George Singleton tells of trip to Nancy Mountain, crows, armadillos and other unexpected visitors

George Buster Singleton

(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 “High atop Nancy Mountain” was originally published in the Aug. 7, 1997 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

Pick a day if you will, and for all practical purposes decide not to do anything except the one thing that strikes your fancy. I would like to share with you one of these days that I had the privilege to enjoy a few days back. My dear wife had other plans for this day, so I had nothing to do but to disappear and return just when I wanted to.

Had this been in the old days, I would have had to saddle my horse or seek some type of transportation to carry me where I was going. But, in these modern times, all I had to do was to gas up my motorcycle and make a quick stop at a grocery store and pick up my lunch of sardines and crackers, a can of pork and beans, two moon pies and a couple of canned drinks. Then, with all my goodies, and the morning sun in my face, and the fresh wind blowing around my neck, I head toward the place where I know that time will stand still and everything is at peace.

The green trees and the fields of growing corn raced by as I headed up through the Finchburg area. I leave the pavement and turn west toward the river and high hill known as Nancy Mountain. I made a quick run down the scenic steep hill that leads to the river to see if it is still there. Then, I turn my iron steed around and climb back up the hill to my favorite spot atop the high bluff. I look around to be sure that I’m not going to be disturbed. The sun is getting warmer with each passing minute, so I knew that if I was going to take a quick nap before the heat settled in, I would have to hurry.

Just as I was about to doze off into that nap that I was looking forward to, about 25 crows decided to settle in the top of a large oak tree there on the hill. I laid back and decided to listen. The conversation among the group of crows was something to be told. I would have given anything to have had a tape recorder there with me.

I listen for a long time as they scold each other and each in their own way “has its say.” If by some miracle I had been able to understand their talking, I would have known just who in the crow society was going out with who and I would have been greatly enlightened on all the happenings around the area. The conversation came to a sudden halt when I tried to join in with the crow caller that I had put in my pocket just prior to leaving home. I must have said something that they didn’t like because they left the large oak tree in an awful hurry.

Just as thing began to settle down again, and I thought that I might get on with my nap, I heard a noise in the underbrush across the road. Out of the weeds and tall grass comes a large armadillo slowly making his way across the gravel road. I sit very still as he slowly makes his way toward the table where I am sitting. I didn’t mind him looking around but I wish he would go on about his business. I wasn’t looking for the company for lunch, but it seemed that this is what the armadillo had in mind. I wasn’t sure if an armadillo ate sardines and crackers or not, but he wasn’t about to get a can of mine. Besides, I always eat two cans.

After what seemed to be a very long visit, my friend the armadillo moved into the underbrush and down the hill toward the river. According to my stomach, it had gotten to be about lunch time. The thought of the moon pies and sardines had flung a craving on me. I was ready for lunch. After a feast fit for a king, I thought I might doze off for a few minutes there on the hill as a cool breeze crept over the area of Nancy Mountain.

Just about the time I doze off, the sound of an approaching automobile reached the hilltop. Before I could get up off the table, up drives an elderly couple from lower Baldwin County. Before I could get a word in, they were removing from the trunk of their auto a large picnic basket and an ice chest. Assuring them that I didn’t mind if they had a picnic lunch there under the shelter, they began to unpack their goodies. After seeing all the good food they had, I was sorry that I had eaten. My sardines and moon pies weren’t much compared to the lunch they spread out there on the table.

They had never heard the story of Nancy Haines and the tragedy of her family there on the hill during the early days of the dreadful Civil War. They knew nothing of the ghost of Miss Nancy as it walked the old road and faint trails that led down to the river, hoping to meet her loved ones coming home from the bloody war.

Our conversation went on for quite some time about the happenings around the area and throughout the county. After relaying to them the adventures that I had experienced while traveling over the country by motorcycle, they were about ready to sell their auto and invest in an iron horse. As they were about to depart Nancy Mountain, they wanted to know if I would come with them again here to the hill and retell the story of the ghost of Miss Nancy. Next time they were going to bring along some friends. I assured them that I would meet them there if they would let me know the day they were coming.

As I stopped for a final look across the vast valley and river below me, I decided that it had been a very good day after all. Even though I didn’t get my nap, I had made some new friends and I had gotten the latest gossip from the band of crows, although I hadn’t been able to get a word in edgeways. And, looking across the valley, I had witnessed once again a portion of the great Creation.

The evening shadows had begun to gather there atop Nancy Mountain as I watched the golden rays of the setting sun through the trees to the west. I mounted my motorcycle as one would mount a fine horse in the olden days. Leaving the mountain is never an easy task, but I knew that I must go. It had been a very fine day, it really had.

(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.)