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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 “Old Man Winter takes his time leaving
the county” was originally published in the Feb. 13, 1992 edition of The Monroe
Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
If one looks closely, faint signs of coming spring have
begun to dot the countryside. Old Man Winter goes slowly about gathering his
cold weather paraphernalia as though he did not want to leave.
I am reminded of a visitor or relative, who although was
welcome at the beginning, might have stayed too long. Now all the family seem
eager for this relative to leave. But as the Old Man gathers his belongings, it
seems he is taking too much time in the selection of his hour of departure. Everyone
was glad to see him, but now it’s time for him to move on.
In the hill country just north of Monroeville, the faint
signs of spring seems to want to push forward. Spring seems a little afraid to
come forth, afraid that the Old Man who carries the chilly north winds and
blankets of Jack Frost in his handbag might just decide to stay for a longer period
of time.
The buds of the mountain laurel and the huckleberry bushes
wait for a sure sign that spring is on its way. The countryside is slow in
beginning to brush away the drab signs of the Old Man’s visit, in fear that
somewhere down the road, he might decide to return.
Even the wild birds and animals seem to be anxious for the
Old Man to leave. As I stood and watched a large woodpecker, it seemed that he
was impatient to get to work. He would fly from tree to tree, each time pecking
a time or two. Then, he would try to burst forth with a shrill call. But afraid
his loud song would be ill-timed, he cut his call short as though waiting for a
better moment.
Across the deep valley below Nancy Mountain, the trees seemed
eager to put on their spring apparel. Everything looked as if it was standing
ready, hoping to see Old Man Winter crossing the hills to the north. The
feeling in the afternoon air seemed as if some beautiful, young mountain girl
was about to step forward in a new gingham dress, but was afraid the colors of
her dress wouldn’t match the beautiful red hair that fell from her shoulders.
High overhead, a large spotted-tailed hawk rode the air
currents from the valley below. As he turned slowly, this way and that, he
seemed to be looking for the currents of warmer air that had been long in
coming to the low lands there by the river. Then he could spread his wings, to
the fullness of their length, and the gentle winds of spring would bathe the
budding mountain laurels there on the steep slopes.
Chilly north winds
As I stood there and marveled at the creation before me, I
too felt a bit of impatience as the chilly north winds caused me to tremble and
shiver a bit. I also wanted the Old Man to leave; I found myself wanting to see
the green leaves of the sweet gum and the beautiful pink blooms of the nearby
mountain laurel and huckleberry.
I wanted to see the many birds, busy making their nests, and
I wanted to see my friend, the eagle, return to the evening skies, high over
the valley below.
As if by some prearranged signal, the vagabond blood that
had lain quiet in my veins for quite some time seemed to stir and come alive.
Thoughts of far away places shouted to be remembered as the call from beyond
the distant hills grew louder on the afternoon winds.
I could feel the warm spring winds brushing my cheeks as my
mind sped to distant places such as Shiloh, Lookout Mountain, Vicksburg and
others. I could feel myself speeding across the Mississippi Delta on my
motorcycle as the banks of the Tennessee River waited as though just for me,
just over the horizon.
A rustle in the leaves over to my left caused me to turn.
Slowly, a large armadillo made its way across the high ground where I was
standing. It, too, seemed tired of the chilly air; I’m sure that he was also
ready for Old Man Winter to pack his bags and disappear for a long while. The
armadillo was probably thinking of the nice juicy herbs and other things that
spring would bring to his diet.
Vagabond blood
As a blast of chilly air swept across the hillside, the
vagabond blood that had stirred my brain cooled a bit. I began to realize that
regardless of how impatient I became, spring would not appear on the scene
until the time was right.
I had heard somewhere that everything has its season. My
impatience wasn’t going to matter one tiny bit when it came to determining the
time for my friend, Old Man Winter, to say goodbye and journey home.
But maybe before too long, spring will appear, as would that
young, beautiful, red-haired mountain girl, stepping forward in her new gingham
dress.
The lovely blossoms of the mountain laurel and the
huckleberry will cover the hillside like a beautiful handmade comforter, sewn
by the hands of Mother Nature.
(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, graduated from Sweet Water High School, served in the
Korean War, lived for a time among Apache Indians, moved to Monroe County in June
1964 (some sources say 1961) and served as the administrator of the Monroeville
National Guard unit from 1964 to 1987. For years, Singleton’s column “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. Some of
his earlier columns also appeared under the heading of “Monroe County History:
Did You Know?” 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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