---

Larry McWhorter 
left behind many loving family members and friends,
March 19, 2003.

I'll Meet You at the Throne

Dear friend we’ve been through many miles and years,

We know each other so well.

There’s stories between us that bring smiles and tears

And secrets we’ll never tell.

But the One who has known us before we were born

And gave us each other as friends,

Will call one to Heaven and leave one behind,

But that’s not where fellowship ends.

Chorus: I’ll meet you at the Throne,

Where our crowns we’ll lay at His feet.

Let us never forget there’s a rendezvous set

Where once again we’ll meet.

We’ll sing, ‘Holy, holy’ and ‘Worthy is He’

Who has called unto Himself His own,

Be it first you or me, let us hear now agree,

I’ll meet you at the Throne.

If I go before you please don’t be despaired,

It’s where I long to be,

The mansion is finished my Lord has prepared

And there it waits for me.

All the angelic beings and saints gone before,

Will shout when those gates I walk through.

In heaven there’s plenty of room for one more,

And your place is waiting there, too.

Chorus:  I’ll meet you at the Throne,

Where our crowns we’ll lay at His feet.

Let us never forget there’s a rendezvous set

Where once again we’ll meet.

We’ll sing, ‘Holy, holy’ and ‘Worthy is He’

Who has called unto Himself His own,

Be it first you or me, let us hear now agree,

I’ll meet you at the Throne.

by Larry McWhorter

---

Larry shared the above poem with us in September, 2002, in preparation for a feature about his friend Jean Prescott, who sings this song on her album, Tapesty of the West.

Read more about Larry and tributes to him on our tribute page.

 

 

About Larry McWhorter
A Few Poems
Book and Recordings

January, 2003
Page Two:
  Some special efforts for a special person 

About Larry McWhorter

Reared on ranches in the Texas Panhandle, Larry McWhorter learned the cowboy way of life from his father and other men like him.  Like most young cowboys, he had his ideals of cowboy life cemented into his being by the written works of Will James, Ed Lemmon, Andy Adams, etc.

After finishing high school and graduating from a ranch and feedlot operations course at Clarendon College in Clarendon, Texas, McWhorter pursued his dream of working for big outfits and living the pure cowboy life. These experiences provided a rich treasury of memories that have found their way into Larry's writings. It is life from a cowpuncher's point of view and not that of a rancher's. "You can ranch from a pickup or a four wheeler, but you're not 'punchin' cows' unless you're horseback."

A cowboy's respect for the individuality of people, horses and cattle, and the bond formed with them, is at the heart of each story and poem. McWhorter's style of prose is that of a painter's imagery which puts the reader or listener in the saddle looking at life between the ears of a horse, feeling the bite of the north wind or witnessing the rise of a spring morning sun.

Larry made his home in Weatherford, Texas with his wife, Andrea, and their daughter, Abigail. He ran a small outfit there and was a favorite performer at many cowboy and Western heritage events all over the United States.

 

A Few Poems   

The Red Cow

Gate Session

Johnny Clare

 

All poems © 2000, Larry McWhorter, reprinted with his permission from 
Cowboy Poetry: Contemporary Verse, published by 
Cowboy Miner Productions, Phoenix, Arizona

 

The Red Cow

"I almost put my rope on her once
But then I thought it through.
I had my day in the sun long ago
So I left her for someone like you."

"Sounds to me like she run you off,"
I said to the silver-haired man.
"Why there ain't a cowbrute anywhere
Too much for a hand worth his sand."

We were talking 'bout the Ol' Red Cow,
Legend 'round these parts,
And it's been said she'd put fear and dread
In the punchiest cowboys' hearts.

An old barren cow who'd escaped all the drives
Because she was big, mean and clever.
The manager said she was twelve years old.
The old man said she'd been there forever.

Now legends don't scare a boy of nineteen
Who thinks he's the pride of the nation
And I'm thinkin', "Now, if I pen this ol' cow
I'll sure have a good reputation."

"Where do I find this renegade beast?
This scarlet scourge of the prairie.
Why, I'll lead the hussy through the bunkhouse door.
You'll think she was raised on a dairy.

"I'll bring her in and she'll bear a grim
'Cause she'll know that she's had her lickin'
For I'm a hand from the faraway land
Where the hoot owls romance the chickens."

