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| General Andrew Jackson. |
(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 “Past can be seen clearly from
behind the handlebars” was originally published in the June 4, 1992 edition of
The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
The cool, early morning air on Saturday, May 30, caused the
vagabond blood within me to stir at an alarming rate. I knew that my morning
had been planned for me by my darling wife, who had presented me with a list of
the yard work that just had to be done before the sun reached high noon this
day.
Since everything seemed to be quiet from within the house, I
thought that I just might be able to slip away for a few minutes and ride up
the road to kind of cool off a little before I got involved in the hard labors
of the yard work that had been assigned to me.
With great effort, I pushed my motorcycle out of the yard
and down the street a ways, so as not to disturb my spouse’s rest. It’s not easy
pushing an 800-pound motorcycle from behind my house and not alarming the
surrounding area. From what I thought to be a safe distance, I started the
engine and eased my way in a roundabout direction to Highway 41 and then headed
north.
As I descended the hill toward Limestone Creek, I thought
how good a light jacket would have felt. But, I dared not go into the house for
a jacket; this would have given my whole plan away. As I reached the bottom of
the hill, the cool shadows had given way to the warm sunshine. I forgot about
the jacket and looked across the hills in the distance, marveling at the light
blue haze that hung just over the tree line.
I knew that I would be back at my yard work within a few
minutes and that I would never be missed. Climbing to the top of the hill, I
made a right turn onto Ridge Road. I had made this trip many, many times, but
the scenery along this high ridge never dulled.
As I passed an old cemetery on my right, I thought of the
many hardships and years of difficult work that the early settlers had endured
here. I could almost see the mule-drawn wagons traveling westward to the town
of Claiborne, there on the banks of the mighty Alabama River. Here were purchased
the much-needed supplies that would help make life a little easier along these
ridges and bottom lands.
Community of Axle
I thought of the community of Axle as I made my way
eastward. This had been a thriving community around the turn of the century.
The Ridge Cemetery bears witness to the many who came this way and settled
here. Traveling eastward, another old cemetery rests under the tall oaks on the
right. And up the road a way, the old Busey home place comes into view.
The house stands silent now; from a broken window a faded
curtain flutters in the cool morning breeze. I thought of the story that this
old house could tell if only we would listen.
The old wagon shed across the road seemed to be waiting for
the special buggy to bring visitors so that good times around the old firesides
could be witnessed again. I thought, too, of the many delicious meals that had
been prepared in the small kitchen at the back of the old house. And deep
within my memory, I recall an old house such as this one, where a small young
boy played and roamed the surrounding countryside at will.
Farther up the road, the view to my right was breathtaking.
Across the low land to the south, the light blue haze hung across the land as
if it had been painted there by a giant brush, held only in the hand of the
creator himself. The view along the Ridge Road was perfect; I was glad that I
had come.
As I approached Tunnel Springs, I debated for just a moment
about whether or not I should return home. I knew that I hadn’t been missed by
my wife, so I headed in a north-eastward direction which would bring me to the
area of Pine Orchard and the Old Federal Road.
Highway through history
Turning south at the old Tatum homestead, I knew I was up to
my neck in history as the route of Old Hickory’s Army lay before me. As I
traveled southward, I remembered the locations of the several early Indian
villages along both sides of the old road. I had explored many of these sites shortly
after moving to Monroe County.
I thought of good times as I passed the old fox hunters’
gathering place. I remembered the several good meals that I had eaten there on
the premises while listening to the tall stories of the old fox hunters, men
like Raymond Fountain and several more. These memories will always dwell within
me.
The large monument to James Salter, soldier of the
Revolutionary War, faded from view on my left. The Watkins home and its history
was on my right, as was the story of General Jackson (Old Hickory) and his visits
there. I noticed the location across the road where Jackson’s army camped while
on its ways toward the Pensacola area.
As always, the old town of Burnt Corn seemed to burst forth
with history. The well-kept old homes and the old churches sitting silently
seemed almost from another time. History was at its best along the old road
that ran southward. And nearby were the old freshwater springs where it all
started – the springs from which the little town got its name and where local
history was made into legend.
As I made my way toward Peterman, I realized that I had
become so absorbed in my trip I had forgotten about the time that I had been
away from my yard chores. I looked at my watch; I had been gone almost an hour
and a half. The vagabond blood within me had now cooled a bit. I looked at my odometer.
I had traveled over 50 miles.
Turning into my driveway, I knew that I was in deep trouble.
There stood my dear wife with her hands on her hips. All heck was about to
break loose; I could feel it in the air.
(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. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks
to warrant officer in May 1972. 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.)
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