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| Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
(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 “A place where memories ride the
winds” was originally published in the Sept. 15, 1994 edition of The Monroe
Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
I have mentioned several times in my writings about a place
in the northeastern part of the county known as Locke Hill. I have been there
many times, both during the hours of the daylight and during the times of darkness.
Regardless of the many times going there, a different feeling is most always
experienced upon arrival on the top of the high and beautiful hill.
I like nothing better than to travel in that direction
during the days of late summer and early fall, stopping atop the hill and
marveling at the broad vastness of beauty that is to be seen there. So it was a
few days back, I found myself heading in that direction for a few moments of
meditation and a time for remembering.
The cool winds across the open spaces reminded me that the
autumn season was just over the horizon. As I looked at the hillsides and deep
valleys, already a few faint colors of beautiful autumn had begun to appear on
the sweetgum and oak trees that dotted the landscape.
Reaching the top of Locke Hill, I went to my favorite spot,
the place where the view of the vast valley before me was the greatest. Here, I
sat down on my favorite rock and gazed across the distance that lay before me.
As I sat there enjoying the cool refreshing eastern winds,
the faint distant sound of a dog barking echoed across the valley. This brought
to mind the time of my early childhood and thoughts of all the coon hunters of
the community where I grew up.
This was the time of the year when plans were beginning to formulate
for the coming coon hunting season. I remembered the coon hunting tales of the
past season being told and told again, each time to be exaggerated a little
more than the time before. And, as the time grew near for the hunts to begin,
the autumn winds seemed to bear the excitement of the coming hunts.
These thoughts brought to mind the dog trading, the swapping,
and even the buying of coon dogs. It was not uncommon for a hunter to order a
pure-bred coon dog from a mail-order catalog. Always, these dogs came by
freight on the train. Upon receiving notice that a coon dog was to arrive by
train on a certain day, all the coon hunters would drop everything they were
doing and gather at the train station. One would have thought that a dignitary
of great importance was arriving on that train instead of a mail-order coon
dog.
Sitting there looking across the vast valley below me, I
remembered the night last year, when during the time of late autumn, I came to
Locke Hill. I remembered sitting in this very spot and listening to the flocks
of wild geese as they crossed the face of the full moon on their way south and
to warmer climates.
I remembered how time seemed to stand still there that night
as I sat there along looking out over the moonlit valley. I thought of the
howls of the wild coyotes down the hill that night and the tingle of the skin
on my neck as the sounds echoed through the timbers and rode the winds of the
evening. The thought had come to mind that evening that there were places on
this planet yet where total peace can be found even in our world of fantasy and
make believe.
I remembered during my youth that the months of the fall
season were a time for hunting wild possum grapes and various other wild goodies
such as muscadines and many other sought-after treats. Young boys and girls,
always with their chaperones, would go out on Saturday or Sunday afternoons in
search for a wild grape or a muscadine vine. This gave the young country boys
the chance to show off their skills to climb the tall trees and vines while
tossing the nicest bunches of wild grapes to that favorite young lady who
waited below.
There was always the chance to help that special red-headed
country beauty across a small stream or gully. This was the chance to hold her
hand without the older couple, who watched with the eyes of a hawk at your
every move. Always, if you played it smart, the area where the rough ground and
small streams were located was a planned part of the afternoon journey.
Once or twice a season, the youth of the community were
allowed to organize a coon hunt. Always, there had to be at least two older
couples go along as chaperones. Then, a roundup of goodies, such as popcorn
balls, roasted pecans or peanuts, or a sizeable amount of syrup candy, was in
order.
After everything was prepared, the coon dogs were selected
for the evening of hunting. It didn’t matter much whether the dogs would tree a
coon or not. The big thing was to get away, after a short time of hunting, the bonfire
festivities would end the hunt.
Good times and tall tales were the order of the evening.
Games that could be played there in the deep woods around the campfire were
enjoyed for a while. Then it was time for the older couples to tell the stories
of their early childhood. As they became absorbed in their stories, there might
be a slim chance to reach over in the shadows from the bonfire and quickly grasp
the hand of that favorite sweet thing who sat not too far away.
But you had to be very careful. I knew some of the
chaperones whom I thought could see better in the dark than they could in the broad
open daylight. Anyway, taking a chance of getting caught holding hands could be
tricky business.
I had become so absorbed in reliving the memories of my
early youth that I hadn’t realized that the sun was almost out of sight in the
western skies. The eastern winds had become a little cooler during my stay
there on Locke Hill.
Taking one last look across the vast valley below me, I knew
that I had to return again during a time of the full moon. I wanted once again
to witness the flocks of wild geese as they flew to be south in the bright late
autumn moonlight.
As I turned to leave from this place of peace and beauty, I
knew that soon I would return for another time when the memories of yesteryear
would live again as though they had just happened.
I turned from the vastness of the bottom lands before me,
the lines of a poem written by the poet, Longfellow, raced through my mind.
“This is the place, stand still my steed,
And let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy past
The forms that once has been.”
(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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