Eulogy: Dr. Minor E. Gordon
March 18, 1994
Even the phone listings fit the picture, for his were 1111 and 2345 before designer numbers were thought of.
He did many things before others, for his was a world of fun, and joy and imagination -- and serving.
Minor Elliott Gordon, M.D.
He lived 79 years with a bounce in his heart, a smile in his vast and creative mind.
He followed, a mite reluctantly early, in the footsteps of his father, Minor Herbert Gordon, Claremore's doctor, featured in a PBS documentary, a founder of Oklahoma.
The senior physician farmed the bottoms of the Verdigris -- a huge operation with barns full of draft animals, now beneath the Oologah. He practiced from a buggy, and an office up a long climb of wooden stairs.
When Minor Herbert and Pearl were married, they lived in the Sequoyah Hotel for a time before they moved to the new home at 4th and Seminole. There the sons, M.E. and Jack were born. Minor, when referring to his brother, often added, "He's the brother I would choose if I could pick one." They were buddies through life.
They rode ponies to school and on their paper routes. In the '30s the Gordon boys operated steam powered thrashing machines, put the money away to pay for educations in medicine and law -- nickel a bushel for oats, dime for wheat.
The sons inherited the Gordon Brothers buildings, and the one known as the Rexall included the medical office where the senior Gordon practiced -- and where Minor took over when he graduated from the University of Arkansas School of Medicine in 1942, starting practice in '46.
He served his country in wartime in the Pacific. His service to the community and his family was the serious part of his life.
He was born to be a physician of his time, stately, with a dignity and bearing of final authority when need be, the warmest manner, brightest smile and quickest wit when appropriate. He cared.
During those years of practice -- and the office changed little, a new picture of a bird dog added here or there, but never a water heater -- he delivered more than 3,000 babies. For 30 years June Musgrove was at his beck and call.
He never sent a statement.
He built a home not far from the Gordon House for Elizabeth, the wise and beautiful lady from the north he met while an intern at St. John's. She was his understanding partner, the Mayor to many, Liz to many, mother to Elliott and Minor.
"Minor asked me one day as I was leaving the house when I'd be back, and I told him: like you, after the last brace."
Minor was uncommon in thought and deed. His was a personality unique, using the word in its real sense. Nothing ever was happenstance, but planned with smile and cunning when the chores at hand were otherwise boring.
The name of a bird dog ... the sign on the horse trailer ... and in the FIELD ... how long Agenda would stay pointed before the judge made him flush ... Minor's projects, his fun.
A bright red scarf that flowed from around his neck off the horse's rump, one Liz knitted ...
His bird dogs were center of his pleasures for years. Rogers County was winner all right, but Crossmatch was the high point of success. Like his owner, Mack was uncommon, and it seemed Minor's great thrill when the liver-speckled dog was going out of view, in a wrong direction, and the late instructions "Go get him, Albert" bellowed.
Mack was the center of many a project, the winning of the National Championship he coveted. He worked his fertile mind to provide every edge. Successfully. And when it was over he continued with art in drawing and statue.
He enjoyed the dog's offspring, and nothing more than the win of the American Field Quail Futurity, no accident either.
When projects seemed to be running out with Mack after the dog's death, he envisioned him standing full size in bronze in front of the Field Trial Hall of Fame at Grand Junction, a covey of bronze quail flying in front of him. There he stands today, the brightest spot in the most hallowed place of the sport.
There was a project of the coon skit coat, months of time and dollars invested in finding the tailor ... and with outstanding results -- crown collar, the tail split to cover the saddle.
He wore it at Blue Mountain in the rain and mud one morning when an unintended straight man suggested the great frock would get wet. "Never bothered the coon."
He would quote Chicken Smart to Kendrick questioning this or that: "There ain't nothin on the square."
And two Tuesday mornings ago, with snow restricting him to Claremore from a young friend's service: "The young may; the old must."
He looked out the window of a plantation house in south Georgia and watched the helpers saddle his horse, and sat that evening hushed in front of a fire, flushed with the spirit of sport and friends.
All class. A gentleman.
When he went to Florida last week, it was to enjoy living, to enjoy an island resort, a companion who gave him attention and reason.
As he lived, an understanding and faithful friend, caring father and brother, a rare mind bubbling with curiosity, he also went away, on the deck of a yacht, hand raised in gesture to the captain.
While he practiced, he received a magazine, "Best of the Best." He sent it along. He could have been included.
Bobby Kennedy borrowed words to speak of his slain brother, and I borrow them to speak of our friend:
When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars.
He will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
and pay no worship to the garish sun.
First Christian Church
Claremore, Oklahoma
March 18, 1994[(PDF scan)](/img/Dr. Minor E. Gordon eulogy - March 18, 1994.pdf)