George Singleton takes a motorcycle, ferry trip in April 2002

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 “That vagabond blood flows again,” was originally published in the April 24, 2003 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

A few days ago, the urge to wander began to come over me as though a slight chill of some sort had entered my body. After giving it a little thought, I rolled out my trusted iron horse and headed toward the nearest crossroad. Many times I never really know where I’m going until I come to the first intersection in the highway.

I was up near the community of Tunnel Springs when suddenly I turned to the west and proceeded back to the road that would take me into the Old Scotland area. As I made my way down the narrow road, I was amazed at the many mimosa trees that were just beginning to bloom that dotted the countryside. Their raw primitive beauty was something to behold as they spread their branches like large colorful umbrellas near the old forgotten house places. As I rode along the narrow dirt road and marveled at the beauty of the mimosas, I reaffirmed that the Master’s hand was in all things of beauty that dotted the landscape around me.

Stopping in front of Old Scotland church, I looked out over the cemetery and noticed that as always, there were fresh flowers on many of the graves. I never grow tired of visiting the beautiful old church and the well kept grounds. As I have stated many times before in my writings, somewhere in my mind, I almost expect to see a couple of Scottish bagpipers step out of the tall timber, playing “Amazing Grace,” the most beautiful hymn that man has ever written. As always, my ancestral Scottish blood seems to rush forth and I enter into another time.

After absorbing the total peace and beauty of the old church for about an hour, I knew that I must go on to other places. Stopping at the old Davison cemetery for a few moments, I then proceeded on down the road. A quick stop at a couple of old homesite brought back to mind that day when I brought to one of these old homesteads a dear elderly lady, now deceased, who had been born here and raised here as a child. I remembered her telling me that it had been 65 years since she had visited this place of her birth and childhood home. I remembered her weeping and saying that this would probably be her last visit here. I assured her that I would bring her here anytime she wanted to come; all she had to do was to let me know that she wanted to come and again visit the old homesite. I remembered her picking some blooming jonquils that grew near the old yard. Weeping openly, she said she remembered planting these jonquils as a child.

Turning down the steep hill and down the narrow road that would eventually lead to the creek, it seemed as if I was going through a narrow dark tunnel. The heavy overhead branches of the timber covered the narrow dirt road completely. Slowly, making my way across the bottom, I stopped at the old wooden bridge that spanned the large creek. Stopping again, I turned off the engine of my motorcycle and stood looking down at the flowing waters of the creek. As I had many times before, I remembered the story of the wandering Confederate soldier who, wounded and sick, had camped for a considerable time here under the wooden structure. I remembered my dear friend, Mr. Raymond Fountain, telling me about the ghost of this Rebel solider being seen walking across the old bridge during the early morning and the late evening hours. I remembered the story of how one could stand on the old bridge during the hours of the late evening and smell the odor of food cooking. As I made ready to depart this place of mystery, I vowed to return here again, as I had done several times before, during the late hours of the evening and try to witness for myself the stories that I had been told by my dear friend. As I rode to the west, the story of the Rebel’s strange disappearance raced through my memory.

Crossing the low bottom lands and another wooden bridge that spanned yet another large creek, I soon found myself climbing up into the hill country. As I approached the crest of beautiful Locke Hill, I knew that I had to stop and spend a few moments and absorb the vast beauty that lay in the bottoms before me. Here, I was re-affirmed once again, only God was capable of creating such beautiful handiwork with such vast magnitude of colors.

As I traveled the narrow dirt road toward the old Red Hills cemetery, I thought of the many dollars that had been spent on traveling to distant places in search of nature’s beauty. Since leaving Highway 21 at Tunnel Springs, I had witnessed nature beginning to show her grandest colors, except perhaps during the fall months, and it had cost me almost nothing, perhaps a quart and a half of gasoline.

As I stopped in front of the old Red Hills cemetery, the memory of another dear friend came to mind. I remembered how I used to come here with my friend, Oscar Wiggins, and wander for hours through the old cemetery. I knew by heart the names of his distant ancestors who rested in some of the graves nearby. I had been shown many times the final resting places of several Confederate soldiers who had departed this world and now slept in the red clay of the old cemetery. Never did we visit here that my friend always went first to the grave of his grandfather who had worn the Rebel uniform. And, always I would hear the story of his return from the dreadful war, a wounded and sick man. After his return from the war, he spent the remaining years of his life digging a living out of the red clay soil of the Red Hills area.

