Clark ever the teacher, even in his twilight.

Byline: Bob Welch / The Register-Guard

I've long admired the quiet saints of the world, people who make a place richer - and yet don't demand attention for doing so. Thus, when I heard Wednesday that former University of Oregon President Robert Clark had died at 95, I felt a loss for our community.

But I also felt a personal loss, because the man had taught me, in our few times together, about dignity. About responsibility. About living beyond self.

I first met him two years ago. I'd called to ask if I might interview him. He politely declined. He had assumed I was seeking comments about UO-related issues. "I've made it a policy," he said quietly, "never to interfere with those who run the university."

I told him I was more interested in simply talking about him. Again, he politely declined. His memory was fading, he said almost apologetically; so was his eyesight.

I laid low for a few months, then called him again. Perhaps we could just talk, I suggested; not necessarily for a column. Just talk.

He was OK with that, but when I arrived at his bookish apartment at Washington Abbey on 10th Avenue, he was cautious at first. We talked about his growing up in Maywood, Neb., (population 300) and about his love of learning. He wore a cardigan and, with a thin mustache, reminded me of a now-gone grandfather of mine: Soft-spoken. Smart. And showing little memory lapse.

After the 90-minute interview, I asked if I might come back. He chuckled. "I don't know why you'd want to," he said. "Certainly there are more interesting subjects out there for you."

I came back. We talked about his time as UO president (1969 to 1975), how he'd essentially smoke-jumped into the raging fire of the Vietnam War. Students protested with vigor, at least once on his front lawn. Gov. Tom McCall wanted to bring in the National Guard. Clark said no. "McCall wet his pants and backed off," Keith Richard, the ex-UO archivist, would later tell me.

At the end of the second interview, Clark - ever the gentleman - walked me to me door. "Say," he said, "are you coming back?"

I did. We talked about what it was like to have been president of a prestigious university and then find yourself somewhat forgotten.

He lamented his failing health, but never complained. "It's frustrating, forgetting so much of what I once knew," said the man who had received a Guggenheim Fellowship. "Wildflowers, for example. I used to remember all their names."

He talked about how much he missed his wife, Opal. About his love of Oregon, family and poetry. "I used to be able to read so fast," he said. "Remember so much."

Then came one of the most memorable moments in my nearly 30 years of journalism. Knowing he liked Robert Frost, I simply said, "Whose woods these are I think I know." And stopped.

Clark's eyes twinkled, then he smiled slightly. "His house is in the village though," he said - and recited the rest of the poem, with passion and near-perfect pace.

I wrote the column. After that, he wrote me occasional notes, always the same in nature: Short. Sweet. Encouraging. He had a way of making you feel more important than you were.

He was forever the teacher who taught as much by example as by words - a leader who realized leadership isn't about hoarding power, but about serving others.

I last saw him May 20 at the Congregational Church. We sat next to each other before I gave a talk about a book I've written.

He was having difficulty walking; could I get him some ice cream? No, no, no; he didn't want to inconvenience me. He would get it himself. When, after about five minutes, he hadn't returned, I went looking for him.

There, I found the former president of the University of Oregon alone in the church's kitchen. He was washing his own dishes.

Bob Welch can be reached at 338-2354 or at [e-mail].