Larry Eugene Whitford, 78, passed away Tuesday afternoon, October 20, 2020 at his home in Guymon surrounded by his loving family.

The son of William Charles and Lillian Belle (Nemsgern) Whitford, he was born June 6, 1942 in Winner, South Dakota.  Larry graduated from Spearman, Texas High School with the Class of 1960.

Larry and Jane Allen were married on June 30, 1990 in Spearman, Texas.  He moved to Guymon in 1995 from Perryton, Texas with Southwestern Public Service.  Larry worked as a journeyman lineman, retiring in 2000.  He attended the Victory Memorial United Methodist Church.

He was preceded in death by his parents; one sister, Sharon Dossett and a great grandchild, Mony Ray Jack.

Survivors include his wife, Jane Whitford of the home; three sons: Brett Whitford and Chuck Wallace of Panhandle, Texas, Dennis Whitford and wife, Marc of Weatherford, Texas and Bill Whitford and Barbara of Deluth, Georgia; two daughters: Lacie and Jeff Caves of Flower Mound, Texas and Melissa and Jason Bond of Guymon; twelve grandchildren; ten great grandchildren; one sister, Jody and Bill Harnish of Amarillo, Texas; brother-in-law, Bernard Dossett of Amarillo, Texas and a host of nieces and nephews.

Cremation arrangements were handled by the Bunch – Roberts Funeral Home of Guymon.

Memorials in memory of Larry may be given to the Parkinson's Foundation.  Memorials will be accepted at the Bunch – Roberts Funeral Home, P.O. Box 1112, Guymon, Oklahoma 73942.

Friends can sign the online guest book and leave condolences at www.bunchroberts.com .

The Man on the Pole

The darkening dusk and thin driving snow

Make it feel much colder than two below.

The wind rasps the snow like sharp cutting sand,

Brushes bare frozen trees with icy hand.

Stiff branches creak with the weight of the wind

Which will sing its chill dirge for hours on end.

No pin-point of light pricks the gloom of the night,

Dark will descend soon, a frozen sight.

On a country road stands a truck, its tail to the storn;

Around it gray drifts have started to form.

Dimly discerned are the lines of its back,

The high white top, with side ladder rack.

Like a pack-horse it stands; hock deep in the snow,

As patiently waiting, with head hanging low;

Motionless there in the falling dark,

Its flashers repeating their sharp yellow spark.

Above on a pole, in the ominous sky

A snow-blurred figure works on high.

Clings to his perch with spurs of cold steel,

Arches his back to the safety strap feel.

Desperately he twists the stiff, stubborn wires,

His thoughts running home to warm glowing fires.

He pulls with numbed hand, his face a chill mask,

With fast-ebbing strength completes his lone task.

Now light sprays from windows all down the road,

A radio blares loudly, then silence takes hold.

Somewhere a dog barks his plea at a door;

Light and life have come back to the country once more.

The man on the pole draws a long tired sigh,

Then picks his way slowly down out of the sky.

The cold hours of labor have taken their toll;

He rests for a moment against the hard pole.

To the truck he plodding makes his way,

Stows his tools in the back and drives away.

Not a soul in those houses, now bright and warm,

Knows that he's been there, out in the storn.

Silently working to bring them light,

As silently fading into the night.

When work-a-day heroes are inscribed on the roll,

We too often forget, The Man on the Pole.