A gleam appeared in the old man's eye
And he was grinnin' a little too much.
"Why, I'll tell you where the Red Cow lives
And while you're gone I'll carve you a crutch.

"Oh, and give me your address 'fore you leave,
You'll want me to write your folks."
I left him there to amuse hisself,
I didn't care for his little jokes.

The Sabbath sun caught me ridin' Ol' Gus
Sneakin' through the brush like a ghost
'Til we come to the mouth of the canyon
Where the outlaw had been seen the most.

We come upon on old dirt tank
'Bout halfway up that draw
And standin' there for her mornin' drink
Was the biggest cow I ever saw.

Her horns weren't ripped, she wore no brand
Her ears were long and slick
And I thought of a big ol' rhinoceros
I'd seen in a Tarzan flick.

Well, I knew if I showed myself to her now
Back up the canyon she'd go
So I eased up high so's I could drive her down
And I'd catch her in the big flat below.

Well, I cinched up a notch and shook out a loop
And pulled my hornknot tight,
Then I eased Ol' Gus to the edge of the brush
And showed myself, ready to fight.

She jerked up her head when we come in the clear
And a startled look filled her eyes.
I had to grin for my little ruse
Caught the wily Red Cow by surprise.

She's scared and confused with no place to hide.
I've wrecked her psyche, I think.
But she stood there, sized up her latest of pests,
Then calmly went back to her drink.

We sat there and stared at each other awhile
'Til the Red Cow had drunk her fill
Then she stretched her back and ever so slowly
Started walkin', towards me, up the hill.

Why her stride betrayed no fear at all.
It was like she'd been through this before.
'Bout then I started to doubt my own smarts
And I pondered the Red Cow's lore.

Her slow steady walk turned into a trot
And her mouth began to foam.
The closer she got the more that I wished
That me and Ol' Gus had stayed home.

The walls of that canyon somehow looked steeper
And it looked a lot narrower too.
My perception had changed on a whole lot of things
And my brashness I started to rue.

I'd made my brag back at the ranch
'Bout the worth of a man who would balk.
Now I found myself fallen victim
To my own yappin' tongue's foolish talk.

My moment of truth was on me now
And my smarts was fightin' my pride.
The cow was locked in on me and Ol' Gus--
Then my outlook was rectified.

The boss hadn't sent me out here
On the wildcat venture, of such.
If she didn't bother him then why should she me?
Hell, one ol' red cow don't each much.

Fifty feet 'tween me and the cow
Another thought entered my mind.
There were many like me but this cow that I faced
Was one of the last of her kind.

Who was I to alter her fate?
Her freedom she'd fought long to keep.
Far be it from me to ruin her life.
Oh, I could pen her.  But then could I sleep?

I cringed at the thought of a grinnin' old man
And the scorn I would see in his eye,
But I knew I was right so I tipped my hat
As the famous Red Cow trotted by.

The old man was waitin' when I rode in,
The bunkhouse door open wide.
"I got things ready for you and your cow!"
A stool and a pail stood inside.

Well he rode me hard and put me up wet
'Til he seen that my pride was full peeled
But the scorn I expected he never showed.
He said, "Son, I know just how you feel.

"You ain't the first to change his mind
After doubtin' the Red Cow's lore.
Few boys your age have dealt with her kind
But on her coup stick you're just one more.

"There comes a time in every man's life
When he's forced to face his limitation.
Now you feel like a fraud but your judgment was sound
So, Son, you ain't no imitation.

"Aw, you talked a lot but you took your shot,
Which is more than many have done.
She force fed you crow but that taste we all know
So welcome to the humbled ranks, Son."

Well the years have gone by and I reckon she's died,
I know I never saw her again.
But with all my heart I hope that ol' girl
Never saw the inside of a pen.

And though she's gone her legend lives on
And I'm proud to be part of her lore
For times have changed and the brute of her kind
Is rarely seen anymore.

The young sprouts now ask me 'bout the cow
And tight-throated I think of that day.
I recall my old friend and what he told me back then.
Then I grin at these pups and I say,

"I almost put my rope on her once
But then, I thought it through .....

