Robert Wilson Flournoy

Profile Updated: October 5, 2012
Class Year: 1965
Residing In: Franklin, TN USA
Occupation: Retired
Children: Brent 26 and Madison 24
Military Service: Army  

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Nov 12, 2023 at 4:33 AM
Nov 12, 2022 at 4:33 AM
Jul 27, 2022 at 8:59 PM

Dirt Roads and Calloused Hands



Robert Flournoy




© Copyright 2022 by Robert Flournoy


Photo courtesy of Pixabay.
Photo courtesy of Pixabay.

When I was young, dirt roads were a silent witness to my life, their dusty presence taken for granted, as were crawdads, mules, may pops, BB guns and the whistle of a Bob White Quail. Where I came from there were also gators, cotton mouths, bull frogs and dragon flies as wide as a farmer's hand. The callouses on that hand had something in common with those dirt roads, something vague that I understand in my heart but can't at the moment find the words for. Dirt roads had ditches running beside them, with barbed wire fences defining the boundaries between road and field, and those fence wires were weighted down with black berry vines and poison ivy. And while my young spirit grew in an old farm house and its surrounding woods and fields, the roads of dirt offered fantasies of the unknown to a ten year old who could ride a mule and milk a cow, but could not drive a truck until at least eleven years old. In the bull frog booming night, we would occasionally catch a glimpse of a wobbling set of yellow head lights far down the road, signifying the advancement of an automobile or truck. Coming in our direction, the boredom of country quiet was suddenly alive with the possibility of a visitor. But, our excitement was usually short spent as those hopeful lights would pass us by, doppelering on down the road, dust slowly obscuring whatever short dreams we had entertained in the possibilities of those fading beams.

The mysteries of those roads must have engrained themselves in my mother's psyche as a young girl on an isolated farm, because as an adult she never tired of just going for a ride. When we were children a ride with her in the country was an adventure. Meadow larks on a fence post weren't just birds, they were singing creatures that required stopping the car to listen to, their yellow breasts quivering in the southern sun as they spoke to one another, and, as mom explained, they were speaking to and about us as well. No stream was crossed that didn't require us to stop and peer into its eddies and swirls, looking for minnows, snakes and turtles. She saw things we never thought to look for, a teacher of the natural world in a time when lowering our lips to cool sweet clean country water was as normal as the hawks and eagles that soared above us. A basket of fried chicken with biscuits, jam and sweet tea in the cool woods along the way was enjoyed by all, with a soft nap afterwards, my sweaty head in mom's loving lap. On the road again, mom's commentary and observations would resume, our on going education not to be matched in any school. The world around us was a magnificent auditorium of learning, our mother the best of teachers.

As mom grew weak from cancer, she still delighted in the simple pleasure of going for a ride. My dad was only too happy to be her chauffer, her children happy to be passengers. I would give just about anything to be blessed one more time to take a ride with my mom, one hand in hers the other in my grandfather's calloused hard working hands. I suspect that we could find an old dirt road out there somewhere, if only in a dream, or a memory. Is there a difference?

Nov 12, 2021 at 4:33 AM
Nov 12, 2020 at 4:33 AM
Dec 17, 2019 at 1:04 PM

Just heard the news, Don, hope you are monitoring this from a better place. We are never ready for the passing of old friends, but let's face it, we are at that stage of our lives now. Your smiling face on the track team is a vivid memory that I recall with peace, and your exploits as a professional photographer will always be a source of envy, but pride for you as well. RIP, brother Don.

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Nov 12, 2019 at 3:18 PM

Posted on: Nov 12, 2019 at 4:35 AM

Sep 26, 2019 at 3:37 PM

When I left the army in 1973 I headed to Colorado to see if some dreams could come true. I had been in love with the mere thought of the Rocky Mountains since boyhood and could not wait to get there. Colorado Springs was small then, Denver half the size it is today, its yellow dome not yet a significant trade mark. I bought a home in the shadow of Pike's Peak and could access a dozen pristine trout streams in the foothills close to my house that were full of fish. My first foray up into that majestic venue I heard the strange song of love that fly fishermen understand, and although the tune was new to me, I knew the words by heart. The flash of gold that a cut throat advertised as it rose to my fly, the iridescent violets and pinks that signaled a rainbow, the obsidian black spots on German Browns, and the heart wrenching oranges and blues of Brookies in the Fall were as addictive as heroin, and harder to walk away from. I loved the big mountain rivers and the brawnier trout that they held. The deep broad Platte River as it meandered through the meadows of Two Forks, the mighty Colorado rushing through Glenwood Canyon and the headwaters of the Arkansas at 11,000 feet near the town of Leadville. One Autumn day I made the drive over Independence Pass, through the little town of Aspen and on up to Leadville, the mountains a shimmering sea of golden Aspen leaves, never looking in my rear view mirror, surprised by what I saw when I made the drive back down. Pocketed in the little valleys below me were a half dozen shimmering lakes of turquoise and various shades of emerald, their colors being the reflection of the high sun on toxins leached from the mines where silver and gold had been taken over a century ago. In those early days of mining in the Rockies the heavy metal poisons ran freely down the mountains, killing everything in their paths. Sweet trout waters that were sterilized were still dead 50 years ago. Sometime after WW2 the government demanded they be dammed up and that is what I saw. Too late for the damage done downstream, they sat there in their deadly beauty, no one to this very day knowing how to deal with billions of gallons of contaminated water. Who knows what kind of ecological damage they have been doing sitting there for decades as their poisons continue to soak into the soil.

