(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 “Envy of a pineapple sandwich
became joke” was originally published in the Jan. 17, 1991 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
As I have stated many times, I think a person who didn’t
grow up during the Great Depression was deprived a lot in life. This doesn’t
mean that I think we should have another one just to prove my point. But those
of us who did survive those hard times are better for it.
As you know by now, I grew up on a farm in a rural
community. We did not want for anything because we grew almost all of our food
and my parents were able to provide a good home and plenty of clothing. We did
not have a great deal of surplus money to spend; it was all used to keep the
farm and family going.
It wasn’t until I was in junior high school that Sweet Water
High School was able to open a school lunchroom for its students. Until this happened,
everyone carried lunches from home. Some owned nice metal lunchboxes, while
others had only the brown paper sacks to bring lunches in. These paper sacks
were folded neatly after each use and carried back home to be used again and
again.
We thought we were staring to death, but we didn’t realize
we were eating “high on the hog” by today’s standards. My lunch would consist
of one or two steak biscuits or a fried egg and bacon biscuit, a slice of pie,
or an apple or peach tart. Peanut brittle or other candy was added for the
sweet tooth.
One of my classmates, whose father was the foreman at the
local sawmill, was the envy of most of the class. She brought sandwiches to
school made of sliced store-bought bread. These sandwiches consisted of chees,
potted meat with mayonnaise, and above all, sliced pineapple.
As we would gather to eat our lunch, my mouth would drool
for a taste of one of those pineapple and mayonnaise sandwiches. I could just
imagine my teeth biting into that juicy pineapple. I could think of nothing
else, as I sat there eating those old biscuits.
One day, the unexpected happened. This classmate shyly suggested
that I trade her one of my old steak biscuits for one of her luscious pineapple
sandwiches. I was almost unable to answer her; I had been taken completely by
surprise. I was so eager to make the deal, I almost dropped the sandwich when
she handed it to me.
As I carefully unwrapped the clear wax paper from around the
sandwich, I took a large bite from the pineapple and mayonnaise delicacy. Much
to my embarrassment, I almost strangled on the pineapple and mayonnaise. After
much coughing and wheezing, I was able to finish.
As the school year progressed, my classmate would continue
to trade me her pineapple sandwich for my steak or ham biscuit. I became the
envy of all the country boys in my class.
As the years passed, this became a kind of joke on me, even
after I moved into senior high school. The nice lady who managed the new school
lunchroom must have known about our sandwich trading; many times when I would
go through the line, Mrs. Daniels would lean over and whisper that she was
sorry she didn’t have a pineapple sandwich to give me today.
But it wasn’t to end there. The night before my graduation,
we had our class night. This was the time when the graduating seniors left
their favorite slogans, or anything they wished, to the new senior class. The
new senior class could, in turn, give what they wished to those graduating.
The evening program was such that all activities were built
around a young lady who was dressed as a gypsy fortune teller. She predicted
the future for the graduating class members and the events of their coming
years.
All knew that I was to leave for the Marine Training Center
at Parris Island, S.C. the day after graduation. As I stepped forth to hear my
fortune told and to learn of my future life’s predictions, she told of me later
becoming a Marine. She then reached under the table where her crystal ball
rested and presented me with a sack of 20 pineapple sandwiches.
From the card pinned to the large paper sack, the fortune
teller read aloud these words: “Wherever you go, may there be a juicy pineapple
sandwich waiting for you at the end of your journey; these should help get you
started.”
From the second row in the audience, Mrs. Daniels, the
school lunchroom manager, was laughing out loud.
(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.)
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