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 “Spring beauty is everywhere, only
have to look” was originally published in the May 26, 1988 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
Over the years, I thought that I could not appreciate the
beauty of the arrival of spring any more than I did. Not until this spring,
after my retirement, did I finally absorb, all in detail, the beauty of spring
blossoming forth in all its splendor.
Many people go all the way through life and never fully
appreciate the wondrous marvels that have been placed here during the early
springtime for us to see and enjoy. We walk through the sections of the wooded
areas that are nearby and never once stop and really look into the deep beauty
of the wild violet or the beautiful blossoms of a mountain laurel.
We may drive along a little-used road and look from a
distance at the splendor of a wild dogwood tree in bloom. Or give a passing
glance of sorts to the glorious wild honeysuckle, climbing ever so carefully
along a fence or brush, as though trying not to bruise even one of the many
lovely blossoms that refresh the morning air.
I am always amazed to find that the most beautiful of the
wild flowers many times grow alone in the most difficult places. Always where
the ground is the roughest, or the rocks are the largest, one will find a lone
wild violet or a single sprig of mountain laurel, hanging desperately on the
side of a steep cliff. And there, maybe only one, will be the most beautiful
bloom that one can imagine, clinging bravely to the spindly mountain laurel
that is growing dangerously near the edge of the steep cliff.
I, too, have noticed that during my visits to the many old,
abandoned cemeteries, there are always the lone flowers that stand out as
though asking to be noticed.
Just last week, as I stood by the grave of my maternal
grandfather, I looked down. There beside the headstone, struggling for life,
was a small, wild mountain rose, not much larger than a marble. As I dropped to
my knees and examined this very beautiful flower, I found everything to be
perfect. Everything was in detail – no flaws, no mistakes. I wondered if this
had just happened to grow here by accident.
As I looked at the small flower, I knew once again that
nothing or no one is forgotten. The dates on the headstone reminded me that a
great deal of time had passed since that day my grandfather was laid to rest
here many years ago. So there in this small family cemetery, deep in the woods,
where no one goes except the descendants of those who sleep there, this small,
beautiful rose chose to grow beside the grave of this man who loved nature so
much.
So, after all these years, regardless of how tough one
thinks he is, we can all find beauty in the many wild flowers that grow around
us. And when that beauty is noticed, one will find that the problems of life
take on a different concept. The solution is much easier found, and the hill of
life is always much easier to climb.
A walk in the deep woods during this time of year is like
going to your family doctor and getting a cure for that stomach ache. And the
beautiful thing is that all it costs is your time.
I truly believe that if I could get all the world leaders
together and carry them with me to the hills and valleys that surround Nancy
Mountain, letting them walk the paths that I have walked and see the beauty
that I have witnessed there, the only problem that the world would have would
be getting them away to take care of the other business at hand. There wouldn’t
be time for war and the other disagreements that plaque the countries of the
world; the woods would be alive with the snoring of the sleeping world leaders,
lying in the stillness of the early morning, as I have done many, many times.
There’s a path that leads to nowhere
In the deep woods that I know,
Where an inland river rises
And a stream is still and slow;
There it wanders under willows
And beneath the silver green
Of the dogwoods’ silent shadows
Where the early violets lean.
There I go to meet the springtime
When the deep woods are aglow,
Wild flowers amid the marshes,
And the stream is still and slow;
There I find my fair oasis,
And with carefree feet I tread,
For the pathway leads to nowhere,
And the beauty overhead.
All the ways that lead to somewhere
Echo with the hurrying feet
Of the struggling and the striving,
But the way I find so sweet
Bids me dream and bids me linger –
Joy and beauty are its goal;
On the path that leads to nowhere
I have often found my soul…
(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 and
served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from 1964 to
1987. 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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