As I proceeded across the high hills toward Highway 41 and the Franklin community, I knew that I had to make up my mind real soon as to the direction I would take. Looking at my watch, I knew that the noon hour was fast approaching. Turning northward, I twisted and turned on the winding and scenic highway until I soon found myself approaching the town of Camden. A quick stop at a fast food place satisfied my hunger and soon I was on my way again.

Not knowing for certain as to where I was going, I found myself in the community of Possum Bend. It didn’t take but a minute to view the sights here, so I proceeded on toward the river and the paper mill on the highway that would carry one to the town of Pine Hill. Just past the paper mill, I turned to my left and soon I was at the intersection of the road that would carry me to either the community of Sunny South or turn left and travel toward Lower Peach Tree. Turning left, once again the memories began to flow as I swept past old familiar landmarks that brought back many hours of research and adventure.

I knew if I wanted to cross the Alabama River on the ferry, I had to be there before the 4 p.m. deadline. Stopping in Lower Peach Tree, I fueled up my motorcycle and drank a quick cold drink. I had heard many stories about this community and how a terrible tornado many years past had almost wiped out the surrounding area. I remembered a lady who lived near where I grew up had been blown up into a tree during this terrible storm when she was a small child. The rest of her life, she was a cripple, almost unable to walk or to do anything.

The river crossing was very pleasant as I talked to the operator, whom I knew. Warning me to stay out of trouble, I said goodbye to my friend and climbed the east bank and began the climb to the top of Nancy Mountain. Looking at my watch again, I knew that I had no time to waste if I was to get home before my darling wife came home from a day of shopping. With just minutes to spare, I stabled my iron horse and began the “honey do” work that she had instructed me to do. This vagabond blood of mine is going to get me into serious trouble yet.

Contentment is for those who have
Reached their goal and are satisfied no
More to wander. Happily, I have not reached
Mine, and have no intentions of doing so.

(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 the musical, dancing adventures of Augusta Jill and Gussie Lou

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 “Augusta Jill takes up musical pursuits,” was originally published in the April 18, 1991 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

This is a letter from Fonderoy Fishue to his favorite cousin Penrod Meldean who lives in the Cajun country of Louisiana. Fonderoy’s better half, Augusta Jill, has developed a craving for music. Here is what the letter is all about.

My dear cousin Penrod,

I take pen in hand to write you and tell you about what my beloved wife’s latest passion is. If I make any mistakes in my spelling or writing, don’t be alarmed because it has been several nights since I have had a good night’s sleep.

A few days back, Augusta Jill, and that big fat sister of hers, Gussie Lou, made a trip to one of them big wholesale stores that has just opened in town. They say that you can find anything at them stores. I believe it because Augusta Jill bought Ole Blue (Ole Blue is my favorite coon dog) a collar that has some kind of battery in it. That collar does something that scares the living daylights out of the fleas and ticks and just about everything that used to worry Ole Blue half to death. He has gotten so lazy until I believe he has gotten too lazy to scratch.

But, getting back to my problem. Augusta Jill brought home from that store something they call a keyboard. (She spent almost all of my spring fertilizer money on that blasted thing.) Cousin Penrod, this thing is about the size of a big plant. It looks like a piano with everything but the keys missing. You have to plug it into the electric lights in the house for it to work. If Augusta Jill wants to carry it out in the yard, or to the barn, it has six flashlight batteries that will make it play.

That darn contraption has about 50 different buttons across the top of the plank. Cousin Penrod, you won’t believe the different sounds that this thing will make, just by punching them buttons. It makes sound like a piano or some sounds that I have never heard and don’t know how to describe them to you. Augusta Jill gets out on the front porch with this thing and plays. Ole Blue has howled so much until he can hardly howl above a whisper. He has just about ruined his voice.

There’s one button that you can push and that thing gives off a ghostly sound. All the house cats have left home. It seems like the sound is the one that Augusta Jill likes most. You can turn a knob and that thing will get so loud that it will shake the house. Or, you can turn it down so low until you can hardly hear it.

