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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 “Vagabond blood causes one to
wander” was originally published in the July 11, 2002 edition of The Monroe
Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
Tuesday, the 25th of June, the urge to wander
began to come over me as though a slight chill of some sort had entered my
body. My dear wife was going to be away for most of the day with a group from
our church. So, after giving it a little thought, I rolled out my trusted iron
horse and headed toward the nearest crossroad. Many times I never really know
where I’m going until I come to the first intersection in the highway.
I was up near the community of Tunnel Springs when suddenly
I turned to the west and proceeded back to the road that would take me into the
Old Scotland area. As I made my way down the narrow road, I was amazed at the
many blooming mimosa trees that dotted the countryside. Their raw, primitive
beauty was something to behold as they spread their branches like large
colorful umbrellas near the old forgotten house places. As I rode along the
narrow dirt road and marveled at the beauty of the mimosas, I was reaffirmed
that the Master’s hand was in all things of beauty that dotted the landscape
around me.
Stopping in front of Old Scotland Church, I looked out over
the cemetery and noticed that as always, there were many fresh flowers on many
of the graves. I never grow tired of visiting the beautiful old church and the
well kept grounds. As I have stated many times before in my writings, somewhere
in my mind, I almost expect to see a couple of Scottish bagpipers step out of
the tall timber, playing Amazing Grace, the most beautiful hymn that man has
ever written. As always, my ancestral Scottish blood seems to rush forth and I
enter another time.
After absorbing the total peace and beauty of the old church
for about a half hour, I knew that I must go on to other places. Stopping at
the old Davison cemetery for a few moments, I then proceeded on down the road.
A quick stop at a couple of old homesites brought back to mind that day when I
brought to one of these old homesteads an elderly lady, now deceased, who had
been born here and raised here as a child. I remembered her telling me that it
had been 65 years since she had visited this place of her birth and childhood
home. I remembered her weeping and saying that this would probably be her last
visit here. I assured her that I would bring her here anytime she wanted to
come; all she had to do was to let me know that she wanted to come and again
visit the old homesite. I remembered her picking some blooming jonquils that
grew near the old yard. Weeping openly, she said she remembered planting these
jonquils as a child. This dear old lady now sleeps in the cemetery at Old
Scotland church.
Turning down the steep hill and down the narrow road that
would eventually lead to the creek, it seemed as if I was going through a
narrow dark tunnel. The heavy overhead branches of the timber covered the
narrow dirt road completely. Slowly, making my way across the bottom, I stopped
at the old wooden bridge that spanned the large creek. Stopping again, I turned
off the engine of my motorcycle and stood looking down at the flowing waters of
the creek. As I had many times before, I remembered the story of the wandering
Confederate soldier, who, wounded and sick, had camped for a considerable time
here under the wooden structure. I remembered my dear friend, Mr. Raymond
Fountain, telling me about the ghost of this Rebel soldier being seen walking
across the old bridge during the early morning and late evening hours. I
remembered the story of how one could stand on the old bridge during the hours
of the late evening and smell the odor of food cooking. As I made ready to
depart this place of mystery, I vowed to return here again, and I had done
several times before, during the late hours of the evening and try to witness
for myself the stories that I had been told by my dear friend. As I rode to the
west, the story of the Rebel’s strange disappearance raced through my memory.
Crossing the low bottomlands and another wooden bridge that
spanned yet another large creek, I soon found myself climbing up into the hill
country. As I approached the crest of beautiful Locke Hill, I knew that I had
to stop and spend a few moments and absorb the vast beauty that lay in the
bottoms before me. Here, I was reaffirmed once again, only God was capable of
creating such beautiful handiwork with such vast magnitude of colors.
As I traveled the narrow dirt road toward the old Red Hills
cemetery, I thought of the many dollars that had been spent on traveling to
distant places in search of nature’s beauty. Since leaving Highway 21 at Tunnel
Springs, I had witnessed nature in her grandest colors, except perhaps during
the fall months, and it had cost me almost nothing, perhaps a quart and a half
of gasoline.
As I stopped in front of the old Red Hills cemetery, the
memory of another dear friend came to mind. I remembered how I used to come
here with my friend Oscar Wiggins, and wander for hours through the old
cemetery. I knew by heart the names of his distant ancestors who rested in some
of the graves nearby. I had been shown many times the final resting places of several
Confederate soldiers who had departed this world and now sleep in the red clay
of the old cemetery. Never did we visit here that my friend did not always go
first to the grave of his grandfather who had worn the Rebel uniform. And,
always I would hear the story of his return from the dreadful war, a wounded
and sick man. After his return from the war, he spent the remaining years of
his life digging a living out of the red clay soil of the Red Hills area.
As I proceeded across the high hills toward Highway 41 and
the Franklin community, I knew that I had to make up my mind real soon as to
the direction I would take. Looking at my watch, I knew that the noon hour was
fast approaching. Turning northward, I twisted and turned on the winding and
scenic highway until I soon found myself approaching the town of Camden. A
quick stop at a fast food place satisfied my hunger and soon I was on my way
again.
Not knowing for certain as to where I was going, I found myself
in the community of Possum Bend. It didn’t take but a minute to view the sights
here, so I proceeded on toward the river and the paper mill on the highway that
would carry on to the town of Pine Hill. Just past the paper mill, I turned to
my left and soon I was at the intersection of the road that would carry me to
either the community of Sunny South or turn left and travel toward Lower Peach
Tree. Turning left, once again the memories began to flow as I swept past old
familiar landmarks that brought back many hours of research and adventure.
I knew if I wanted to cross the Alabama River on the ferry,
I had to be there before the 4 p.m. deadline. Stopping in Lower Peach Tree, I
fueled up my motorcycle and drank a quick cold drink. I had heard many stories
about this community and how a terrible tornado many years past had almost
wiped out the surrounding area. I remembered a lady who lived near where I grew
up had been blown up into a tree during this terrible storm when she was a
small child. The rest of her life she was a cripple; almost unable to walk or
to do anything.
Looking at my watch I wasn’t sure if I could get to the
ferry by the time it closed for the day so I headed up the scenic Old Line
Road. I knew that I had no time to waste if I was to get home before my darling
wife came home from a day of shopping. With just minutes to spare, I stabled my
iron horse and began the “honey do” work that she had instructed me to do. I
had made it in time before her arrival home. This vagabond blood of mine is
going to get me in to serious trouble yet if I’m not very careful…
Contentment is for
those who have reached their goal
and are satisfied no more
to wander.
Happily, I have not
reached mine,
and have no intentions
of doing so.
(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 on June
28, 1964 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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