Singleton writes of his 'darling mother' in 1994 Mothers Day column

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 “Mother’s Day – a time to remember special people” was originally published in the May 5, 1994 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

This Sunday, May 8, will be Mother’s Day. Anyone will tell you that all mothers are very special people.

As we grow older, many memories are cast by the wayside, but those memories of that darling mother always stand foremost in our minds, regardless of what transpires throughout the years and the rocky roads that we have traveled.

I consider myself to be the luckiest person in the world to have had the darling mother that I had. Never do I think of the past and growing up without thinking about this wonderful woman and the effect she had in guiding and molding my life.

Since I was the youngest in my family, one might have thought that my mother’s patience might have begun to wear thin because I came along so late in her life. But this was not the case; the devotion and love shown to me by this woman will forever linger in those memories that are so very special.

My darling mother was born Sept. 26, 1887. Thirty-eight days before her 102^nd birthday, she departed this life. She was known, loved and respected by many people. Had she lived to reach her birthday, I was going to present her with the following letter, I have been asked to share this letter with you.

My Darling Mama,

Today you have reached your 102^nd birthday. I know that you will spank my hand and tell me that I am attending to something that is no business of mine. But, while I can, I must tell you something about what you have meant to me and the joy that I have known of being your son.

I remember as a very small child the wagon you made for me from a small box and cutting the wheels from two large, empty thread spools. I thought that wagon was the most beautiful wagon in the whole world. I remember hauling sand in this wagon and putting it on the front steps. I almost got into trouble for this, but your love and patience won out and I only had to sweep it from the steps.

I recall the many stories that you told me after everyone else had gone off to school, and I would cry because I didn’t believe that I would ever get old enough to go myself. I remember your hugs and you telling me to just be patient, that the time would soon come when I could ride the school bus and have lots of books and crayons like my older sister did.

I will never forget the time when I received a new coat and a new pair of shoes, along with a pair of short pants and a white shirt. Complete with a black bowtie, I thought I was the best-dressed boy in the whole country. I also remember the next Sunday morning when I had gotten all dressed up in my new outfit and we were walking down the road to Sunday school.

I remember us meeting the black lady and her small son whom I played with. They were going to the funeral of a close relative. I remember standing in the weeds beside the road and exchanging clothing with the boys because his pants were patched in several places.

I remember the smile he had on his face as he walked away dressed in my new clothing. I wanted to cry, but you scolded me and told me that you would get me some more, and that he needed my clothing more than I did. I did not understand just what you meant until some years later.

I remember the huge family Bible that we had, and you telling me that you would give me a whole dollar if I would read it from cover to cover. At that time, my reading was limited, due to my age, and it took me almost two years to complete the job. It took so long that I don’t remember if I got the dollar or not.

The first Coca-Cola that I ever drank you bought for me at a Fourth of July picnic. In drinking it, I got strangled and everyone laughed except you. You came to where I had hidden behind that huge oak tree and wiped my tears and took my hand and walked back to the crowd with me.

I remember you encouraging me to enter the rope-climbing contest. You insisted that I was the best there. You said that I was the best because I was your son. I remember the wonderful feeling when I won the first prize of 50 cents. You kept it for me because I was afraid I would lose all that money.

Yes, my darling, I remember many things that perhaps you have forgotten. The time when I had the measles, and the whooping cough, then the mumps and all the childhood diseases that a young boy could be so unlucky to contract. I recall the many sore toes and the patience you showed while putting that greasy black salve on that hurting toe, trying not to make the pain any worse.

I remember when I was nine and a rattlesnake bit me. There was no one there at the time to take me to the doctor. I will never forget Uncle Tony, the old black man whom my father had befriended and given a place to live, taking his pocketknife and splitting the place where the snake had bitten me on the foot, and then sucking the poison from the wound with his mouth. I remember how calm you tried to appear, trying not to upset me.

I recall you asking Uncle Tony wasn’t he afraid that the poisonous venom would kill him. He said that he wasn’t afraid; if one of us was to die, he would rather it be him than me. He said that his life was almost over and mine was just beginning. I remember you crying, hiding your face from me behind your apron.

I will never forget the first football game that you saw me play in. You got so excited; you thought that someone was going to hurt your baby. I was embarrassed, being called your baby. I had taken great pride to earn the name of being the toughest guy on the team. But truly, I was glad to be your baby.

Then came the day after graduation from high school. I said goodbye to you and boarded the bus for the Marines’ boot camp. I had never been away from home except for two days when I visited my sister who lived in Mobile.

You reminded me to remember my raising. I tried not to let it show, but I was afraid. I could see that you knew that; you always knew everything about me. I was never able to hide anything from you.

Over the years, my darling, I have always returned to you for strength when the going got tough. The times when I could not be with you were always supported by a much looked-for letter that carried your strength to your baby boy when we were worlds apart.

And, as the letters came, I knew that the years were taking their toll, as your handwriting changed from the pain in your hands; from the pain of arthritis that you would never admit that you suffered from.

I could write many pages, my beautiful and precious lady, but I must close for now. Just remember, I will never forget that I was chosen to be the son of the most wonderful mother to walk this earth.

Your grateful and loving son.

(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 to Vincent William Singleton and Frances Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand, 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 June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe County history – Did you know?” and “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. It’s believed that his first column appeared in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. 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.)