Beloved Physician, they laid "Doc" to rest last week, in a green spot hard by a friendly pine tree at Humboldt Cemetery, just past a stone's throw from the old St. Elizabeth's Hospital he served so well for nearly 40 years, and in sight of the new St. Elizabeth's Hospital of which he was so proud. To hundreds of people in the rich lands of Humboldt, Lake Lenore M iddle Lake, Pilger, Watson and communities with a 50 mile radius of Humboldt "Doc" would only mean only one man, James Murrray Ogilvie M.D. Doctor of Medicine. When his tired heart quietly stopped beating early last Sunday morning, the news was quickly passed from one person to another. A whispered "We lost Doc this morning" from a church usher, a red eyed waitress in a local cafe, "The Doctor passed away", a service station attendant Doc's gone." Something fine and strong had tone out of the community and people knew it.

I first saw Dr. Ogilvie one sunny fall morning in 1923 as I sat, perched with my father upon a creaking, horse drawn wagon box of grain just outside Lake Lenore. We were moving up a gentle hill toward "one mile corner" when an ancient Model T whipped round the corner, and came bounding toward us in a swirl of dust, curtains whipping out on both sides like beating bird's wings.

King and Queen began to prance, then the touring car slowed to a crawl, pulled over to give us plenty of room, and a sandy haired young man poked his head around the corner of the windshield to say, "sorry, guess it's these curtains that frightened 'em'. We rolled slowly as he bumped back into the middle of the road and continued, flapping and banging away toward the Middle Lake hills. "New Doctor," my father informed me, "Dr. Ogilvie". It was the first time I saw Doc, but it certainly was not the last, for I was privileged to come to know him and his family rather well over the years.

In 1923, the Lake Lenore district contained a great deal of treed, unbroken land. Roads to remote farms were little more than outright wagon trails, yet winter and summer, rain or snow, Doc travelled those roads, sometimes in one of a series of cars he was to use up in rapid succession.

In winter by sleigh, or cutter across Lake Lenore's 20 mile sweep. To Verndale, Middle Lake, or to Daylesford with his friend, Section foreman Charles Leachman, by jigger, to be picked up with a cutter.

He operated on kitchen tables, by coal oil lamp, with mirrors collected to reflect as much light as possible. Sleep was something he caught between calls. If his people needed him, he got to them as quickly as he could, and he stayed until he was sure he had done all he could for them. But

But if he was their physician, he was more, he was their friend. "It's going to be alright now," they would say, as the sandy-haired young man with the black bag bounded out of car or sleigh, "Doc’s here!"

I was to hear those same reassuring words myself in a few months following the first time that I had seen Dr. Ogilvie. A giant Cannon Firecracker had failed to explode, and with the unconcern of an eight year old, I had picked it up to see why. For almost two hours they tell me Doc worked on my eyes while the family held lamps and mirrors. Fifteen years later an RCAF doctor was to testify to the expertness and skills of Dr. Ogilvie when he told me "you have 20-20 young fellow!"

When, in 1926, Dr. Ogilvie moved to Humboldt to be near the hospital there, it meant only that he had to travel further to reach some of his patients. Unceasing, day and night, the people called on him; unfailingly, unselfishly, day and night, he answered.

Now, as I stood among the throng in the quiet cemetery, I saw the manifestation of Dr. Ogilvie's years of service as his people thronged to honor him.

They talk about doctor's pay. One suntanned farmer said, "I remember when our first boy was born. I drove into town to get Doc; I can't pay you, Doc, I told him, and I don't know when I’ll be able to, but my Mrs. is awful bad. He didn't say a thing, just grabbed his bag. On the way out the door, he stopped suddenly and said, "where's your coat?" I told him I didn't have one, thing were tough those times; "Lord, man," he said, "you can't go running around like that" and he peeled off his own coat and gave it to me. "You know what?" The farmer shook his finger, "that was his fee for delivering that boy, yes, his fee was that I was given his coat!"

It was only one of many, many things that were heard on every side. Others, big suntanned men of the land, stood in the hot sun, and with their powerful, work hardened hands unashamedly wiped the tears from their eyes. A tribute indeed. They don't weep easily, these men, but they I wept for Doc now as his suture needle had never been able to make them weep.

One 16 year old hitch hiked from Saskatoon to Humboldt to attend the service. "He was our doctor and our friend," he said. It was reason enough for the boy to start out on the hot highway, and to those of us who knew Doc, it was reason enough .

Yes, they laid Doc Ogilvie to rest, hard by that green pine, in the cemetery by the side of the road you take to Lake Lenore, secure in the affection of the people who had claimed this native son of Ontario for their own, and if the people were asked to write an epitaph, I somehow feel that it would be:
"Everything’s going to be alright, Doc's here."