Singleton tells of the exploits of a disorganized turkey hunter

Hank Williams Jr. 

(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 “Turkey hunters are often misunderstood,” was originally published in the April 16, 1987 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

This story is dedicated to those faithful and true-blue turkey hunters who arise in the early-morning hours and brave the elements to go forth for one slim chance at bringing home that prize gobbler that waits for the taking in the bottoms along the creek.

Friday: 9 p.m. You practice with your new turkey caller while your wife calls out threats and makes noise about calling the family lawyer and filing for divorce because you are ruining her television programs.

Saturday, 12:01 a.m. You start packing for departure at 4 a.m. You had forgotten to pack because of your practice session with the new turkey caller.

1:30 a.m. You are loading your vehicle to include your off-the-road three-wheeler. Your neighbors are shouting insults and telling you to go jump in a hole because of the noise you are making and the fact that you have turned on all the outside lights around your house.

2:30 a.m. You start to bed among the insults and dirty names from your wife, whom you have waked up while setting the clock radio to come on at 4 a.m.

3:15 a.m. You are still awake because of the excitement and expectations of bagging that trophy gobbler. More mumblings and bad names coming from your wife’s side of the bed.

3:55 p.m. You have finally dozed off, just minutes before the electric alarm radio blasts forth. You had opened the volume to the maximum in fear you might not hear it. More nasty words and insults from your wife as Hank Williams Jr. is singing “All My Rowdy Friends Are Coming Over Tonight.”

4:15 a.m. More abuse and nasty words as you get dressed and try to slip out of the house to your waiting pickup truck. You have forgotten something – your shotgun. You tiptoe quietly back to the den door to retrieve your gun. You reach for your keys; then you remember that you left them on the desk in the bedroom where your wife is sleeping. After knocking several minutes on the door to no avail, you go around to the front door and ring the doorbell.

4:30 a.m. The door swings open. The maddest woman you have ever seen, in the form of your wife, is standing in the door, crouched in a fighting stance that would make King Kong cringe in fear.

4:31 a.m. You mumble an apology after falling over a chair. You had not turned on the den lights, trying not to disturb the sleeping neighbors.

4:32 You open the door of your pickup truck. You are holding your shotgun by the grip, trying to place it in the gun rack behind the seat. The gun goes off. You remember that you forgot to place the safety in the “on” position when you loaded it in the den earlier last night. Both barrels go off, destroying the right door glass of your practically new pickup truck, not to mention your neighbor’s brand new bird feeder that was purchased only yesterday.

4:34 a.m. All the lights in the neighborhood come one. Words of death float on the winds and the early morning air. You jump into your truck amidst the broken glass and tattered upholstery. You pull out in the street, hear a terrible noise and realize that you forgot to tie down your three-wheeler and also forgot to latch the tailgate in the upright position.

4:35 a.m. The street is lined with shouting neighbors, still clad in their sleeping clothes, telling you where to go and what to do with your three-wheeler.

4:36 a.m. After loading your three-wheeler all by yourself without any assistance from your impolite neighbors, you are on your way to your before-daylight date with that prized gobbler.

5:42 a.m. You pull up to the place where you are to leave your pickup truck and travel the rest of the way on the three-wheeler. You remember that you didn’t load the ramps that you would need to get the three-wheeler out of the pickup. In a sudden flare of temper, you snatch the three-wheeler out of the truck. It bounces to a standstill only after the foot peg rakes your left leg from knee to ankle. You lie down in the cold, wet dew and hurt.

5:55 a.m. You are picking your way down through the tall grass. The light on the three-wheeler was broken back when it rolled off the truck in the street in front of your house.

6:15 a.m. After sideswiping a tall pine tree and bending the throttle control on the handlebar, you finely get the three-wheeler stopped after a mad, hair-raising dash through the tall timber.

6:25 a.m. You hide your three-wheeler behind a huckleberry bush and then move about 10 yards over and sit down with your back against a tall pine tree. You are going to catch your breath before you start calling that prize gobbler to you for his last sunrise in this world.

9:30 a.m. You bolt awake at the noise around you. You must have fallen to sleep. You swing your trusty double-barrel around in the direction of the noise behind the huckleberry bush. Something is coming out of the bushes. You discharge both barrels in that direction. Two very frightened armadillos take off down the hill untouched.

9:31 a.m. You begin to smell gasoline very strongly. You make your way toward the huckleberry bush from where the armadillos came.

9:32 a.m. You gaze in awe at the destruction that the double-barrel made when the charges of No. 4 shot struck the fuel tank and the front tire of your three-wheeler.

4:15 p.m. You turn your pickup into your drive amid cold stares and ugly mumblings from across the street. You decide to wait about unloading the destroyed three-wheeler until your neighbors go inside. You do not wish to discuss how you pushed the three-wheeler backwards like a wheelbarrow while carrying the front end over the rough terrain. Or why you didn’t kill a turkey.

6 p.m. Returning from the hamburger joint, where supper was purchased. Wife refused to cook because she was still very mad about last night’s events.

6:02 p.m. Considering taking up golf. Saw some fellows just now returning from the golf course. All were laughing and joking as though everything went well. Thinking about giving up turkey hunting completely – until next year for sure.

(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.)