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| "Appeal to the Great Spirit" statue in Boston. |
(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 “When all else fails, try a sunset”
was originally published in the Aug. 27, 1998 edition of The Monroe Journal in
Monroeville, Ala.)
Thurs., Aug. 20, had been hectic for me. It seemed as if
everything I tried to do went wrong. The projects I had planned to complete
became more and more difficult as the morning and midafternoon passed. As I
completed trimming the grass around the edge of the yard, I realized that I
needed some time to myself for a few moments of relaxation and peace of mind.
So, putting away my weed trimmer and other tools, I rolled out my iron horse
and headed north on Highway 41. For some strange reason, the hill country has a
magnetic effect on me most of the time.
Crossing Flat Creek, I made my way up Highway 41 to the high
hill country this side of the community of Franklin. Pulling out of sight of
the highway, I halted my iron steed and sat down for a few minutes of rest and
relaxation. Looking west, I knew I was in for a treat. On the distant horizon,
the makings of a glorious sunset were beginning to take shape.
A few heavy clouds had slowly assembled there in the
distance. The golden glow of the evening sun made it appear a huge glowing ball
was trying to hide among the clouds. Streaks of gold, red and purple penetrated
the pillows of clouds as though trying to escape from behind them.
Off in the distance, several more clouds were moving slowly
toward the ball of fire as if they were a small herd of cattle coming to join
the others. Beyond these clouds it appeared as if a huge golden orange blanket
had been hung like a glorious curtain, in the western sky.
The beautiful picture was breathtaking. Sitting there in
total amazement, I realized that I wasn’t tired any more. I had been cured of
my aches and pains. I realized how lucky I was to have chosen to witness this
glorious event. Sitting there, I thought of those who have no earthly idea of
the beauty I was seeing. Many pay good money to be a part of celebrations
throughout the state, none of them witness the total splendor I was
experiencing.
I don’t think words can accurately describe the beauty that
was before me. The sky appeared as though a giant painter had swept the
vastness with a brush dipped in purple and gold paint. Finishing touches of
golden rays had been added across the deep purple of clouds to complete this
miracle before me.
As the golden sun began to sink into the horizon, I wondered
again how anything could be so beautiful. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt
that something like this didn’t just happen, the Master’s hand had to be in
control. As the huge glowing disc sank into the deep purple clouds, the golden
rays reached higher into the gold and purple skies. It was as if they were
reaching for something there, high in the heavens.
No man could have witnessed what I had just seen and not believe
in the Creator. Standing there in the quiet of the glowing shadows, I thought
of the early Indian holy men or “Windwalkers” as they were often called. I knew
if they had witnessed this sunset, they could not resist giving the Great Spirit
credit for the glorious beauty of the sunset. Unable to resist the calling within,
I got to my feet, raised my arms toward the setting sun and prayed the prayer
of an old Indian Windwalker that had been taught to me many years ago by my
darling Grandmother.
“Oh Great Spirit that holds all things in one hand, and the
glorious setting sun in the other, reach down and touch my soul and give me
strength that I may run with swiftness of the deer, and I may have the strength
of the giant oak that grows by the rippling waters.
“Give me wisdom that I might seek food and shelter from the
cold winter winds that howl down from the north. Guide my hands that I may use
only that which I need and that I may walk straight and true toward the sunset.
“And as I grow old from the passing of many winters, let me
look into the dawn of that great new day when I will rest forever by the waters
that give Eternal life. In a land where air is pure and the skies are forever
blue; in a land where time is not measured by the seasons, but only in
forevers.”
As the darkness settled across the hill, I knew the time was
at hand when I had to return to the world around me. Looking to the western
sky, the beauty I witnessed had faded as though a huge hand had erased the
glorious and golden picture. As I made my way back down the narrow trail, I was
glad I had come. I had witnessed this evening more beauty than some probably ever
see in a lifetime.
The cool brisk air of the hill country thrilled my soul as I
sped along the paved highway that would carry me back to my dear wife and home that
I had left. Looking at my watch, I knew that supper time was fast approaching, and
the meal that my wife had prepared would be wonderful. Thinking of the
beautiful display of the heavens that I had just witnessed, I knew that I had
done the right thing by coming this way. Now I was rested and peace abounded
within me. The cool evening air in the Limestone Creek bottoms welcomed me;
home was a short distance away.
(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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