George Singleton tells of 1988 trip to Nancy Mountain

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 “Man needs beauty to survive,” was originally published in the March 17, 1988 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

A few Sundays back, my wife and I put together a basket of goodies and a cold jug of iced tea and took off for parts unknown to get close to nature and enjoy the wonderful outdoors.

For one reason or another, we ended up atop Nancy Mountain to have our dinner under the open skies. It seemed as though our automobile just headed that way as some unseen hand took over the driving. We didn’t discuss or decide which way we might go. When we realized where we were, we had almost made it to the high hill above the ferry and the river.

It’s amazing just how much a person can eat when there is no one to hinder him or no noisy television or telephone ringing during meal time. After unloading the basket of food and a large plastic container of good iced tea, we got down to the business at hand of fried chicken and potato salad, mixed along with some sweet pickles, sweet onions, sliced apples and several slices of cheese.

Nothing in the way

When one is not in a hurry, one can eat much more than when there is a schedule to meet or a place to go. This was such a time, when all could be put aside and there was nothing to get in the way of you and the fried-chicken plate.

To me, there is nothing quite as good as some real home-cooked Southern-fried chicken. Then, to take a bite of one of those sweet pickles, not to mention a swig from that large container of iced tea. You might add some potato salad, some sweet onion, a bite or two from an apple slice, and then slip in a bite of cheese to give it flavor. I don’t think mankind could ever wish for anything to eat that would surpass this mixing.

The after-dinner entertainment was watching two lizards that appeared on our table. There wasn’t any chicken to share with them because it had been all et, but we placed some crumbs of bread over at the far end of the table and began to watch and see if the lizards would eat the food of us humans. To our amazement, the lizards would not touch the crumbs of bread, but we noticed that the bread had been discovered by some small ants and some other insects.

Lizards snatched insects

To our surprise, the lizards would kind of move back and let the ants and the various insects come forward to the bread crumbs. Then, as quick as a flash, the would dive forward, within the distance where the insects could be reached with their tongues. Then a tongue would shoot forward, almost too fast for the eye to see, and pick an insect that was carried into the lizard’s mouth.

The show went on for quite some time. It seemed that each lizard had eaten more than it was used to eating. They had begun to get choosy as to which ones they would pick each time. This was when we brushed the crumbs off on the ground and let some of the larger ants carry them off to their nearby ant beds or wherever.

Looking to the north, we could see the great river in plain view. At this time of year, the view was wonderful. The river looked like a long, large, gray ribbon winding its way along the edges of the bluff there in the distance. Time seemed to stand still; there were only the sounds of birds and occasionally the call of a quite large Indian hen, down the steep bluff that was close by. It seemed that the Indian hen was calling just for our entertainment.

Numbers diminishing

The call of this rare bird has become few and far between in today’s world. This is becoming one of our endangered species. It’s a pity because it is one of our more beautiful birds, with a quite large wingspan and a jet-black color, as though polished to a beautiful finish.

No evening is complete atop Nancy Mountain without breaking out the jungle hammocks and taking a quick nap. So, with the entertainment coming to a close, we did just that. Quickly tying the hammocks between some trees, we got in about 40 minutes of good sleep and rest before the time came to pack up and start back toward that thing called civilization.

I sometimes wonder if I may be a throwback from an earlier time in man’s stay on our planet, for each time I go out into the quietness and solitude of the deep woods and the hill country, I find myself having crazy thoughts that I might not want to return to the problems of our civilization. This can be quite disturbing.

Live in harmony

I feel that man must live in harmony with nature. I do not believe that we can worship the Creator if we do not believe in His greatness of creation. I believe, too, that man is missing a great part of his life if we do not become involved in our earth’s mother and embrace and hold close to the things that were put here for us to live with.

I feel that if we are to survive, we must protect and take care of the many things that we abuse so much today. Man is only a small part of this creation. With all our knowledge, we are the most helpless of all creatures. We have brought this weakness upon ourselves. Man must have beauty to survive. There is no other way out. Our destruction of our natural beauty is at an all-time high. It might be too late...

(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, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, 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.)

 

George Singleton writes of 'Dixieland' and Southern culture

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 “Why did song ‘Dixie’ disappear from culture,” was originally published in the March 9, 1989 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

The name “Dixie” is probably a bit of Franco-American slang born in the Mississippi River boat trade, though some same it derived from the Mason-Dixon Line, the imaginary boundary line between North and South.

It had become a universal nickname for the South long before the Civil War. But the believed origin was derived from the most endearing of all commodities, money.

The financial houses of New Orleans had within their bank notes a $10 bill. On the corners of this bank note was the French word “dix.” The rough, rugged boatmen and stevedores of the New Orleans waterfront called these bills “dixies.” Thus, the story goes that because of this, the great river basin in the lower South acquired the name “Dixieland.”

Many rumors give evidence as to who actually wrote the song “Dixie.” It was 1859 before the words made their formal debut in song, though the early stages of the Southern anthem, or something quite like it, had been sung on the plantations and steamboat decks for generations before.

What actually started out as a minstrel-show tune, changed meaning when on Feb. 18, 1861, Jefferson Davis was inducted as president of the Confederacy in Montgomery.

As a small band wound its way up the hill toward the Capitol under the direction of Herman Arnold, a naturalized German music teacher, the small marching band struck up Arnold’s version of “I Wish I Was in Dixieland.” Soldiers from the 1^st Alabama Regiment were the escort. They were the first to march to the peppy music of the grand tune.

The song was an overnight sensation; even Abraham Lincoln liked it. Just a little more than four years after its Montgomery debut, he was in the final week of his life, President Lincoln took “Dixie” back into the Union.

It was April 8, 1865. President Lincoln was returning from a tour of the Union Army camps near Richmond, Va. He had boarded a paddle-wheel steamer, the River Queen, for his return trip to Washington.