Them house cats has just about ruined all our window curtains. Augusta Jill would start that thing playing real low and then turn it up so loud that them cats will climb to the ceiling. Their tails get real fluffy when they hear that ghost music. My mule has tore down his stable door. I look for him to have a nervous breakdown any time now.

It wouldn’t be so bad if she would just play that darn plank-looking thing in the day time. But that darn woman likes to get up at night when all the lights are out and play that ghost music. As I told you earlier in the letter, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a while. I don’t know which one will be first to go off the deep end, me or the mule.

I don’t guess the folks that live down the road know that Augusta Jill has got this contraption. Every night after the lights are turned off and that woman of mine gets up and starts playing that scary music, traffic picks up in front of the house. I believe they think that there’s some kind of spirit that has moved in with us. They sure have been giving us some real peculiar looks lately when they pass the house.

Cousin Penrod, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Augusta Jill said that just as soon as she got where she could play that plank-looking thing real good, she was going to get that fat sister of hers, Gussie Lou, to start learning how to sing. Then they might form them a nightclub act. Can you imagine that? Well, one thing for sure, that nightclub would break all records in booze sales – everybody would have to get falling down in the floor drunk so they could put up with their entertaining act.

I’ve been giving it some thought. I might just come down there and stay with you in that Cajun country for a while. I’m not going to be able to start plowing for a while anyway. My old mules are so nervous from that crazy music that Augusta Jill has been making until I can’t get the harness on them.

He’s got the nervous shakes real bad. I thought that I would mention me coming down there, Cousin Penrod. I just hope Augusta Jill and Gussie Lou don’t decide to want to learn that funny Cajun music; just ain’t no reason to ruin two good homes.

Well Cousin Penrod, I’m going to have to stop for now. I see Augusta Jill and Gussie Lou coming out toward the barn. That’s where I’m at. I came out here where I thought I might get a few minutes peace while I was writing you about my troubles.

You wouldn’t believe it, Cousin Penrod. All the chickens and cats and that crazy mule are high tailing it across the pasture. They must have seen them two big women coming across the yard – Augusta Jill with that plank-looking thing under her arm, and Gussie Lou wearing some of them blood red dancing tights. Ole Blue just passed the barn door in a dead run. I think I’ll go with him. Bye…

(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 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.)

 

Singleton advises to consider, appreciate God's marvelous creations

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 “Consider and appreciate God’s marvelous creations,” was originally published in the Feb. 22, 1996 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

The Holy Bible tells us that there’s a time for everything. A time to work, a time to play, a time to laugh, and a time to cry. If you read far enough, this passage covers just about everything.

Within a few short weeks, the time will be at hand to put into practice some of the above scripture. As the early days of spring approach, the time will be at our fingertips to look at nature in all its splendor and cast aside all the prejudices and misgivings that dwell within our hearts and minds. The time will be such that we can open our hearts and eyes to the endless beauty and creation that surrounds us on this earth.

The time will be at hand to exercise the love that has been stalemated within us and bud forth, seeking the beauty in the thousands and thousands of simple things that are so often overlooked in our hurry to get ahead in this crazy, mixed-up world.

I know that it is a little late for the customary New Year’s resolutions, but it’s not too late to promise yourself to look, seek and enjoy all that has been placed here by the creator.

Promise yourself that each day a small insignificant flower or blossoms will be looked at and examined in detail. Promise yourself that life will be more enjoyable, that more time will be spent on the minor, less-noticeables that grow in the rocks and hard-to-get places.

Few among us have stopped and taken time to examine a small, blooming violet or a short, unnoticed jonquil that grows deep in the corner of the yard fence.

Beauty is always to be found if you look long enough. Take, for example, a dangerous, ugly rattlesnake. If you look closely, you will see that the patches on the skin of a snake are always exact and the edges are square, as though an instrument was used to draw the exact patterns.

Look ever closer, and you will see the deepness of the colors of the skin. Always remember that Mother Nature never leaves any job unfinished – always completed, never half done.

Look deeply into the blossom of a Camellia. See the exactness in the ever small strands that make up the structure of the bloom. Never will you see one that looks as though it wasn’t finished. The beauty is always there. The perfection of the creator cannot be equaled by the most skilled craftsman. The touch of his hand is ever present.

