you met Thomas Ryan Clark. He probably smiled at you that terrific smile of his. His blue eyes ?crinkled? when he smiled. Please keep your eyes closed. Some of you met him as plebes at West Point. Some of you met him later in the Army. Some at the Atomic Energy Commission or in Albuquerque or Las Vegas. Or in Rotary or at an Assistance League function with Mom. Wherever it was, I?m certain that he made an indelible impression on you. As you are remembering during this service, take hold of that moment and remember his face, his smile, his vigor, his friendship, his guidance, his humanity. Okay, now even the generals may open their eyes!!! There are so many things I didn?t know until recently about Dad. It wasn?t until about two years ago that I learned he?d won the Bronze Star in the Korean Conflict. I did know that he was a Washington State swimming Champion in high school, but I didn?t know until I completed his obituary, which he started three years ago, that he lettered in Track at the University of Kansas and won the Big Six in the mile and two-mile. Throughout his life, Dad loved to swim. I won?t soon forget the two of us driving over to the indoor pool we belonged to in Maryland ? in the dead of winter, for an hour of swimming. When we were done, the two of us would emerge from the building, our wet hair froze quickly, we said little to each other, but we were father and son. I did know that he was passionate about his family and his work, though sometimes as a kid, I wondered whether the later meant more than the former. He loved his work in the nuclear weapons field and he felt strongly that he and his colleagues over the years made an important contribution to the reduction of nuclear weapons in the world. When he told me this, I was struck by the contradiction that my dad, whose life career was making nuclear bombs, strove to have them eliminated from the world. For Dad, soldiering was a noble profession, and only a soldier knows the horrors of conflict. Every time Jimmy Carter, a former nuclear submarine officer, said ?Nuculer? and every time George W. Bush, our current President says ?Nuculer? Dad just cringed. He could excuse a Texas Republican for his ignorance, but not a fellow nuclear weapons officer. And that?s perhaps why he didn?t vote for Carter. When I was thirteen, Dad retired from active duty in the Army and our family gathered in Dr. Glen T Seaborg?s office for the presentation of the Legion of Merit to dad. Dr. Seaborg, of course, was the Chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission at the time, and the discoverer of at least three atomic elements. In any event, I over heard the Chairman tell Mom that Dad was one of the most brilliant, intelligent and gifted men he had ever had the pleasure working with. As I grew older and matured, I came to share that assessment of my father. Duty, Honor, Country were not just words to this West Point graduate, they were his code. I remember also at age thirteen in 1968 one evening sitting with Dad alone at our kitchen table in Maryland. More and more young American service men were being killed in Vietnam. I don?t remember what prompted our conversation, but I do recall tears dripping from my eyes asking Dad why our Nation sent our soldiers to a far away place to die. I?ll never forget his answer: ?Because when your friends ask for help, you give it to them.? I will never forget him saying that to me as long as I live. His words to me were probably the best definition of who he was. ?Because when your friends ask for help, you give it to them.? I know that I will never be the man that my Dad was. He was a gem. He really was a quiet person. He mostly let Mom do all of the talking. But when he had something to offer, it was not only precise, but also, often intense. In my twenties and very early thirties, after personal set backs or relationship failures, I found emotional comfort flying home to Mom and Dad?s in Albuquerque or Las Vegas. On one such trip, Dad and I were out doing errands and as we got close to their home, he told me to turn the wrong way and then park. This was very unusual and I soon found myself in deep conversation with Dad about my future personal life. I was thirty or thirty-one. And this became a defining moment in my life as we talked about his marriage, about marriage, and about the need to be married. He said to me and I quote verbatim: ?You only have the right to be selfish once in your life. And that is when you choose a mate.? I still think of those words today and share them with friends who perhaps are involved with the wrong people or who have recently divorced and are lost. I will never forget these words and I will share them with my son and daughter as they enter adulthood. ?You only have the right to be selfish once in your life. And that is when you choose a mate.? Those of you who know my Dad knew him not to be the selfish type. But he certainly was when he chose Mom. And that?s why Tommy chose Bonnie, why Kathy chose Craig, why I chose Mary, and recently why Colleen chose Ron. Many of you knew Dad to be your most vocal champion and advocate. If he could help you land a better job, he did. If he could help further your career, he did. If you needed help in a time of loss, he found it for you. Months ago, when Mom broached the subject with me about selling their house and moving to something smaller, I asked her if such a move would be any easier five years from now. The answer was obvious and soon after plans took shape to sell their house and move to La Vida Llena. Since mid-December, my brother Tom, my sister Kathy and I have made numerous trips to go through stuff, to throw stuff, to pack stuff, to store stuff. I figure that I?ve made 9 and ? 400 mile trips back and forth from Colorado Springs to Albuquerque since mid-December. The last drive down was the least planned and the least expected. But I know that Dad knows that his family of children, grand-children, nieces and nephews, Doug and Trish and Phil, and his family of friends are taking care of his wife, Barbara. Fred, thank you especially. I spoke with Jim Walther this past Friday. Jim is the Director of the National Atomic Museum for which dad served as President. Jim told me that Dad?s lasting legacy to the museum was his forward vision, which forced the National Atomic Museum to focus on the future without funding from Sandia or the DOE. Dad understood that the Museum needed to plan for self-sufficiency if it were to survive. And Jim reported to me in our conversation that the Museum is well on its way thanks to his persuasive voice. Dad was deeply religious. In the last years he devoted himself to the establishment of a new church, Hope Episcopal, Kathy Newman?s church. She tells me that his early commitment to sound financial foundations has ensured that His church will prosper and thrive. Dr. Hallett operated on Dad in 1998 at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. They became fast friends and Jeb still keeps in touch. He later moved back to Bangor Maine to establish a vascular program in Eastern Maine and Dad contributed generously to his effort because Jeb is the best. My cousin Doug told me of his recent visit to Dad - a couple of weeks ago. Doug went over to Mom and Dad?s and spoke at length with Mom. Finally asked where dad was. He was lying down after a long day of dialysis. Doug said that Dad was fully dressed, lying down, shoes on, hat on, petting Muffin their dog beside him. Dad opened his eyes, saw Doug said HI, said, I guess I?m home and should take my hat off. Closed his eyes, continued petting muffin. I close with this prayer, which my Mom gave to my dad, and for reasons unknown to me, was always on Dad?s bathroom sink mirror. ?Jabez cried out to the God of Israel, ?Oh, that you would bless me and enlarge my territory! Let your hand be with me, and keep me from harm so that I will be free from pain.? And God granted Dad?s request.? Good-bye, my friend.

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