Gordon Bostwick Maurer (Epitaph)
———
Thirteen years ago there came here a city chap, trained in one of the great universities.
The other members of his class went to “big towns.”
He, with the best records of them all, wanted to begin the practice of medicine in a country village.
He had compiled a list of prospective communities. He looked over several and chose us.
An untried city college boy—with magic hands, a keen vision, and uncanny knowledge of both the human body and the soul which activates it.
Soon after arrival he was called upon to care for a life given up as lost. He saved it.
He began to save others. He worked day and night. When he did not have proper apparatus or appliances he built some. When the snows kept him from patients he constructed a snowmobile.
Neither storm nor night nor mud nor snow kept him from the sick.
He took people into his home. It became a veritable hospital.
The fame of the boy spread throughout the section. Men and women from all walks of life asked for his attention.
The community built a hospital that he and others might the better care for those who needed care, medication and operation.
He continued. When a tired body all but gave up, he took a year out and returned to Yale for special work that he might come home and serve better.
He had tired of city pastimes. The lure of the country had been breathed into his soul. Camp, rod and gun, open fires, life in great outdoors gave zest, relief, happiness.
He loved our hills, our mode of life; he knew our ambitions, he smiled at our shortcomings
He gave freely. Much of the work he did was without charge. Few knew the extent of his help to those who needed help. He served as few had ever served here before.
He was physician, parson, priest, confessor—we told him both our physical and mental troubles and he put us back on the road to reason and living.
Thirteen years he served. It was a life work worth while.
Today our hearts are numb at his loss, our senses befogged to know how to live without him. May we turn from the tragedy of the golden Indian summer morning that knew his death.
And in the bleak days of the approaching Thanksgiving season thank god for those thirteen years.
Yours truly, The Mountaineer.
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