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 “For you who remember, a glance
into the past” was originally published in the Aug. 23, 1990 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
Just the other day, a very nice young lady asked me to write
about how things were a few years back. This request surprised me because she
could have been a day older than 18, and this wouldn’t have allowed her to
remember much about how things were, as she put it, when times were good.
But perhaps she liked to sit and listen to her parents or
grandparents relay information about their earlier lives to their family
members. So for this reason alone, this is dedicated to her:
Pass in review all those memories that dwell within my
soul, for the time of shadows on the horizon, when the happy thoughts of
yesterday will be lost forever.
First, let me say that I do not think of myself as being
old. A little out of date maybe, but not old. The number of birthdays a person
celebrates does not make one old. I know people who are old at 25. I also know
some people who are not old at 80. My beautiful and most wonderful mother
departed this life at just 28 days short of 102 years. She never mentioned
being old. And it was in one’s best interest not to drop any hint that this
darling woman even thought about being old.
But whether we like it or not, time has a way of gathering a
lot of thoughts and turning them into what we often call experience. But if we
sometimes take the time to look back into the past, the rough road ahead often
can be made easier to ride on.
As I write this article, to price of gasoline soars to lofty
peaks, because of the Mideast crisis. Would you believe that I remember when
this precious liquid sold for 20 cents a gallon? As one stopped for fuel, one
could go into the gas station or grocery store and drink a cold Coca-Cola that
only cost a nickel.
The first and only bicycle I ever owned was not the finest
bicycle in that part of the country. I swapped a full grown hog that I had
raised from birth for this already well-used means of transportation. Many
repairs were needed before the bicycle was ready to use; for example, all the
spokes in the wheels were loose. I sat down and ordered a spoke wrench from
Sears Roebuck & Co. for the amount of five cents; the postage to send it
amounted to six cents.
My father told me if I wanted to make some money, he would
give me two acres of corn. He would help me plant the corn, but I would be
responsible for cultivating it and keeping it clean and free of weeds. At
harvest time, the two acres were gathered and my father paid me the whole
amount of $3 for the several large wagon loads of good corn.
Proud of my wealth, I wanted to carry the money to school
and show it off to my schoolmates. My mother was so afraid that I would lose
the money, she took a large safety pin and pinned the $3 inside the bib pocket
of my overalls. I was given strict orders not to remove the safety pin or the
money from the pocket. If anyone wanted to see my fortune, they would have me
bend forward, and they could look down into my pocket and marvel at my
bankroll.
I remember my older sister going to the hospital to have her
appendix removed. The total hospital cost was the staggering amount of $48. We
wondered what the world was coming to. Down the road a ways, our neighbor
purchased a new automobile; the gossip circle had it that he paid the unheard
amount of over $750 for it. The world couldn’t stand much of those inflated
prices.
But then, things were looking up. We had purchased a new
radio. We could now listen and know what was going on across the country and sometimes
the whole world. And we were never short on company coming. Always, there were
12 or 15 extra people at our house on Friday and Saturday nights. When the
Grand Ole Opry was blasting out over the airways, complete quiet was in order. If
one spoke, there had better be a reason. Many hard and ugly looks came your way
if you spoke while the music was playing. If one had any idea of going off to
bed, one had to ease off into one of the back rooms and bed down, being sure
not to make any noise or cause any disturbance.
For, as the clouds gather on the hills of yesterday, the
memories are fast fading, and the blowing winds of oblivion remind us that nothing
is forever.
And the wealth
continued to roll in. New carbide lights replaced the old coal-oil lamps. No
more did one have to carry the bundlesome old lamp from room to room. A flick
of the lighter and the room was bathed in a white light so bright that it took
on a ghostly appearance. You didn’t have to sit under the lamp to get your
school lessons; you could sit almost anywhere in the room. Miracles were
happening right and left.
Then one day, upon returning from school, I found in the
kitchen a kerosene-operated refrigerator. No more did one have to go to the
well for a fresh drink of cold water. No more did one have to go to the old homemade
ice box and chip ice for iced tea. The sawdust-filled box joined the other
relics under the shed beside the barn, to be used only to store ice of the
Fourth of July, when making ice cream was in order.
But, with the coming of all the new inventions, the family
continued to find time for telling family stories and legends. There were stories
of how my paternal great-grandfather fell in the great battle of Shiloh, and
how my great-great-uncle almost won a steamboat in a card game aboard the very
steamboat he was gambling for. And at Christmas time, my grandfather dressed in
his Scottish kilt and would dance for his grandchildren while the old man
Kilpatrick from down the road played the bagpipes.
So, pass in review, all those memories that dwell within
me. I must close once and for all the joys that were yesterday. I must return
once again to the cruel world of reality. The past is no more; only the
tomorrow.
(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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