It’s so pathetic that today we must turn to violence for entertainment. We sit for hours on end and watch the endless killings and brutality that plaque our televisions.

The normal television addict will witness at least five or six murders during an evening of watching the boob tube. Our children are exposed to seeing the most brutal crimes committed under the disguise of good, clean entertainment.

Our fantasy living has taken us away from all the beauty and the simple things that we should appreciate and has replaced them with filth and make believe. We cannot be happy and content with the wonders of the creation. We must look to the myths and oftentimes the various cults that have abounded within our society for satisfaction and pleasure.

I do not want to sound like the voice of doom, but I believe that unless we turn to the good and simple things that have been placed here for us to appreciate and enjoy, we are doomed as a nation to wander on the winds of oblivion for now and forever.

As I climb down from my stump and end this article, the simple prayer of the old Indian wind-walker seems most appropriate.

O Great Spirit, give me strength that I may stroll across the land and marvel at they creation.
Let me go where the wild flowers sway in the gentle breeze.
Let me smell the fragrance of the wild honeysuckle, as I rest in the shade of the mighty sweet-gum tree.
Make me know they presence, as I feel the bark of the birch tree and smell the blooms of the dogwood.
And let me linger to the lullaby of the winds.
Give me sight so I might see the fowls of the air as they wing their way to the lofty heights.
Let me view the mighty eagle as he rides the winds of the evening and soars through the shadows of the setting sun.
And when the shadows of this life gather on the horizon and I stand in they presence, let me be judged for my love of they beauty and they creation.

(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.)

 

The Evergreen Courant's Sports Flashback for Oct. 28, 2025

57 YEARS AGO
OCT. 24, 1968

Luverne Tigers hand Aggies 2nd loss 7-0: A band of Luverne High Tigers, all fired up for their homecoming celebration, punched across a score early in the second quarter and made it stand up for a 7-0 win over Evergreen Friday night.
Evergreen’s defense was adequate, but Coach Wendell Hart’s men could never get a sustained offensive effort underway.
Buck Quarles led the Aggie runners with 50 yards on nine carries while (Jimmy) Bell netted 13 on nine trips and Hollis Tranum, three on four tries.
(Other outstanding Evergreen players in that game included Jimmy Hart and Charlie Wild.)

Evergreen High School will observe homecoming tomorrow with festivities getting underway with the parade at 12:30 p.m. Leading the parade will be Miss Homecoming, Joy Bowers, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. W.C. Bowers, and Miss Football, Cindy Majors, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. E.R. Majors.
Pre-game activities will begin at Brooks Stadium at 7:45 with the homecoming court being presented to the spectators and Miss Homecoming and Miss Football will be crowned.
The kickoff between Red Level and Evergreen will be at 8 p.m. and the halftime show will feature the Aggie marching band.

Lyeffion High School will observe its annual homecoming this Saturday night. The featured event will be the homecoming game between the Yellow Jackets and Coffeeville at 7:30.

72 YEARS AGO
OCT. 22, 1953

Lyeffion Jackets Trip Coffeeville 12-7 For Fourth Victory: Striking for touchdowns in the first and third quarters, Coach William Andrews’ Lyeffion Yellow Jackets whipped Coffeeville 12 to 7 Friday night for their fourth straight win.
(Sam Smith scored Lyeffion’s first touchdown on a two-yard run, and Wayne Thames scored the winning touchdown on a five-yard run. Other outstanding Lyeffion players in that game included Frank Chavers, Bobby Coker, Clay Kelly, Jackie Parrish, Bill Raines and Cecil Raines.)

Famed Marksman Will Shoot Here Wednesday: Ken Beegle, one of the United States’ ace marksmen, will give an exhibition of his shooting abilities here next Wed., Oct. 28, at Brooks Stadium behind Evergreen High School at 1:30 p.m.
The exhibition next Wednesday is brought to Evergreen under the sponsorship of local dealers who handle Remington shells and guns. It is free and the public is invited to come and see the amazing trick shots made by Beegle.

Repton High School will observe its annual homecoming on next Thurs., Oct. 29, it is announced by Principal E.H. Penny.
In the feature attraction of the day’s events, the Repton Bulldogs will play the Beatrice Eagles in the homecoming football game. Kickoff will probably be at 7:30 Thursday night at the Repton field.

