Singleton tells of boyhood memories of Christmas in rural Alabama

(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Christmas memories are sweet” was originally published in the Dec. 24, 1992 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

With Christmas just hours away, we hustle and hurry to get that last-minute shopping done and then try to settle in for the most celebrated holiday of the year.

Nowadays we spend considerable amounts of money for many presents and many times mount up a considerable debt that has to be paid back the following year. Then, it’s time to start all over once again.

This perhaps sounds like a broken record as the holiday season repeats itself each year. But it hasn’t been this way all of the time. I don’t profess to be old, but I remember very well when the Christmas season was celebrated in a fine manner with little or no money spent.

You could tell that the holiday season was apparently due to the fact that my darling mother would sit at her sewing machine for countless hours. She would be making various items of clothing for the family. As she sewed, she didn’t allow any of the family to stand around and see what was being made. There was no need to ask what she was making because you would be told to go on and mind your own business; she would let you know if she needed you.

There were certain signs that you could look for, and this would give you a pretty good idea as to what this darling woman was making. If there was a small pile of cotton on the floor and an old sock or two there, this was a sure bet that small rag dolls were in the making.

If I should pass by and she should stop me and make me turn around, placing her hands on my shoulders, this was a sure sign that a new shirt would be under the Christmas tree.

She never had to measure; she could look and tell how wide the shoulders of the shirt needed to be, and the neck size also. For a small, four-year-old country boy, about the only thing that you wore that came from the store were your shoes. Even the socks that you wore was knitted right there by the fireplace.

Colorful stocking caps, or tams, as they were called, would appear from out of nowhere. These caps would be knitted out of several different colors of thread. These would be large enough so that they could be pulled down below your ears on a cold, frosty morning. You could just about expect a new tamm every Christmas.

Successful cotton crop

If the cotton crop had been successful that year, you knew that something was in the wind when my father returned from the store and slipped the packages into the house. Every effort was made to see that the smaller children, my sister and I, was elsewhere when he arrived home.

If we did witness his arrival, we were told that it was sewing supplies for our mother and that we should go bring in the firewood; we would be called, if needed. We would find out Christmas morning that those packages in question had been perhaps a toy or two and always a considerable amount of fruit and raisins. Sometimes a new pair of shoes would show up on Christmas morning; depending again on the cotton crop.

An abundance of good, dry firewood would have been gathered and brought to the house just before the holiday. This wood had been stored nearby in the woodshed, where it had been placed to dry and cure.

Peanuts had been picked off the stacks of vines, washed, dried and ready for parching. Popcorn had been placed in large jars that could be brought forth at a moment’s notice.

Plenty of lightwood splinters had been split and bundled for handy use in the starting of the early morning fires. Harvested and dried sassafras roots hung in the smokehouse to be used in the making of sassafras teas.

Sassafras roots

Dear old Uncle Tony was the authority on the selecting and drying of the sassafras roots. The red sassafras root was the one chosen to be used for the making of tea. The white sassafras was known to be poisoned. You had to know the difference.

And then, a small boy of four knew when the Christmas cooking was getting under way. Delicious and wonderful odors would float from the kitchen at times when the noon and supper meals had already been prepared. This small boy would volunteer to bring in wood for the cook stove, hoping that a small amount of goodies might happen his way. All knew that something had to be happening; this young lad didn’t volunteer to bring in wood unless there was something in  it for him.

Then, there was the worry about the selection of the size of the box or container that would be placed under the Christmas tree for Santa Claus to put his presents in. This four-year-old didn’t want to appear greedy, so he had to be very careful in the selection of the container. If he played his cards right, his darling mother might let him use her large dish pan. If he didn’t, he had to be satisfied with that small shoe box that seemed to show up always around this time of year.

Large box

For reasons he couldn’t explain, he thought that the larger the box under the tree, the more he would get for Christmas; but it never turned out that way.

Now as I look back, after the passing of the many years, it would have been worth it all just experiencing the anticipation of the coming of Christmas and the togetherness of those you loved and the ones who loved you.

There is no greater feeling of security in this world than when on that Christmas Eve night, that wonderful friend, Aunt Lellia, tucked you in bed under those heavy covers. She would explain that I should hurry to sleep so Santa Claus could come.

Finally, a goodnight kiss was given from a mother more wonderful than words can describe, as she made the final adjustments on the heavy bed covers that protected her baby boy from the chill of the crisp Christmas air.

Ah, memories, sweet memories, may they dwell for always. May they burst forth at Christmas time that I may return once again in memory to that special time, that special place, to relive the happiness that only a small country boy could know.

(Singleton, the author of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of 79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, lived for a time among Apache Indians, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964 and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He is buried in Pineville Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work and memory alive.)