Singelton remembers the bygone days of the traveling stove fixer

Old antique cook stove.

(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 “Stove fixer always came around during the springtime” was originally published in the March 17, 1994 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

I yet believe that those of you who didn’t grow out of the Great Depression missed an awful lot. Again, I say that I do not wish for another depression, but many fond memories come to mind of these years of hard times and hard work endured by the country families on the farms.

I know that there are some of my readers who remember some of these happenings that took place along the dirt roads of the back country. I never did understand just how news about certain events or visitors managed to travel so fast without the aid of modern telephones or radio.

Everyone in the farm country used the wood-burning cook stove in the preparation of feeding the family. Bringing in stove wood was always a chore for the very young. Those who were not old enough to do manual labor in the fields always caught up the slack around the house by doing jobs like brining in stove wood, drawing water from the well, helping to shell corn and various other jobs. If these jobs were boring and didn’t appear to exciting, this was kept to yourself. Perhaps, you could tell your older sister if you could get her to swear an oath to never tell about not liking the handyman jobs.

The latter days of March and the early days of April were the time for the arrival of the stove fixer. As much as these wood stoves were used in the country homes, there was most always something wrong with them, maybe a burned out or broken grate or perhaps a lost screw in the door hinge to the over was needed.

Sometimes the water reservoir might have a small leak, that is if you were lucky enough to have one on the family stove. Most times the need for repairs was tolerated until the time for the traveling stove fixer to show up.

I can see him now, coming down the road in his horse-drawn buggy. The old man was always dirty, having soot on his clothing from working on the many broken cook stoves. His horse was neither fat nor skinny but always healthy. Since this was his only means of travel, he always saw to it that his horse got fed. Many repair jobs were done for a place to stay overnight in someone’s barn and a couple of square meals for himself and his horse.

Getting the wood stove fixed was not the only service the stove fixer provided for the country folks. He always knew the latest news from other communities where he had been. His coming was like getting the newspaper or the news on the radio or television as we do today.

Most always, the same stove fixer would return year after year into the same area of the farm country. Since my father always kept a room of a sorts out in the barn just for wayward vagabonds, the stove fixer always stayed at least two or three days at our place.

Upon arrival, he would give my mother’s old Southern Comfort cook stove a good going over. He would always replace the grates, whether it was needed or not. He always carried the old grates with him when he left, perhaps to use again in someone else’s stove. He would tighten all the screws and bolts in the stoves, always waiting until it had cooled. Then, he would check the water reservoir for leaks. Finally, the stove pipe was inspected to be sure there was no chance of the kitchen catching fire from a leaking pipe or chimney.

After the repairs were finished, he and my father would sit out under the shed where the farm tools were kept. Here, my father would catch up on the news until it was announced that supper was ready. As a small boy, I was allowed to be present at these conversations, but I could only listen. I was not allowed to ask any questions or give my views on anything being talked about.

I was, however, allowed to sit at the small table in the kitchen with the traveling stove fixer while he ate. He would always bring me up to date on the events he thought interesting as we sat there eating. My darling mother was probably the best cook in the whole world. I could never understand how the old man ate as much as he did. He would truly put away the groceries, as a small, wide-eyed boy stared in total disbelief.

When the supper meal was over, the conversation between my father and the stove fixer would continue. A coal oil lantern would be lighted and hung under the tool shed. Sometimes, a couple of neighboring menfolk would come over to be part of the talks. Most times, these talks would last into the midnight hours. On rare occasions, I was allowed to be present, also. But, after an hour or less, this small boy would cuddle up on a saddle blanket in a sound sleep, always having to be carried to the house by my father or older brother.

After a hardy breakfast, the stove fixer would scout the community and surrounding area for repair work on stoves. Most times, he would be giving his lunch at another farm, but always, he returned to our house for the supper meal. Always, I would be given some kind of prize by the old man. An old pocket knife or perhaps several pieces of lead that had been fashioned into fish hook sinkers.

A well-fed and rested horse would be hooked up to the old buggy on the morning of departure. An early breakfast was served the old stove fixer. He would carry along with him a large box of food prepared the night before by my older sisters and its preparation supervised by my darling mother. Along with the box would be a large jar of fresh buttermilk. The old stove fixer was ready for travel.

A remorseful and sometimes tearful old man would bid my father farewell, always assuring him that he would return with the coming of the next spring. He would always tell my mother that her Southern Comfort stove was in good shape and would be all right until next year when he returned.

Mounting the seat of his buggy, he would always tip his old hat to my mother and sisters. Then the old stove fixer and his horse and buggy would fade from sight around the bend of the road. The coming of the stove fixer has long passed from the scene, as have many other events of country folks. Sometimes I think time doesn’t always change for the better.

(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.)