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Roachdale, Indiana
About Kimber Plemons




Behind him a wide open sky and the sagebrush blows
Around him the ground is covered with the last of the snows.

His batwings well worn, the Stetson's on square.
The ol' faded kerchief is knotted to keep out the cold air.

A bald face calf, lay across his broad shoulders.
It's mama was lost in the cold and the boulders.

Why he paused for the camera, it ain't perfectly clear.
He has a cowboy's shy grin, not exactly ear to ear.

The man worked at the Old 19 for my Pa.
Hundreds of cattle a day he saw.

Just doin' his job, he'd rescued an early calf.
To call him a hero would make him laugh.

That he rode back to the ranch with the orphan on his horse,
Was my romantic notion this was shattered of course.

Pa set me straight. "Naw," he said with a crease in his expression,
"They threw 'im in the Jeep for a bottle feedin' session!"

© 2004, Kimber Plemons
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without the author's written permission.

Kimber told us
: I have a treasure trove of black and white photos given to me by my grandparents. My grandfather, W.O. Potter, ranched in Elko, Nevada and at Diamond Bar Ranch, California. One of the photos looks like this:

The day I learned the truth about the orphan, the little girl fantasy I had about the photo came to an end. In my grown up brain I heard tires screeching. Pa was so serious when he said, "Naw, we threw him in the jeep for a bottle feedin' session," I burst into laughter. It was simply a story that needed to be told. I realized I had to ask more questions about the reality of the ranching life my grandparents had.





About Kimber Plemons:

When the events of a clear sunny Sunday needed to be thoughtfully documented, I began writing with purpose. When the words got to the paper, a life lesson was revealed. This event, because it happened in the family ropin’ pen, caused the words to be influenced by guys like, Mr. Baxter Black, Mr. Waddie Mitchell and others. The words began rhyming from the bottom of the page and worked their way up. Not very long after that, other true life stories began finding their way to the paper. Each of them had their own lines to laugh with or moral to ponder. Suddenly, I became a cowgirl poet, but only I know it.

So excited with the words on the page, I shared them with the man of my dreams. "That’s nice honey, what’s for dinner?" So much for the resounding response I was expecting! My mother, hearing these words, swelled with pride, not for the first time in my life, but now for the poet that she bore. Her unrelenting question to me became, "What are you going to do with that?"

My page of rhyming words surprised my closest friends too. Invitations to recite these words around the campfire began to come. That is when the confidence began to leave! The pages were soon placed in sheet protectors, securely clicked into a three ring binder and stored away. This cowardly action though, failed to prevent the flow of ideas which came from the (sometimes) ironic nature of the events or people around me. For example, the time that man of mine decided to take a ride at ten o’clock one Saturday night, or when things went really western on a New Year’s Day ride. The encouragement, from those I dared share the stories with, finally led to a very special Fall evening around a campfire where forty or so tired trail riders gathered to listen to my brand of cowgirl poetry. The applause and laughter surprised and moved me.

In addition to my love of words, I am Tom’s wife, Weston’s mom, Jackie and Danny’s daughter, Pa and G. Deenie’s granddaughter, a paint gelding’s rider, several riding student’s coach, one of Indiana’s 4-H and Open horse show judges, a board member for The Special Olympics-Equestrian, a not-very-many-awards-winning horse trainer, one of the school’s substitute teachers, the subject of several loving friends’ informal fan club and now an honored cowgirl poet from Roachdale, Indiana.



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