George Singleton tells of visiting old home places in the Red Hills of Monroe County, Alabama

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

(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 “Coming of spring brings thoughts of yesterday,” was originally published in the March 30, 1995 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

This is the place, stand still my steed,
And, let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy past
The forms that once have been.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As I travel around the countryside and visit many old, abandoned homesteads, the words of Longfellow’s poem take on a greater meaning. The coming of spring with its blossoming of the many beautiful flowers that grow throughout the area should not be a time of sadness. But as I visit these old places that once rang with laughter and merriment, a feeling of depression comes over me.

You cannot travel anywhere within this area without seeing first hand the many old homesteads that now lay abandoned and neglected. I know that we, as a society, cannot keep up and repair these many old places of yesterday. But when I stop and view the little things that have survived the passage of time and yet continue to grace these forgotten areas with their primitive beauty, a feeling of sadness is always present.

Picture yourself alone at the edge of an old, abandoned homestead in the Red Hills area. The day is Fri., the 17^th of March. Many years have passed since this old homeplace has heard the laughter of children playing in the front yard among the blooming jonquils and wild violets. Nothing remains of the old house but an ancient stone chimney that leans crazily there on the hillside. No smoke comes from this old chimney where once the smell of burning wood floated on the evening air.

The front yard is covered with brush where once planted flowers and hedges grew along the picket fence. And, along the edge of the yard, an old, broken rock wall still clings to the hillside in a desperate effort to try and hold together the remains of what once was a place of happiness.

Standing in the corner of the old, abandoned yard, you can yet see a few struggling jonquils that dot the few open spaces that remain free of brush and debris. Near the stone chimney, an aged magnolia tree stands as a silent sentinel, waiting for the return of the family from long ago.

There are no sounds around the old homestead. Only the rustle of fallen magnolia leaves that cover the ground beneath the ancient tree give evidence of any movement. While across the abandoned field, in the woods nearby, a crow calls out to its mate. Over and beyond the remains of the decayed and crumbled barn, the call is answered. Here, where once with the coming of the morning, activity abounded, now the passage of time has no meaning.

What was it like here around this old homestead on a spring Sunday morning – when the family gathered out in the front yard to load up in the wagon for the trip to the church not too far down the road? Standing there by the crumbled, old rock wall, I can imagine young children waiting there in the yard in their gingham dresses and starched homemade clothing, as the wagon was brought up from the barn.

I can visualize the slow wagon ride across the scenic red-clay hills to the community church for a morning of worship and fellowship. And, as they slowly made their way across the red clay hills, the blooming mountain laurels graced the ridges with their wild and primitive beauty.

Standing there alone, I remembered the telephone call that I received last April from an old lady, requesting that I bring her to this place. As a child, she had been reared here at this old homestead. Over 65 years had passed since she last visited this place where she was born. I remembered her not recognizing where she was until I pointed out the remains of the low rock wall there at the edge of the yard.

Seeing the old wall, she sat down and wept, knowing that this was the place where her life began. During the next few hours, I was to hear many stories of her life and that of her family here among the red-clay hills when she was a young girl.

I was to hear of the good times and the many wagon rides to the country church down the road. She told of the many hellfire-and-brimstone sermons preached by this country preacher and how frightened she became as a small child after hearing these sermons. I was told also of the country get-togethers among the young folks here in the hill country.

I remembered this dear old lady wandering across the front yard of the old homestead and pointing out the patches of jonquils and violets that she had planted as a child. I was to hear the stories of chilly evenings around the old stone fireplace where the family gathered for warmth and comfort. She also relayed to me how her dear mother had planted the magnolia tree there in the yard after bringing the small plant by wagon all the way from Butler County.

As we visited the old well there in the yard, I was to hear the stories of how she played as a small child in the watering trough there by the well. She also told me of the stories of how the milk that was used by her family was lowered in the well to be kept cool and fresh until time for the supper meal at the close of the day.

Hearing all this, the memories of my childhood blossomed forth and the subjects of fresh milk and milk coolers in the well grew in magnitude. The old lady’s nephew that was present didn’t seem to understand why the milk was placed in the well to keep from spoiling. He couldn’t understand why it wasn’t placed in the refrigerator for storage.

After a lengthy lecture from the dear old lady, he was to understand that there was no such thing as a refrigerator back in those days in the Red Hills community. He was reminded time and again that times were hard there trying to dig a living out of the red clay of these rolling hills.

After securing a small rock from the crumbled, old stone wall, she weepingly bid farewell to the old homestead. She stated that she knew this would be her last trip to the place of her birth here, deep in the hill country. When I assured her that I would bring her back anytime she desired, she reminded me that I didn’t know what it was like to be 87 years old. I had to promise her that I would return here from time to time and check on her jonquils and the large old magnolia tree. I promised that I would, and this promise I have kept. The visit here this day is a part of that promise.

We visited the Red Hills cemetery where this dear old lady lingered for a while at the final resting place of her ancestors. While placing a small jonquil at the grave of a great uncle, she reminded me that he had fought in the dreaded Civil War and had been wounded. Turning at the gate of the old cemetery, this dear woman bid farewell to those of her family who slept here on the red-clay hill.

Her journey into the memories of her early childhood had ended for now. I was glad that I had helped make it possible.

(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.)