© Larry McWhorter, reprinted by permission from Cowboy Poetry: Contemporary Verse
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

 

"The Red Cow" is one of Larry McWhorter's best-loved and most often recited poems. He introduces this poem in his book Cowboy Poetry: Contemporary Verse:

I had a lot of fun writing and performing this one, especially the parts with the old man.  Those old coots loved to give you enough rope to hang yourself with and then watch you trip over the slack before you could get to the tree.

 

 

Gate Session

The sun had given up the quest
Of meltin' off the snow
And crawled off in defeat behind a hill.
He took his shadows with him
When he finally had to go
And left the world locked in a grayish chill.

The frosty air grew bolder
Knowing it had won the day.
Its foe outlasted, it was free to roam
The twilight unimpeded
As two riders made their way
At a steady walk a half a mile from home.

A cold and hungry, angry boy
Had had enough of this.
He knew they'd get there quicker if they'd trot,
Or, better yet, a lope, but, Dad,
Whose vote outnumbered his,
Suggested it was better that they not.

The lights of hearth and home shone bright
Yet seemed to never near
I never knew a horse could move so slow.
Each steaming breath bore curses,
But not loud where Dad could hear.
It wouldn't hurt me what he didn't know.

Consumed with cold and anger
And with fingers going numb,
I barely noticed we had reached the gate
Which led into the old Home trap,
Then Dad's colt acted dumb
And added fifteen minutes to the wait.

I logged my millionth hour
Watching circle, spin and turn.
This ten year old was bored and getting vexed.
With Dad there's one more lesson
One is always doomed to learn
And little did I know that I was next.

For when at last he opened up
The gate to let us through
I'd drifted off into a sort of trance.
Intent on getting in to Mom's
Hot cornbread and beef stew
I headed home without a backward glance.

An icy voice cracked icy air
Which stopped both horse and heart.
The tone he used was one I'd come to dread.
The dialogue which then ensued
Was quiet on my part,
The mighty revolution now was dead.

I only thought that I'd been cold
Until his angry stare
Went through me like ice water through a sieve.
But flush of shame soon warmed me
As he then made me aware
Of a law I'd broken by which cowboys live.

"Now, Boy, I know it's cold out here,
But that's the way things are
And we can't always pick our circumstance.
I told you when you chose to come
That we'd be ridin' far
And it's too late to bow out of the dance.

"Discomfort doesn't give a a man
The right to leave a friend.
It's when it's tough is when you need to stick.
He needs to know that when you start
You'll be there in the end.
That trust should be like mortar to a brick.

"You could have caused a wreck back there
By leaving me behind
That's durned poor manners in the cowboy clan.
This colt was trying to go with you
Which put me in a bind
Cause it's hard to mount a pony that won't stand."

He stared and let his point sink home
Then turned and mounted up.
And then he said "Let's don't do that again.
I hope your ma's got coffee on
I sure could use a cup."
The stars were shining bright when we got in.

© Larry McWhorter, reprinted by permission from Cowboy Poetry: Contemporary Verse
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

 

Johnny Clare

In north central Oklahoma
In the land known as the Osage,
The spring and early summer
Rest so easy on the eye.
Where the lush, green, rolling carpet
Marks the passing of Mariah
As she dances, sometimes gently
With the clouds which dot the sky.

Much like a ballerina
She pirouettes and leaps
Across her stage of prairie
And she seems to never pause
While high above the scenery
A hawk critiques the drama
While voicing his approval
Flapping wings in mute applause.

The deer, the birds, the woodchuck
Bear witness from their browsing
As they share their home with cattle,
The stewards of this land,
Who took the place of buffalo
In harvesting the bluestem
After they themselves were reaped
When progress dealt death's hand.

Should you travel through this country
Heading west toward Ponca City,
Fifteen miles out of Pawhuska
On the highway state funds pave,
Some fifty yards or so due south
Of tar and asphalt ribbon
Amid the grass wild roses grow
And there you'll find a grave.

It once lay on the open plain
Surrounded by tall bluestem.
There's now a trap with shorter grass,
Well kept, devoid of weeds.
It seems so humble at first glance,
Steel fence, a cross of concrete.
'Til close examination shows
A cast-iron plaque which reads:

"Johnny Clare
May 1890--May 1910
Cowboy employed by Dr. Hall
Thrown from his horse and
Killed at this spot
Courtesy, Continental Oil Company."

