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| 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 “Weekend country hayride was
always a fun time,” was originally published in the Feb. 9, 1995 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
The chilly winter evenings bring to mind a night of
entertainment and good times within the rural community where I grew up during
the closing days of the Great Depression. They hayride for a Friday or Saturday
night would begin to take shape during the early part of the week.
Permission would have to be given for the family wagon to be
used in the event. Most times, there would be two or three wagons needed, due
the number of the local youth who had already spoken for a seat on the wagons.
Each wagon had to have a qualified driver for the mules or
horses. The local farmers wouldn’t let just anybody drive their prized animals
for fear they might be mistreated. But there were three or four men in the
community who seemed to enjoy the chilly rides as much as the youth did.
During the afternoon before the ride, the wagon beds had to
be packed with fresh, clean hay for the riders to sit on. Just about every
young lady who went along would bring with her one or two heavy, nice quilts in
which to wrap up in. They would also be responsible for the goodies that would
be carried. The refreshment stop was when all these delicious and tasty popcorn
balls and the wonderful peanut and pecan candy would appear on the scene.
Someone had to be selected to be responsible for the making of the coffee
during the bonfire building and refreshment stop.
At least one or two chaperons per wagon had to be on board
to see that all behaved and to see that the boys didn’t sit too close to the
girls. These would usually be the parents of one of the youth going on the
ride. A sharp eye was always kept on any boy and girl if they shared a warm and
cozy quilt too closely, pretending they were cold.
I won’t mention any names, but one elderly couple in the
community never missed a hayride. They were the proud parents of a beautiful,
dark-haired daughter who had been born to them late in life. Needless to say,
they watched their pride and joy with the eyes of a hawk.
But everything has its good points. The girl’s father always
furnished his wagon, which was drawn by a fine pair of mules. The old man
always did the driving, and the old lady, with eyes of an eagle, always brought
a large picnic basket along, heaped with the most delicious goodies that anyone
could imagine. Regardless of the piercing eyes of the old couple, this wagon
always seemed to gather its load first. Often times, some of the youth would
have to be assigned against their will to ride in other wagons.
The hayride would always begin at a large, overflowing
artesian well located in the community. Before loading up on the wagons, the
mules and horses had to be watered from a long wooden trough there at the well.
Then, under the watchful eyes of the chaperons, places were selected in the
hay-lined wagon beds.
A review of the heavy quilts and who had brought each had
already been initiated by the young boys who were present. The smart alecks of
the group would want to sit at the very back so that they could swing off the
wagon and ride on the extended coupling pole of the wagon, hoping to draw
attention from the girls.
I can see it now, the caravan of wagons headed out up the
dirt road toward the selected place for the refreshment stop. Hanging from each
coupling pole was a lighted coal oil lantern, gently swinging to the rhythm of
the slow-moving wagon.
Once the wagons began to move, the sharp-eyed old lady would
break out in song, then to be joined by her beautiful, dark-haired daughter and
all others on the wagons. From atop his wagon seat, the old man joined in with
the playing of his old harmonica. And somewhere from one of the other wagons,
the sound of an ancient banjo floated up and down the slow-moving caravan.
Roughly five miles up the narrow dirt road, the wagons would
draw up to a small cleared area on the sandy bank of a large, clear, flowing
creek. The young boys of the group would quickly dismount the wagons and begin
to start large bonfires from wood that had been brought to the sandy bank
earlier in the week. Others of the young men would gather a few armloads of hay
from the wagons for the animals.
The chaperons would do nothing in the preparations but
supervise. The making of the coffee from the waters of the clear running stream
was watched closely so as not to make it too strong. And, as the bright light
of the roaring fire slowly pushed the shadows from the sandy bank of the creek,
quietness settled around the large fire. An aged and worn Holy Bible seemed to
appear from nowhere, and by the light of the glowing flames, several verses of
scripture were read to those gathered there.
By this time, all the delicious goodies had been laid out on
the tailgate of one of the wagons. The coffee was beginning to bubble in an
open bucket nestled on a bed of hot, glowing coals. First, the young ladies,
along with the chaperons, made their way to the wagon where the delicious
treats awaited. When the last had returned to the fire, all heck broke loose as
the charging young boys swarmed over the wagon where the wonderful-tasting
goodies awaited.
Various contests would appear around the large fire. Such
things as the young boys seeing who could put the most in their mouth. Or
perhaps, seeing who could catch the most peanuts in their mouths after the
parched goobers had been tossed in the air. Almost anything was done to get the
attention of that pretty young thing who smiled timidly from behind a corner of
the large, heavy quilt that she was sitting on and covering her legs with.
As the contests seemed to reach a slower pace, the sound of
the ancient banjo slowly encircled the huge bonfire. Shortly, the whine of the
old harmonica joined in tune. Such songs as “Lorena,” “Danny Boy,” “Amazing
Grace” and many more rode the evening air around the glowing fire. Almost
without notice, the creeping shadows slowly reclaiming their territory along
the sandy creek bank.
As sand was slowly heaped over and around the fading embers
of the now dying fire, the group slowly proceeded to the wagons for the slow
trip home. It had been a wonderful evening; a group of sleepy and tired young
boys chose the warmth and softness of the hay and quilts of the wagon beds
instead of trying to get the attention of that pretty young thing that smiled
shyly from her place in the wagon. Memories, memories…
(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 on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County. 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.)
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