Saturday, June 22, 2019

George Singleton describes May 1995 motorcycle trip to noteworthy sites


(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 “Having vagabond blood has its good points” was originally published in the May 25, 1995 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)

Tuesday, May 16, started out like most all other days around our house. The almost perfect weather caused the vagabond blood that my dear wife says I have in my veins to begin to stir at a brisk pace.

After looking at the “honey do” list that she had left for me to struggle with, that blood really got going.

I knew that I would be in hot water when my darling wife came home from her job that evening and found that I had goofed off and had not completed the jobs that she had assigned me. But I would cross that bridge when I came to it.

There were places that I needed to go and many things that I needed to see again. So I mounted my motorcycle and headed for the nearest intersection in the highway. Here, I would make up my mind as to the direction I would take.

As I rounded the square, I decided to head north on Highway 41. I thought that I just might stop in Camden for a quick cup of coffee. And from there, I would decide what direction I would take.

Descending the hill toward Limestone Creek, the beauty of the countryside was breathtaking. Looking out over the vast valley where the pulp mill is located, the mist of the morning caused the large mill to resemble a huge sail ship in the distance. As I crossed Flat Creek, I decided to turn left and head toward the river. The idea of crossing the ferry entered my mind as I sped westward.

Thinking that I might catch heck when I returned this afternoon didn’t bother me too much. The beauty of what I knew lay ahead of me would be worth all the risk.

The quietness of the morning lay across the fields near the road like a heavy blanket. The dirt road that would carry me across Nancy Mountain and down to the ferry almost seemed to be from another time. The tall trees beside the narrow road gave the impression of entering a long, silent tunnel. Time seemed to stand still, only the movement of my transportation broke the stillness of the morning.

Knowing that I could never pass this way without stopping for a quick view from atop Nancy Mountain, I pulled over for a quick look across the vast bottom to the north and to reaffirm to myself that my God was yet in total control of his creation. Taking several deep breaths, I began to wind my way down the hill to the river and to board the ferry.

Listening to the splashing water from the paddle wheel of the ferry, I thought of those poor souls of our area who had never bothered to come this way and enjoy crossing the big river on the ferry. I found myself wishing that the trip across would last for hours, but all wonderful things must come to an end. After saying goodbye to the ferry operators and trying to convince them that I really didn’t know where I was going, I rode down the boat ramp and onto the hard ground on the west bank.

As I sped up the road through the area of Packer’s Bend, I thought of the many times I had wandered across this area. I thought of the old house places where once happiness and prosperity had abounded. I thought of the old burial grounds scattered throughout the area and the graves of many of the early settlers that had been forgotten and neglected.

Deep in thought, I realized that I was about to enter the community of Lower Peach Tree. I remembered the story of how the community of Upper Peach Tree had been totally destroyed by a terrible tornado many years ago. I thought of the story of a farmer who heard the braying of his mule as it was blown over the house by the destructive winds of the tornado. Days later, the mule was found several miles up river, grazing in another pasture where he had landed. He was unharmed except for a few scratches on his legs.

I thought of a small girl that I had gone to school with who, as a very small child, had been blown up into a large tree by the tornado. After the terrible tornado was over, her family had found her lodged high up in a tall oak tree. Her legs were twisted and broken; she was handicapped for the rest of her life. After its destruction, the community of Upper Peach Tree ceased to exist; it was never restored.

A short distance from Lower Peach Tree, I passed the old house place where a distant relative of my mother had lived. The story relates that he was a country doctor; at the ripe old age of 93, he still attended to his medical practice in the area. One day while trimming an apple tree that grew in the yard, he fell out of the tree and broke his arm. Too stubborn to seek medical help elsewhere, he set his broken arm himself and continued on with his work.

About a mile or so out of Lower Peach Tee, I pulled up into a little-used path. The underbrush had almost taken over the narrow dim trail. Parking my motorcycle, I walked about 300 yards to the northeast to an old burial plot. Little or no care had been given to this small cemetery for a number of years. The last burial here had been two years prior to my graduation from high school.

Here, beneath the tangled vines and underbrush, was the grave of one of my classmates. There was a time when he and I played together and had been the best of friends. There are none of his family around now to care for the lone burial ground. Standing there beside my friend’s grave, I vowed to return and clear away the tall weeds and brush around his final resting place.

Reaching the community of Sunny South, I wasn’t bothered with any heavy traffic. I saw only one automobile, and it was being worked on. Crossing Highway 5, I made my way northwestward to the community of Dixons Mills. Here, I turned to the north and soon I was in my big hometown of Sweet Water. My intentions were to go by and visit my older brother and perhaps bum a noon day meal; but he wasn’t home.

Before I realized it, I was approaching the town of Linden. Deciding not to go to the county seat of Marengo County, I turned to the east and passed right through the Magnolia community.

Like Sunny South and Sweet Water, the rush hour had not yet arrived here either by the railroad tracks. Thinking of the many good times that I had had here during my high school and courting days, I couldn’t believe how the years had passed. I had attended quite a number of dances there in the school house. I could almost hear the fiddle music as old Magnolia slow faded from view in my rearview mirrors.

Looking at my watch, I knew that time was approaching to head toward Monroeville and home. If I hurried, I might just have that cup of coffee and a sandwich in the town of Camden after all. Somewhere along the way, I had to come up with a good story as to why I had laid aside my dear wife’s “honey do” list and gone off on this wandering vagabond trip 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 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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