A homecoming inspired team and a ‘souped up’ halfback were more than the Aggies could handle Friday night as Greenville continued its mastery over Evergreen with a thrilling 33-19 win.
Coach Luke Whetstone’s staff had the Aggie running game well scouted and an inspired Tiger line completely enveloped the Aggie backs holding them to 97 yards on the ground. Coach Wendell Hart sent his boys into the air and they racked up 155 yards on the passing arm of Jimmy Frazier and the catching of Buck Lewis, Ronnie Edson and Ward Alexander.
(Other outstanding Evergreen players in that game included Wayne Bell, Walter Carrier, Sam Cope, Wayne (Dog) Douglas, Ronnie Edson, Eugene (Pee Wee) Hyde, Alvin Reeves, Lamar Sheffield, Richard Taylor, Bud Ward and Randy White.)

Among those here attending the Alabama-Tennessee football game in Birmingham Saturday were Mrs. L.T. Rutland, Miss Louise Rutland, Mr. and Mrs. Lawton Kamplain, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Kinzer and Mr. and Mrs. V.P. Smith and Palmer.

Evergreen Will Try To Stage Comeback In McKenzie Friday: The Evergreen High School Aggies will attempt to hit the victory trail again Friday night losing their first game of the season last week. Kickoff has been set for 7:30 at the McKenzie field.
The Aggies may depend heavily on their rapidly improving air attack. Jimmy Frazier is developing into one of the best passers ever to throw for the Aggies. Thus far in the 1953 campaign, he has thrown 41 times and completed 19 good for 374 yards and five touchdowns.

87 YEARS AGO
OCT. 27, 1938

Evergreen High School: Friday afternoon, down on our two new volleyball courts, the Jr. I girls walloped the Jr. III’s, for their first success of the season. Meanwhile the Jr. III’s snowed the Jr. II’s under.

Mr. and Mrs. C.A. Jones, Mrs. L.T. Rutland and Deming Jones and John Deming, students at A.P.I. in Auburn, attended the Auburn-Tech football game in Atlanta Saturday.

Troy State Teachers College will be host to both alumni and the Association of Elementary and Junior High School Principals on annual homecoming, Oct. 29.
Afternoon will be marked by a meeting of the Alumni Association and a freshman football game on Pace Field. At night the Troy-Marion game will be played on Trojan Field.

102YEARS AGO
OCT. 24, 1923

SPORTSMEN FORM ORGANIZATION: An enthusiastic meeting of sportsmen of Conecuh County was held at the courthouse on Friday afternoon when the Conecuh County Game and Fish Protective Association was formed.
The following officers were elected: R.F. Croom, President; A. Cunningham, J.R. Brooks, Ebin Hines, vice presidents; H.C. Fountain, secretary and treasurer; Board of Directors: R.F. Croom, A. Cunningham, J.R. Brooks, Ebin Hines, F.F. Feagin, R.G. Kendall, C.R. Taliaferro.
The organization began with 45 members.
Hon. I.T. Quinn, state commissioner of conservation, was present by invitation and made an excellent talk on the subject of protection and conservation of game and fish. Mr. Quinn stated to a reporter before leaving: ‘I want to see these clubs of sportsmen and conservationists in every county in the state. It is the only way we are going to really get anywhere. We have the best code of conservation laws of any state in the South now; but it takes local public sentiment and aid and enthusiasm to make them effective. The fine work inaugurated at Birmingham with its Alabama Fisherman and Hunters Association has demonstrated to me that the county without a good organization is not going to get far along the road to better things. Not only for aid in enforcing the law, but as the association at Birmingham has done, in so educating  fishermen and hunters until they see it is to their own benefit to observe the laws of good sportsmanship and aid in making conditions better.

Weston Field Gun Shells are the best. All sportsmen admit this. We carry all size loads and most any size shot and for all gauges of guns. L.L. Moorer.

A crowd of boys (from Range) went opossum hunting Friday night and brought in three fine opossums.

117 YEARS AGO
OCT. 28, 1908

Hunting Permits! Hunting permit books for sale at The Courant office at 15 cents each.