To be a cowboy was the call
This young man gladly answered.
He'd not trade lots with anyone.
In life he'd found his pearl.
He loved to ride and rope rough stock
To test his skill and courage,
To polish up the dance floor
With a smiling blue eyed girl.

Young Johnny lived the cowboy's life
And lived it to the fullest.
His pride would let no brute escape
As long as he drew breath.
So he thought not of consequence,
And outlaw steer his quarry,
And on the warm, spring, Osage day
He died a cowboy's death.

Dwight Barnard was the man who found
Young Johnny's prostrate body,
He'd tried to crawl but soon succumbed
To sun and broken bone.
From pulling grass out by the roots
His hands were torn and bloody.
Wild with pain he'd pawed the ground,
Afraid to die alone.

The horse he'd rode still stood nearby,
The outlaw steer stood with him.
A stout length of manila hemp
Was stretched between the pair.
There were no human witnesses
To relay what had happened.
The truth now lives with God above
And died with Johnny Clare.

A tinker happened by the way,
And saw a small crowd gathered.
The group was friends and comrades
Of this young man who'd been slain.
He reached into his wagon box,
Produced a tarp of canvas,
With wagon sheet for coffin,
To rest the lad was lain.

A short time later, lore maintains,
A buckboard journeyed out there.
It carried Johnny's mother
To his final resting place.
Her black dress blowing in the wind,
It's said she stood for hours,
Praying and remembering,
As tears streamed down her face.

Beneath the rich, black Osage sod
Her precious son was buried.
The one to whom she'd given life
And nourished from her breast.
And though her sorrow knew no bounds,
There was one consolation,
At least she could die knowing
Where her Johnny lay at rest.

How many young men like her son
Have gone to seek their fortune?
Their siren call a lowing herd,
The whispering prairie wind,
Which beckoned to the spirit
Of the ones who tamed the West.
Who left their loved ones wondering
If they'd ever meet again.

How many young men like her son
Met death upon the prairie?
Their flesh preceding bleaching bone
In melding with the sod.
So let us think of Johnny's grave
As everlasting tribute
To those unfound whose dying gasps
Were heard by none but God.

In north central Oklahoma
In the land known as the Osage,
The spring and early summer
Rest so easy on the eye.
The lush, green rolling carpet
Covers Johnny Clare, young cowboy.
But his spirit's free and dancing
With Mariah in the sky.

          © Larry McWhorter, reprinted by permission from Cowboy Poetry: Contemporary Verse
          This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.

Larry McWhorter writes about his inspiration for Johnny Clare in his book, Cowboy Poetry: Contemporary Verse, where these words are accompanied by the photo below of Larry at Johnny Clare's gravesite:

Having been in numerous wrecks and tight spots I have to give thanks to God for protecting me through all of them.  Through His grace there was always someone close by the times I was badly hurt.

Anyone who has ever had an angry cowbrute on the end of the their rope knows how fast things can get out of hand.  A wreck can occur so quickly you don't even have time to be scared until it's over.

Don Wells of Pawhuska, Oklahoma gave me a rough outline of this story and told me where the grave was.  Having found the spot, I stood there scanning the surrounding area trying to picture how it might have looked nearly 80 years before.

reprinted with permission from Cowboy Poetry: Contemporary Verse

 

A genuine chill went through my body as I thought of how Johnny must have felt; unable to move and knowing he might not be found or even missed for days.

I visited with an old Osage Indian who was ten years old when the tinker in the poem came to town with the story.  His information was invaluable.

---

After the poem in his book, Larry writes:

This is one of my favorite pieces of work.  When I finished it I was emotionally drained from the research of trying to piece together something with so many missing parts.  Also, Johnny's story itself began to haunt me.  Was it right?  Was it even close?

Perhaps the greatest moment of my writing career came one day in Ruidoso, New Mexico when, after performing this poem, an elderly lady approached me and said, "Young man, I don't know where you got your information for that story, but it's just the way my uncle told it to me.  My uncle was Dwight Barnard, the man who found Johnny Clare."  

