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| Tristan de Luna y Arellano |
(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 “Friday the 13th was
good” was originally published in the June 19, 1997 edition of The Monroe
Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
I have always been told that Friday the 13th was
always an unlucky day. But, this Friday, June 13, turned out to be quite
enjoyable. I awoke this day to find that my “honey do” list was almost next to
nothing. After seeing what my dear wife had planned for me to do, I had to sit
down and reassure myself that this short list was correct.
After a quick raking around one of my wife’s favorite bushes
in the yard, I was told that I had nothing else to do. Acting as quickly as
possible before my dear spouse could change her mind, I quickly mounted my motorcycle
and headed west on Highway 84. I knew that I had plenty of time to decide just
where I was going after I got out of sight of the house.
The 30 or so miles to Grove Hill was a time of dodging log
trucks and the heavy traffic that moved along the highway. Just this side of
Whatley, I madde a right-hand turn and proceeded to travel down the Old Line
Road. I had traveled this road many times, but always enjoyed to return along
this ancient path and relive the memories and visit historical spots of earlier
times.
Perhaps, as many of my readers might know, this old trail
along this high ridge was once the dividing line between the Choctaw and the
Creek Indian nations. Over the years, many of the earlier settlers that came
this way passed down this ancient trail. If one searches the heavy timbered and
brushy areas along this old road, one will find many lone graves and several
small burial grounds where those who died along the way were laid to rest.
A quick stop along the way was to visit the graves of a
couple of friends of mine whom I had known at an early age and had grown up
with. As I read the date of births and deaths, I remembered that one had been
born just one day before my birth. We had started to school together and had
attended the same school until she had moved away from near the small town of
Sweet Water. Her husband, who was buried nearby, was a history buff and he and
I had spent many hours digging and seeking out the many ancient Indian village
sites along this trail. And, we had spent countless hours searching and
retracing the route of DeSoto and his army when they moved along the ancient trail
in October 1540. DeSoto’s nephew, DeLuna, also traveled this route in the year
of 1561. Somewhere along the way, near where Silver Creek joins the Alabama
River, DeLuna fell ill and died. He and his war horse were buried in full
military armor somewhere near the mouth of Silver Creek. In 1967, the
government of Spain offered a $250,000 reward for proof of the exact location
of the burial place. My departed friend, whom I mentioned earlier, spent many
hours searching for the final resting place of DeLuna and his horse.
As I made my way down the narrow and twisting road to the
community of Lower Peach Tree, I thought of the many hair-raising stories that
had been told to me about the happenings along the old road. As I stopped for a
quick, cold soda pop, in the heart of Lower Peach Tree. I remembered the many
stories of the terrible tornado that passed this way a number of years ago and
completely wiped out the community of Upper Peach Tree. I remembered being told
the story of a farmer in the area whose horse was picked up by the twister and
was later found in a pasture up near the Selma area. The horse was unhurt
except a few skinned places on his legs.
From Peach Tree, my journey led me on to the community of
Sunny South. Stopping in front of an old abandoned house, I remembered being in
a group of young people who came here with intentions to sit and wait
throughout the night, looking and listening for the ghost of an old man who was
said to occupy the old house. Needless to say, the group didn’t say, the group
didn’t stay until shortly after midnight when strange sounds of doors slamming
and loud screams filled the vacant rooms of the old house. It took quite some
time to gather up the members of the group as they raced, frightened out of
their minds, along the old road leading from the area of the haunted house.
From Sunny South to the community of Vineland, and then on
to Dixon Mills was the route for my iron horse and me. Following Highway 10 brought
me to the town of Sweet Water. Here, I stopped for a few moments to visit the
graves of my mother and father and my older brother. I knew that I wasn’t going
to be able to return here on Father’s Day, so I came this way today. Standing
there beside their final resting places, many memories came to mind. Very few
had been as fortunate as myself to have had such wonderful parents. Knowing
that they were now resting in total peace, I made my way toward the community
of Nanafalia.
Turning west on Highway 69, I stopped in the communities of
Putnam and Morvin to visit the graves of two of my great-great-uncles. Both had
worn the uniform of the Confederacy. After the dreaded war, they returned here
to live out the remainder of their lives. Their brother, my great-grandfather,
never returned. He fell in battle during the bloody fighting of Shiloh, on the
banks of the Tennessee River. Today, he sleeps, perhaps in one of the several
burial trenches there on the battlefield.
A slight rain began to fall as I made my way westward toward
the community of Campbell. Turning back toward Tallahatta Springs and Opine
communities, it wasn’t long before I was passing through Gilmore Gap. As I sped
along across the high hill, I thought of the stories that I had heard of the
many hardships suffered by those crossing this area in the horse-drawn wagons
many years ago. According to the old tales relayed to me by my dear
grandmother, this area had not been an easy place to settle.
A quick stop in Grove Hill for a long awaited and overdue
sandwich was very refreshing. As I pulled out on the highway, I noticed the clouds
had grown heavier during the time I was eating my lunch. Oh well, I had been
wet many times before, today was no different, after all, it was Friday the 13th.
Everything had gone well so far.
Masses of heavy trucks and a few sprinkles of rain slowed my
progress as I made my way east on Highway 84. Today had been my lucky day, as I
pulled my motorcycle under the carport, the rain increased. The timing couldn’t
have been better. Today had truly been my lucky day. I could now face another “honey
do” list almost totally refreshed. Remember, I said “almost.”
(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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