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| Medicine man tends to a sick child. |
(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 “The hill country is a place where
peace and solitude abound” was originally published in the Jan. 7, 1993 edition
of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
With the hectic pace of the holiday season coming to an end,
it is time to seek out a place to be alone for a time of meditation and serious
thought. Saturday, the second day of the New Year, was just such a day.
After several days of rushing here and there and reliving the
sad memories of a Christmas many years ago, I woke to the fact that I needed
some time to myself. I needed to be alone for a while to put things in order. I
needed to get back into the groove, as one might say.
With hunting season in full swing, I knew that I would have
to select my place very carefully, so I wouldn’t be mistaken for a wild deer or
something. I know that I don’t look very much like a wild buck deer, but then I
have heard many, many stories of various hunters getting off several good sound
shots. A sound shot is when one does not see the game that they are shooting at.
They tend to shoot at the sound that the game makes. This can get kinda dangerous.
I reminded myself that I knew of a place where no hunting
was allowed, where I could get in without any problem. My trail bike and I
would not be mistaken for that large trophy buck deer that all the eager
hunters were looking for.
Where I was going, I knew that many hours of meditation and
thought and seeking the guidance of the Great Spirt had transpired there. I was
going to a special place, a place where some of the early Indians of this area
had camped and rested, seeking that which I was seeking. The only difference
between myself and the early Indians was a time span of about 700 years.
Upon reaching my destinations, I quickly parked and ascended
the high hill overlooking the ancient village site. In the distance, I could see
the mighty river as it flowed slowly on its way to the sea, far to the south.
I could imagine an old tribal medicine man or one known as
the wind walker, sitting where I was, looking off to the west toward the
setting sun, looking for signs that only he would recognize, telling of the
coming weather and if the cold north winds would bring with it a blanket of
freezing snow and ice.
Perhaps he came to this place during this time of year,
during the nights of the full moon, and watched the many flocks of wild geese
cross the face of the glowing moon on their journeys to the south in search of
warmer climates.
As I sat down and listened to the sighing winds in the bare
tree branches above my head, I knew that I had come to the right place. I was
not worried about anything – I just needed time to gather my thoughts and get
back to where I had left off before the holidays.
I knew that I was a very lucky man – my wonderful family and
our good health, the good health of our friends, and the many special people we
knew and respected. I knew that there on this high hill, overlooking the
ancient village site below me, I had found out that which I was seeking. I
found myself wishing that all the world could witness that which was before me.
Then all would throw down their weapons of death and raise their arms to the heavens
and sing with joy. I wondered to myself how many times this thought had been
cast to the winds, from the very place where I was now standing.
On the distant horizon, beyond the river, the sunlight was
fading slowly as the rolling clouds moved across the hilltops. The cool winds
rustled the few remaining leaves in the tree branches overhead.
It’s so strange how the high hills and the cool winter winds
can make you feel so small in this vast universe. Only when the trees are
almost bare and the winds of winter creep through the timbers do you have this
feeling of being so alone.
There is no other time of the year you can experience the
feeling of absolute peace, as you do during the time of year when the wild
geese cross the moon and Mother Nature is at peace with herself.
As I stood there, looking westward, I became aware of the
quietness around me. It seemed that the sounds of the woods had ceased, maybe just
for me. The cool winds had climbed higher into the timbers. Here on the high
hilltop, the silence had settled like a heavy blanket across the ancient
village site, as though trying not to disturb the spirits of the villagers who
had lived here hundreds of years ago.
Looking down the hill, I could imagine the huts made of tree
branches and the cooking fires in the center of the village. And I knew, too,
that I found what I had come here looking for. I felt good. I was at peace
again with the world and with myself.
With much regret, I looked at my watch. The time was
approaching when I had to leave this place. Regardless how peaceful and content
I become, my time schedule demanded that deadlines be met.
As I descended the high hill, down to the old village site,
I wondered if the Indian medicine man, or the wind walker, had a time schedule to
meet, such as I have.
As I stood for a moment in the center of the ancient
village, I knew that these people who lived here so long ago knew something
about life that our civilization had let slip through our fingers. And, from
this loss, we are poorer for it.
But for a time, I can return to this special place when
things become hectic, for that special moment of peace. I know I can face that
which is before me, regardless of the fairy-tale world we live in and memories
of a time long ago that I would like to forget.
I realized, too, that time awaits no man, and this too shall
pass, as has this ancient village and its people, that was here, where I now
stand. Maybe the words of an unknown poet might say it better.
For Time, as he speeds on invisible wings,
Disenamels and withers earth’s costliest things.
And the knight’s white plume, and the shepherd’s crook,
And the minstrel’s pipe, and the scholar’s book,
And the emperor’s crown, and his warriors’ spears,
Will all be dust in a few hundred years.
(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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