"If you change your mind, just let me know," Scott told me before he went to bed Sunday night. "I wish I could go, but I'll be sitting on the beach in Miami," I said. "Have a great time. Catch some fish, and I'll see you when you get back." This was the last time I talked to Scott.

The next morning he was gone before I awoke. Always on the move and busy with his job with Anderson Consulting, Scott caught an early flight to New Orleans to work on a project for the week. He was traveling to work with his fishing gear so that he could go straight to his parents' Wisconsin lake home for a week of vacation.

Scott had asked me to meet him up there for a week of fishing for smallmouth, pike and walleye. I couldn't make the trip because I was going to Miami for a work conference. That Friday night, I grabbed a burger and a few beers with an old friend and fraternity brother of mine, Mark Willard. When I got home around 11 p.m., I decided to go to bed because I had to catch a morning flight out of town on Saturday.

The phone rang at around midnight. I answered, half-asleep, "Hello?"

"Yes sir, this is the police. Do you know Scott Sifferd?"

"Uhh, yeah, he's my roommate. Why?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Scott's been killed tonight in a car accident. We need to notify his parents, and we can't find their number."

"What? No! ...."

On Friday, September 22, 2000, Scott landed in Wisconsin and rented a car at the airport. While driving to his parents' lake home, he stopped on the way to help a gentleman drag a deer carcass off the road. He was trying to prevent an accident from happening.

After dragging the deer off the road, they began walking back to their cars on the shoulder of the dark Wisconsin highway. With their backs turned to oncoming traffic, a car swerved and hit Scott. It immediately knocked the life out of him. Scott was only 24 years old.

It was an accident. Scott wasn't paying attention. He was probably too caught up in conversation with the other gentleman about his upcoming week of vacation.

I lost my older brother to a car accident when I was 15. Now a dear friend was gone too. Although I had only known him for around five years, Scott was one of my best friends and favorite brothers.

We met when he rushed Lambda Chi Alpha, and found out we had similar hobbies. Duck hunting was the true passion. Actually, it was a crazed addiction, almost a sickness. We began duck hunting any chance we got.

Waking up at 4 a.m. became a habit during the months of November and December. Got class at 10 a.m.? No problem. Hunt until 8:30 a.m., leave by 9 a.m., and get to class just in time. But if the hunting was good, we'd just skip class. People called us crazy for waking up so early and heading out into the woods. They were right. We were crazy, but we loved it.

Unless you've been there, you'll never understand this. The duck marsh was a place where Scott found true happiness. Even on lousy hunting days. We always said that a bad day in the marsh was a lot better than a good day at school. There's nothing like sitting on a stool in the duck marsh, wearing camo and waders, smoking cigarettes with your buddies and shooting the shit. You could forget about all your worries and problems with the simple sight of a single duck in the distance. Even hearing the faintest quack would be enough to pick up a duck call and try and answer. And Scott was a damn fine duck caller too. Sometimes he called too much. Sometimes he didn't call enough. Regardless, he shot a good number of ducks through the years and was an ace with his Dad's Remington 870.

We hunted waterfowl anywhere we could: Hazel Creek Lake, Rebels Cove, Ted Shanks, Grand Pass, Fountain Grove and Eagle Bluffs. We first started hunting north of Kirksville at Hazel Creek Lake with Dan Hubbard in a small 12-foot jon boat and a dozen decoys. Some days I thought that the boat was going to sink because we had so much weight in it. Let me tell you, white caps splashing over the front of the boat is not good. Regardless, we were always having fun and eventually moved on to our honey hole at Rebels Cove.

I remember hunting Rebels Cove with Scott and Tyler Schmitt one afternoon. Scott was shooting Remington, I was shooting Winchester, and Tyler was shooting "Kodak". Scott shot one duck that afternoon, and if you've ever met Tyler, you'll know that we were entertained the entire time.

I remember when Scott bought a $100 motion wing RoboDuck decoy. We stayed up all night camping out at Rebels Cove, waiting for shooting time. We even put out our decoys at 1 a.m. just to make sure we got a primo spot. Scott was so sure that the RoboDuck decoy was going to be the key to success during the 1999 duck season. And it was a success, for about 2 hours, until he accidently blew it away while shooting at some low flying teal. And being the kind person that I am, I followed up his decoy shooting, and shot a couple teal out of the flock. I don't know if I've ever laughed as hard as I did that day. The motor of the decoy was still running on the top of the pole, while the entire decoy shell had been blown away into the marsh.

Fishing the local lakes around Kirksville was the highlight of our summers. Rick Schwarz had a jon boat and a pick-up truck. That's all we needed along with some cold beers and a pack of smokes for a morning or afternoon of fishing. Sometimes we'd fish all day long. Sometimes we'd fish all night long. It's dangerous fishing at night on a lake with your drunk buddies. If there's no moon, it can be practically pitch black. I remember fishing hooks stuck in hats, snagging lures, cursing, laughing, mosquitoes buzzing and even catching a lot of fish. Nothing like sitting on a lake at 5 a.m., drunk as a skunk, watching the sunrise, catching bass, smoking cigarettes and shooting the shit with your buddies.

Shooting the shit with Scott. Old Siff. That's something I can't do anymore.

But I can still remember him. To this day, I can hear Tyler hollering "SIFFFFFFFEEEEERD" when I think of him. I can hear him listening to Widespread Panic before going hunting. I can picture him in the duck blind with his Remington 870 shotgun. I can see him smoking a number while waiting for the birds to show up. I can see him laughing at stupid jokes. I can picture him drinking Guiness at the DuKum. I can see him shooting pool at TP's. I can picture him stumbling drunk at Pancake City. I can see the old Sunbird, the Cougar, the Cherokee, and the Pathfinder. I remember his dumpy room when he lived at the house. I remember road trips with him to Kirksville, Chicago, and St. Louis. I remember rooming with him in Kirksville. I remember graduation. I remember hunting, fishing and life in general with Old Siff.

I was asked to write this for Scott. I know it's short and fragmented. I know it doesn't even tell the story of him very well. But for me, it's a small personal reminder of my friend. If you ever knew Scott Sifferd, don't forget him. He loved his brothers, and he loved his friends.

If you never knew Scott, take this short profile and remember it. You never know when someone you love will be gone.

I can't even begin to remember all the great times I had with Scott. Looking at old photos brings back so many memories of the times I shared with him. It's sad how some of these times are so far away now. But they still remind me that Scott was more than my friend. He was my brother. Thank God for Scott Sifferd.

SIFFFFFFFEEEEERD!

- John Vieth, Phi-Psi 254