George Singleton writes of a visit to his maternal ancestors' homeplace

Jonquils.

(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 “Memories stirred at homesite” was originally published in the Feb. 27, 1997 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

With the 70-degree and higher temperature this past Thursday, Feb. 20, my vagabond blood became a bit restless. Since my better half was entertaining a few of her lady friends, I could think of no better time to pull a disappearing act. Many times I don’t really know just where I am going until I get to the first crossroads or intersection. So, today was no different.

As I made my way west on Highway 84, I was almost inside the town of Grove Hill before I decided just where I would end my journey. Off in the distance, a few heavy clouds threatened to put a damper on my venture, but I decided to risk my chances of getting wet, so I headed north-westward in the direction of my maternal ancestors’ old homeplace.

As I have stated many times in my writing, there comes a time in everyone’s life when we like to go to a quiet or familiar place and let our thoughts wander and reminisce of special times and special places. Here, at this old familiar homeplace, I know that always, those beautiful memories bud forth and the passing of time seems of no importance.

I had returned again to the old homeplace of my maternal ancestors. Throughout my life I have returned to this old homesite many times. Each time I feel that I had to come and relive those many stories and fond memories passed down to me by my dear grandmother and grandfather.

Time has taken its toll on the old homeplace. Very little remains of the old house and yard. Most of the old house has been torn away or the years of decay has taken its toll. About the only thing that yet remains is the old kitchen that sat a short distance from the main house. The kitchen was connected by a narrow walkway or what was known as a “dog trot.” This narrow walkway was covered with a board roof to keep the rain off as one made their way from the house to the kitchen at meal time.

The old rocks that had formed one of the chimneys were pile roughly in a misshapened mound, where here, too, the ravages of time and decay had taken its toll. After moving a few of the old stones to fashion a crude place to sit, I sat down and let my thoughts wander through the unkempt hedges and rows of jonquils that are beginning to bloom along where the old walkways used to be.

Standing there, looking across the grown-up front yard, I could see my grandmother walking among the flowers – a tall, very handsome woman, despite the years and hardships. I could see her long black hair, handing down her back, as black as a crow’s wing. And, I recalled the answer that she gave me when I asked her why everyone had to get up before daylight at her house each morning.

“Because, boy, you are supposed to. Anyone who don’t get out of bed before daylight is truly lazy, and I don’t want to be called lazy.”

Sitting there on the pile of rough chimney rock, I remembered being told the story of that dreary Christmas Eve when my great-grandfather returned from the Civil War. During the years that he had been away, he had grown a long beard. As he sat on his hors at the front gate, suffering from a serious saber wound in the left hip, his children not recognizing him because of his long beard, ran and hid under the house. My great-grandmother came out on the front porch and stood there looking over the dirty, ragged and wounded Rebel soldier that sat his horse in her yard. My great-grandfather called her by name and asked her why she didn’t speak to him. Not recognizing her own husband, she replied that she “didn’t speak to filthy trash.”

Unable to dismount his horse, the wounded Rebel had to fall off his horse. There on the ground he told her that he was her husband. This was when my great-grandmother called the children out from under the house, telling them to “come out from under the house and help get their papa in the house by the fire. He was home for Christmas.”

My grandfather and his family would occupy the old house for many years after the death of my great-grandfather and great-grandmother. Being of Scottish blood, my grandfather had fallen heir to a set of Scottish bagpipes. I recalled the many times when he would get out the bagpipes and dress in his kilt and play and dance. I remember old man Kilpatrick, who lived down the road aways. He too was of Scottish descent. He would bring forth the colors of his clan, and the two would dance into the wee hours of the morning to the tunes of “Scotland the Brave,” “Bonnie Lassie” and many more.

The sounds of the bagpipes has long since faded around the crumbled homestead. Only the rustle of the branches overhead and the sound of the wind in the grown up hedges bear witness that here was once a place of family togetherness.

The old kitchen, leaning drunkenly, as though each breath of wind spells destruction. And, the small log playhouse, the door long since fallen in decay, seems to wait for another time, and another place somewhere beyond the horizon. And, across the old abandoned road, the huge oak trees spread their protective branches over the headstones that mark the final resting places of the lady with the long, black hair and man who danced around in the funny skirt and played the bagpipes.

(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 also helped organize the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president of that organization. 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.)