 |
| 1933 B Model Ford |
(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 “Memories of some country boys”
was originally published in the May 23, 2002 edition of The Monroe Journal in
Monroeville, Ala.)
Saturday, the 18th of May, my graduating class
from high school had its annual reunion. We got together at a catfish café over
on the bank of the Tombigbee River for a wonderful meal and some fun times
together. Each told stories about some of the happenings that took place during
our last years in high school. Much to my surprise, the story listed here was
told by one of the young ladies who was involved in the watermelon patch raid
that took place that cloudy night on her father’s farm near the area where we
all grew up. I have added a little to it so that my readers will know more
about the event.
During the years of my teenage life, I wasn’t all bad. I
admit that I was guilty, many times being a part of a watermelon patch raid or
swiping a few fresh ripe peaches from a grouchy old man’s peach orchard who
lived in the farming community where I grew up. But, as I look back, it seems
that this kind of behavior was expected from the youth of those times. On
several occasions, I overheard my father and other men laughing and telling
about certain events that were set up to try to frighten the living daylights
out of my older brothers and some of their friends when they would raid a
watermelon patch or a peach or apple orchard.
Always, if visitors or relatives from the city came to the
farm communities during the time of year when the melons were ripe, a raid was
always organized so as to frighten the living daylights out of the city
slickers. Many times, it was always proper to show one’s courage to the country
girls, to carry them on a watermelon patch raid on the night of a date. This is
a story of one of those not so organized raids.
It was during the summer after we completed the 11th
grade in high school period. A friend of mine managed to borrow his brother’s
1933 B Model Ford for a night on the town. Since there wasn’t a town nearby,
other than Sweet Water, that we could have a night on, we decided to just carry
our dates on a tour of the area. Hardly had the night gotten under way, when
someone mentioned, “Why not raid someone’s watermelon patch?” Since my father’s
death, we had discontinued any type of farming. My dear mother and I had moved
from the farm to the town of Sweet Water. I had become a city boy of sorts; and
city boys didn’t have watermelon patches. We couldn’t go to my friend’s family
patch since he was afraid that he would be seen and he might have the car taken
from him.
The dark haired young lady that I was dating excitingly
suggested that we visit her father’s watermelon patch. She assured us that she
knew a way to get to the patch without being seen. Hearing her talk left no
reason to think that she didn’t know the trail to the patch and that she was
very familiar with the area. She assured us once again that she had grown up on
this farm and she knew the lay of the land by heart.
Parking the old Ford at the spot where my date instructed us
to, we crossed the narrow country road and headed across a large field that lay
on the side of a sloping hill. There was full moon above, but the heavy clouds
that floated around the moon caused it to disappear behind the clouds at times,
causing total darkness. After losing our way several times, we finally came
upon the watermelon patch that belonged to the father of my date.
As the heavy clouds slowly moved across the face of the full
moon, we eased along the melon rows, seeking out a couple of good, juicy
watermelons. After “thumping” about half the melons in the patch, we selected
the two we thought that would best suit our taste for a sweet juicy watermelon
eating on a creek bank that was not too far from where we had parked our
vehicle. Now all we had to do was return to the old Ford and load up and head
to this favorite parking place. As we slowly made our way down a narrow path in
the direction we thought would lead us to the narrow country road where the B
Model had been left, the heavy clouds completely covered the face of the full
moon. Within minutes, the night had become very dark. As we slowly moved along
the faint path, it seemed to me that this wasn’t the path that we had traveled
on our way to the melon patch. I confronted my date about the path not being
familiar. She insured me in no uncertain terms that we were on the right path.
She reminded me in a firm voice that she had grown up on this farm; she
certainly knew where she was going. Shouldering my watermelon, I said no more
and followed the young lady down the hill with my friend and his date coming
along behind.
All at once, the full moon broke from behind the heavy
clouds. To our amazement, we were just a few short steps from the wooden fence
that surrounded the family barn yard. Whispering among ourselves, we tried to
decide what the next course of action would be. My date, who seemed to know
everything, suggested that we slip through the barnyard and out to the road
that was not too far from where we were standing. I knew that we couldn’t
retrace the path we had taken down the hill, because it had grown dark once
again and we needed to get to the dirt road somehow quickly as possible.
Slowly we opened the barnyard gate and eased into the
enclosed area. All at once, a young mule that was in the barnyard began to
snort loudly and race around the barn. Fearing that we might be run over by the
frightened mule, we raced for the other gate that we had been told was on the
other side of the barnyard. To make matters worse, a small calf lay on the
ground there in the darkness. Trying to reach the safety of the gate without
dropping my watermelon, I stepped up on the back of the calf, not knowing it
was there. This was when all heck broke loose; I fell broadside in the barnyard
filth, losing my watermelon. The frightened mule continued to snort loudly and
race wildly around the barn. My date’s father (I was to learn later) came out
of the house with nothing on but his night shirt and began to fire his shotgun
up into the air. This really caused the raiding party to hook up and get up the
road to where we had left the car.
As we finally regained our breath, all wanted to know what
had happened to the watermelon that I was carrying. When I told them that I had
dropped it when I fell over the sleeping calf, everyone seemed to get quite
angry that I had dropped the watermelon. They couldn’t understand why I didn’t
hold on to the watermelon. Nothing was mentioned about my buddy losing the
melon he was carrying in all the excitement. Needless to say, there was no
watermelon cutting that night there on the creek bank.
As usual, my darling mother was awake when I arrived home
that night. As I tried to slip in the house without her seeing me, she turned on
the light. There I stood in my new sharkskin pants, dirty and filthy from
falling over the sleeping calf. Her words were: “Lord, son, what in the world
has happened?” I replied to her that she could go on back to bed; if I told her
what had happened, she would not believe it anyway.
(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.)
No comments:
Post a Comment