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| Ball of mistletoe in a tree top. |
(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 Christmas Story” was originally
published in the Dec. 23, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville,
Ala.)
This is the story of a house. Built in the early 1800s in
what used to be a thriving county community, this old house tells its story:
“I came into being some years before the Civil War. Though I
am old and have been deserted for many years, it has not always been this way.
My yards are grown over with weeds and brush, and the only sound I hear is the
sighing wind through my broken windows and the creaking of my foundations as
they settle to the decay of time.
“My hearths are cold, because there is no one to kindle the
fires to keep out the chill. My family, the ones that built me, lie sleeping in
the church yard up the road aways. I am alone now, but there was a time when I
knew the sound of laughter and the patter of little feet in my hallways. These
walls hold many memories – dear memories that will dwell within until my
foundations crumble and return to the ground from which they came. But before
this happens, let me tell of happier times.
“Of all that I remember, I think the happiest times that I
recall were at Christmas. This was always the most special time of the year
with my family.
“I remember the huge cedar tree that was brought out of the
woods and trimmed to perfection before it was placed in the front room. The
front room was where all the company that came to visit was received. The
nicest bed, the best chairs, the sofa, and the piano were in the front room.
“After the tree was in place, decorations were made and pine
cones painted all different colors. The sweet gum burrs were dipped in silver
paint to look like huge snow flakes hanging in my windows. There also was the
Indian corn with the many colored ears and they hung in clusters at each end of
the mantel.
“I could never forget the colorful paper chains looped about
the tree, with handmade little paper bells hanging everywhere. Always there was
the silver star, made from tin foil saved from the chewing gum wrappers, in the
top of the tree. The star was always carefully packed away after the holidays,
so it could be used next year.
“Oh, yes. I almost forgot about that bunch of mistletoe tacked
up in the hallway, just outside the front room door. All the young men would
try and catch the young ladies under it, so they could kiss them. They would
giggle and always would keep an eye on the older folks around the fire, hoping
that they wouldn’t see and hear what was going on.
“I remember the little ones who were looking for Santa Claus
on Christmas Eve. Each would place a box or a hat, and on occasion the dishpan,
for old Santa to put the candy and fruit in. That was out all they got, because
times were hard, and there wasn’t much money around.
“There would always be a fire left to burn in the fire
place. Not a big one, but one large enough to warm Santa’s hands and feet. The
coffee pot was placed beside the fire place, so that all Santa had to do was to
drag out a few coals with the fire poker and warm the coffee left for him.
“After supper, all the little ones were sent off to bed in
the loft. For the next two or three hours, threatening calls would come from
the fire side telling them that if they didn’t go to sleep, Santa Claus wasn’t
coming.
“Finally, when there were no more sounds from the loft, a hurried
trip was made to the smoke house out back for a taste of homemade blackberry
wine. This would help pass the hours while waiting for Santa Claus.
“The next morning was always rough on me, but really I didn’t
mind. The little ones would wake up early and nearly knock the stairs down,
coming to see what they had in the Christmas boxes. The fires were built up and
the warmth slowly crept all over the floors and walls, giving me a peaceful
feeling for the day ahead.
“I’ll never forget that breakfast my family served on
Christmas morning. It was something to behold – those hot biscuits with the
cane syrup, and always several kinds of meat. And on this day, they always
served sliced cheese, which was some kind of family tradition, I think. And
always there was fried chicken – that too was kinda special.
“Along about nine o’clock, the company would start arriving.
I can hear the horses now stamping on the gravel rocks outside the gate. They
were impatient to get in the barn where it was warm and where there was plenty
of hay. I remember the jingle of the harnesses as the men folks unhitched the
wagons, talking and laughing, hurrying to get back to the fire.
“I could never describe in detail, all the different kinds
of pies, cakes and custards, and all the other food that came out of those
wagons. Ham, turkey, roasts, and just about everything that one could imagine
was put on the table. There were times when I really felt sorry for that table,
loaded down with all that food.
“After the meal was over, everyone would gather around that
heavy piano and sing Christmas carols. I’ll never forget that piano, it was so
heavy until extra blocks had to be installed under the front room floor to keep
it from sagging. I didn’t really mind because that piano had a sound unlike any
piano in the county. That after-dinner singing was sure something to remember.
“I knew the day was about to end, when I heard the rattle of
harnesses and the sound of the wagon wheels on the roadway outside. As the last
goodbyes were said, quiet would come again to my hallways, and the fire was
left to die away in the fireplace of the front room.
“Those days are gone, and many seasons have passed since I
have felt the warmth of Christmas within me. The chill of age dwells inside my
walls as the north wind blows its cold damp breath through my broken windows
and doors. Perhaps in time, someone will come and claim me again. Then laughter
and warmth will abide within these walls and the mistletoe will hand over the
front room door as before. Christmas will come again, but until that time, I
will just remember.”
(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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