(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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