The state of Colorado's population has doubled since then, a yellow haze covering the front range of the mountains from Pueblo north to Denver and beyond. Hard winds out of Wyoming clear the air briefly, sending the pollutants east, but it takes less than a day for the haze to return. The streams I haunted then are gone now, houses littering the foothills, surrounded by beetle infested dying coniferous forests. Nature's cure for beetles, the twice a century fires that once cleared the deadwood and the bugs that feed on it, allowing new growth to spring up, are mostly contained now, so the forests rot, while the beetles spread unabated.

Dying forests, dead waters, yellow air and millions of irresponsible people have killed the west that I loved. Half a century after I walked those hills those same millions of people have killed the trout that I never had the heart to.

Feb 23, 2019 at 8:33 PM

My dad called him Moose. I called him friend.  Dad would wake us up with a bugle call and Bruce would moan, wanting to stay asleep. He never had a dad, but mine was there for him. I found out too late to be of any comfort. Which I desperately wish I could have provided. Bruce.

Robert Wilson Flournoy has a birthday today. New comment added.
Nov 14, 2018 at 5:31 PM

Posted on: Nov 12, 2018 at 4:33 AM

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May 26, 2018 at 6:50 PM

Posted on: May 25, 2018 at 6:10 PM

FLYING OVER VIETNAM (Thoughts on Memorial Day)

Where are the craters, scorches, gashes and rips that I remember?
Have the reminders of our presence been so thoroughly eradicated,
new growth fertilized by the blood of a million?

Half a world away, there will be no such scars
in the soft shifting Arabian deserts,
not even for a time,
just the ghosts of another cause.

Our reminders will be still further away,
here at home,
faded wooden crosses,
green weathered bronze, and
wind shallowed stone,
names whose faces will be forgotten
with time.

©Copyright 2005 by Bob Flournoy

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Nov 21, 2017 at 11:18 AM

Posted on: Nov 20, 2017 at 9:22 PM

Drove down to a little country cafe this morning with a friend 10 years my senior, a gentle soul who set a needed mood. A cool sunny blustery Autumn morning with leaves swirling,wild eyed horses running in pastures with rolls of fresh hay snuggled between split rail fences and clear running brooks and rills. 10 miles later we arrived in a dirt parking lot which was full of old trucks, and a couple of tractors. Greeted inside by a lady who called us darlin', and seated by a wood burning stove with the season's first embers still glowing from their early dawn lighting. Soft old time country music in the back ground, sweet fiddles with smells of coffee and bacon, the tinkling of children's laughter, loved ones seated at large tables to accommodate 3 generations. A family saying grace in a corner with large windows on either side, a blond child's golden hair dappled by moving sun beams filtered by sugar maples that brushed the glass, the slow dance of its patient light patterns keeping time with the soft voice of the grand father's prayer. Something from long ago, buried too long, made me smile. It was a fine breakfast. (Bob Flournoy Nov 20, 2017) Thank you mam :)

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Nov 21, 2017 at 2:04 PM

Posted on: Nov 20, 2017 at 9:20 PM

Drove down to a little country cafe this morning with a friend 10 years my senior, a gentle soul who set a needed mood. A cool sunny blustery Autumn morning with leaves swirling,wild eyed horses running in pastures with rolls of fresh hay snuggled between split rail fences and clear running brooks and rills. 10 miles later we arrived in a dirt parking lot which was full of old trucks, and a couple of tractors. Greeted inside by a lady who called us darlin', and seated by a wood burning stove with the season's first embers still glowing from their early dawn lighting. Soft old time country music in the back ground, sweet fiddles with smells of coffee and bacon, the tinkling of children's laughter, loved ones seated at large tables to accommodate 3 generations. A family saying grace in a corner with large windows on either side, a blond child's golden hair dappled by moving sun beams filtered by sugar maples that brushed the glass, the slow dance of its patient light patterns keeping time with the soft voice of the grand father's prayer. Something from long ago, buried too long, made me smile. It was a fine breakfast. (Bob Flournoy, November 20, 2017)

Nov 12, 2017 at 4:33 AM
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Nov 08, 2017 at 12:32 PM

Posted on: Nov 07, 2017 at 1:48 PM

On veteran's day, like Memorial Day, remember all of our classmates who served, some who made the ultimate sacrifice. http://www.iwvpa.net/flournoyrw/soldiers.php

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Feb 24, 2017 at 3:03 PM
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