A Federal Army band was aboard. Mr. Lincoln asked the director of the band if he knew “Dixie.”

“It has always been a favorite tune of mine,” stated the president, “and since it is now Federal property, we have the perfect right to enjoy it. Also, the Rebels can now be free to hear it and play it whenever they choose.”

The Federal Army band on board the River Queen struck up the sweet, inspiring tune “Dixie.” When the music had died away, there was clapping of hands and other applause.

Within minutes, the River Queen slipped away downstream, bearing President Lincoln on the last trip of his life.

With all the history that is associated with this grand old tune, why must our society of today hide a song that has meant so much in the past?

Nowhere in the lyrics of the old song do I recall anything about hate, race or slavery. As I have stated many times, our modern-day history tends to fabricate and misquote the actual happenings of yesteryear.

As we sink deeper into our worlds of fantasy, we are widening the gaps from truth and reality. Our fantasies will soon push us forever from the pages of our true heritage to the make-believe world of fiction and falsehood.

Our national cemeteries, where those who have fallen in the defense of their beliefs wait for the final roll call of judgement, will be sold to the highest foreign bidder, and a video factory will fill the landscape that once was hallowed ground.

Gone forever will be America as we knew it, and the pitiful few who dare to recite our National Anthem will have to do so in top secrecy for fear of their life.

Sadly, but not with upbraiding,
The generous deed was done.
In the storm of the years that are fading,
No braver battle was won.
Under the sod and dew of the evening,
Waiting for the judgement day,
The forgotten graves of the Blue
And the not-remembered graves of the Gray.

(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, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, 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.)

 

Singleton tells of ancient Indian village site in Monroe County, Ala.

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 “Turn back the clock and watch for tribes of the past,” was originally published in the March 5, 1992 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

In a north by northeast direction from the city of Monroeville, many strange sights might be seen. Along the edge of the steep hills, just before the land drops off into the bottoms near Flat Creek, time has almost stood still for nearly a thousand years.

What could be going on in an area so near to a much-traveled highway and a not-too-far-away railroad? If one could turn back the clock for a few hundred years and be able to observe the happenings and witness the activity along this large creek, one would find that quite a large civilization rested on the slopes of the high hills in this area.

Let us travel back in time and find a hidden spot where no one will see us. Let us be able to witness and listen as the women-folk and children of the early tribe go about their farming chores along the bottom of the ridges near the large creek.

As the early hours of a spring morning slowly creep from the high hills, see them walking down the hills to where the crops of squash and corn will be planted in the rich soil.

They will not carry modern farming tools as we have today. Their tools for digging are sharp points fashioned from pieces of flint that came from the rich flint deposits not too far to the southeast, near what is now the ridge.

These pieces of had flint are tied securely with a piece of rawhide to a stout stick, about three feet in length. Ties were made with green rawhide, before it had time to dry. As the rawhide dried, it became almost as if the piece of flint and the stick were one and the same.

Then, there was the first ax, which had no handle. The first ax was a large piece of sharp flint about the size of a large cooking spoon. They were mostly used to dig around the growing plants to keep the soil loose and to chop the weeds and grass away.

As the corn or squash seeds were dropped in the freshly dug hole, a small fish, or a piece of a larger fish, was put in the hole as fertilizer. The nearby large creek supplied the necessary fish for the spring planting, not to mention the fish that were consumed by the tribe as part of their daily diet.

A few days back, I journeyed into this area and marveled at the evidence that after several hundred years still could be found. In looking at one rather steep hill, it appeared as if the dirt had been carried from somewhere else to form this high point.

Here was where the chief or the ruler of the tribe lived. At about this time in early history, the chiefs would place their lodgings above the rest of the villagers, nearer to the heavens.

As I tried to picture in my mind just where I would have put a fire pit had I been there during this time, I was able to find two old locations that had survived hundreds of years.

I carefully brushed the pine needles and rotted leaves from the blackened stones that had surrounded the fire pit, and I wondered how many had rested around these fires and listened to the tales that abounded there.

I could imagine a tall, strong man standing there where I sat, telling of a bear hunt that had taken place along the large creek to the south. I could imagine the women and children as they sat spellbound and listened to the hair-raising experiences of hunting the bear or panther. I could almost smell the meat hanging from the cooking prongs over the fires.

I could see the members of the tribe slowly moving away from the large fires and seeking the comfort and warmth of the bear and deer skin wraps that would protect them from the chilly winds of the night.

In my mind I could see the crude thatched huts that were made of sticks and brush and sealed with the sticky mud that had been brought from the nearby creek. I would think that life had been quite pleasant for these early people along the slopes, here near the large creek.

As I made my way around the area, I knew that sooner or later I would probably come across that evidence that would give witness to the sadness and heartbreak of the early inhabitants of the village. As I followed the base of the steep slope, I found what I expected I would. There, under the dense undergrowth and fallen leaves, were about 30 piles of small stones ranging in size from an egg to some almost the size of a large hat.

Some of the mounds of stone were larger than the others. I remembered that perhaps those who were buried under the large mounds were older members of the village, or someone of greater importance in the village society.

As was the custom, after a member had died and been put to rest, a few stones were placed on the grave. Then each time someone who knew the deceased passed the grave, they would place a stone on it as a tribute in remembrance to the one who slept there. This would go on for several years until all the family members and friends of the deceased had either died or moved away.

As I sat there in the quietness of the afternoon, I wondered how long it would before this too would be destroyed as man pillaged for wealth and profit.

I wondered too if sometimes maybe during the nights of the full moon, the ghosts of this earlier time might gather again around the evening fires for a night of story telling and togetherness. They would gather before it was time to return again to that place that only they can know and are free to enter.

(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, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, 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.)