---

In July, 2003, Joe E. Barnard wrote to us:

So sorry to hear of the passing of Larry. Caused me to look for the website as I have long wanted to obtain a tape containing the Johnny Clare poem. My aunt brought it to me to hear quite some time ago because it was my granddad, Dwight Barnard, who found Clare. I live in Fairfax, Oklahoma, not far from Clare's gravesite. A cousin of mine who worked for Conoco was the person responsible for getting the plaque for the grave. I remember for years seeing a lone white cross on the grave not knowing the story behind the death of the cowboy. Every time I went by there with my dad he would always point out the gravesite, but I barely remember him mentioning that his father was a small part of the story of Johnnie Clare. 

Recently, a tornado tore across Osage County and demolished the ranch house to the west of the grave. Three horses were killed by the twister and the horses were buried very near Clare's grave. I took a picture while the hole was being dug by a backhoe for the horses. The reason for the picture was the three horses had been laid nearby and a cowboy was sitting on one of the dead horses waiting for the grave to be completed. It was a very sad sight and I couldn't help but think of the cowboy that would soon have 3 new horses to add to his string. I'm sure the sad cowboy atop one his dead horses had the same thoughts when the decision was made to lay his horses within a rope's throw of Johnny Clare.

Larry's talents will be missed.

I tried to enhance this picture as I was quite a ways from the gravesite. I hope you can use it somehow or at least be aware that Johnny Clare isn't alone now. 

 

Book and Recordings 

 

   Cowboy Poetry: Contemporary Verse by Larry McWhorter

Larry McWhorter's words that preface this wonderful collection speak to what he holds fiercely dear:  "...there is more to being a cowboy than roping and riding.  There is an etiquette shared among cowboys which frees the soul yet binds it at the same time.  The binding comes from everyone you've ever worked with or learned anything from....The real cowboys are very proud and jealous of their craft and hate to see it misrepresented in any way. That applies to their poetry as well."  

He speaks of the humor and camaraderie of the crew, the lessons of respect and hard work done well.  He says "When were coming up, in the days before Lonesome Dove, when we weren't folk heroes; it was different then," and much of his experience of those times is woven into his work.  Larry told us that Gate Session perhaps best illustrates his feelings about cowboy life and values.   

This excellent collection includes many of Larry McWhorter's best loved and most requested poems, a glossary, and a "Preview of the Cowboy Book of Virtue," inspirational and insightful prose recollections that carry valuable lessons.  In a preface to the "Preview of the Cowboy Book of Virtue," he writes "My wife, Andrea, listened as friends and I recounted how our lives had been shaped through the many people and events we had encountered.  She told me it would be a sin not to preserve them."

Read some of the book's praise from Baxter Black, Elmer Kelton, Waddie Mitchell ("Because he is one, Larry McWhorter understands the cowboy's language, wit, ethics and loves.  But I believe it is his philosophy that makes him the great storyteller, teacher and poet that he is.  There is as much in these poems as you may wish to know.") and Vess Quinlan at the Cowboy Miner publisher's web site.  There you'll also find Larry McWhorter's "He Rode for the Brand."

The book also includes comments by Red Steagall ("...He makes the reader feel the morning, hear the sounds, smell the air, and see the beauty of nature while "waitin' on the drive'...") and an enthusiastic introduction by Wallace McRae that just might cause him to lose his reputation as the "Cowboy Curmudgeon."

The book is available from Jean Prescott for $25 postpaid.  Email Jean for ordering information.

 

  The Open Gate 

The Open Gate,winner of the Academy of Western Artists' Best Cowboy Poetry Album award, includes includes poetry and song, featuring the talents of Frankie McWhorter and Snuffy Elmore on fiddle. Included are "Peaches and the Twister;" "Sierra Sue," "Calendar," "Maria Elena," "Gate Session," "The Girl I Left Behind," "Little Puncher,"  "Therapy,"  "Where the Ponies Come to Drink," "Harley’s Secret," "My Mother’s Eyes," and "The Last Wagon."

The Open Gate CD is available for $17 postpaid from Jean Prescott.  Email Jean for order information.

 

  Most Requested Poetry of Larry McWhorter

This CD combines Larry McWhorter's first two recordings that were originally released on cassette ("Wheat Pasture Dreamin’" and "Waitin’ on the Drive").  It includes such favorites as "Black Draught," "The Red Cow," "Waitin' on the Drive," and "Johnny Clare."

The Most Requested Poetry of Larry McWhorter CD is available for $17 postpaid from Jean Prescott.  Email Jean for order information.

 

 

 

 

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