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| An old 'blowing horn' used for hunting. |
(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 “A time when Father’s Day has
special meaning” was originally published in the June 24, 1993 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
As I grow older and birthdays begin to show up almost every
month, certain days of the year become more meaningful. Father’s Day is one of
those holidays that has made an almost 360-degree turn within the past few
years.
Not too many years ago, I didn’t give this holiday a lot of
attention. I was told that it was going to be on a certain Sunday during the
month of June, and I would get a present or two. That was it as far as I was
concerned.
But time has a strange way of getting a person’s attention
when certain things happen and the later afternoon of life approaches on the
horizon. Events that didn’t matter in the past almost overnight become a matter
to be reckoned with.
I do not mean to brag, but I love my family very much. We
have three wonderful sons, and I wish that I was wealthy enough that all three
could live in the same home with my wife and me. But I have come to accept that
these sons have to move away and seek their way of life and to make a living.
But, in planning this all, there was nothing mentioned that
two very beautiful redheaded granddaughters and two fine and wonderful young grandsons
were to appear on the season. These four changed life’s entire picture.
When the news arrived that these two beautiful redheaded
granddaughters were to spend Father’s Day weekend with us, along with their
parents and my youngest son that is unmarried, activity picked up around the
old home place.
The cooking fires seem to burn until the late hours of the
evening, starting on Friday before the coming of the clan. Many trips were made
to the food markets each time a new thought came into the head of my busy wife
as to who might want what at meal time. And all eyes watched the driveway for
the arrival of two darling redheads that were to arrive around noontime on
Saturday.
For some strange reason, my wife and I both had to be in the
front yard before the expected time of arrival. As my son’s auto pulled into
the drive, a mad rush was made as if to see which would be the first to hear
the names of “MaMa” or “PaPa” from the automobile. Trying to hold and be kissed
by two jumping young redheads is not easy. But it can be managed if you try
hard.
After the hugging was over, the wide-open activity began to
take shape. A hundred questions were asked. A mad rush through the house was
made by the red heads to see if all was still there, and several dolls were
brought out to try and occupy their interests. Then there was a mad rush to the
yard to see what was there. A game of jumping off the front porch took shape
almost at once. After about 40 or so jumps each, a timeout had to be called so
PaPa could rest his battered and aching arms.
Porch jumping again
Within a few short moments the porch jumping began all over
again. Finally, we retired to the house for what was intended to be a cool and
restful moment. Wanting to get in a few words with my sons, the granddaughters
spotted two old blowing horns that had been handed down through my family.
As always, these had to be taken down from the gun rack and
the noise rose to an all-time level. The conversation between my sons and I had
to be carried on through total sign language. The pictures on the walls shook
as though a violent wind was passing through the den. I found myself wondering
if these girls were this noisy, what would it be like if the two grandsons were
here also.
After an hour or so of horn-blowing, the girls’ interest
wandered outside once again. This time they chose two plastic bottles that my
wife had so graciously provided them with. Each bottle had pressure cylinders in
them so that water could be sprayed over a considerable distance just by
pressing the triggers.
After a water fight, in which I was not provided a bottle,
PaPa ended up almost soaking wet. The redheads thought it funny when PaPa was
shot in the eye or ear or up the nose with the water spray.
Ride on lawn tractor
Next on the agenda was the ride on the lawn tractor. Around
and around the yard we went, a redhead on each knee, and PaPa’s trying to drive
and answer endless questions at the same time. This time luck played right into
the hands of an almost exhausted PaPa. The lawn tractor ran out of gas.
As time for the evening meal approached, both girls who were
fully capable of feeding themselves, had to be totally fed by their
grandparents. For two that had been so active during the entire afternoon, they
now were totally helpless. As the evening meal ended, all preparation for bed
had to be also performed by MaMa and PaPa.
Sleep wasn’t long in coming for two redheaded granddaughters
and two tired and weary grandparents. As the silence settled over the homestead
like a soft blanket, none there had need to wait for the sandman to arrive.
Father’s Day broke to the glow of the morning sun and soon
all activity began again. Sunday was almost a replay of Saturday, porch jumping
and all. But all wonderful times have to end. As goodbyes were said, two
redhaired girls, both complexly now overcome by temper tantrums because they
couldn’t come live with MaMa and PaPa, backed out of the driveway with their
parents for the journey home.
Two wonderful grandsons
But the day was not to end just yet. As we entered the
house, the telephone was ringing. Here, on the line were the voices of two
wonderful grandsons, each asking a hundred questions and wishing they, too,
were at their grandparents’ house. Each called me “Dude” and asked me if I was still
their “Punkin Doodle.”
As stillness and quiet settled over the household, I found
myself realizing that I had done this weekend as the prophet Isaiah had written.
Through the love of those dear to me, I had mounted up on wings as eagles. I
had soared to the heavens. I had witnessed once again the feeling of absolute
love.
(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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