(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 “Naptime in the outdoors
interrupted by crow talk” was originally published in the June 1, 2000 edition
of The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
Pick a day if you will, and for all practical purposes,
decide not to do anything except the one thing that strikes your fancy.
I would like to share with you one of these days I had the
privilege to enjoy a few days back. My dear wife had other plans for this day
so I had nothing to do but disappear and return just when I wanted to.
Had this been in the old days, I would have had to saddle my
horse or hook up the buggy to carry me where I was going. But in these modern
times, all I had to do was to gas up my motorcycle and make a quick stop at a
grocery store to pick up my lunch of sardines and crackers, a small can of pork
and beans, two moon pies and a couple of canned drinks.
With all my goodies, the morning sun in my face and the
fresh wind blowing around my neck, I head toward the place where I know that
time will stand still and everything is at peace.
The green trees and the fields of growing corn raced by as I
headed up through the Finchburg area. I left the pavement and turned west
toward the river and the high hill known as Nancy Mountain.
I made a quick run down the scenic steep hill that leads to
the river and the ferry to see if it was still there. Then I turned my iron
steed around and climbed back up the hill to my favorite stop atop the high
bluff.
I looked around to be sure that I was not going to be disturbed.
The sun was getting warmer with each passing minute, so I knew that if I was
going to take a quick nap before the heat settled in, I would have to hurry.
Just as I was about to doze off into that nap I was looking
forward to, about 25 crows decided to settle in the top of a large oak tree on
the hill. I laid back and decided to listen.
The conversation among the group of crows was something to behold.
I would have given anything to have had a tape recorder there with me.
I listened for a long time as they scolded each other, and
each in its own way “had its say.”
If by some miracle, I had been able to understand their
talking, I would have known just who in the crow society was going out with
whom and I would have been greatly enlightened on all the happenings around the
area.
The conversation came to a sudden halt when I tried to join
in with the crow caller that I had put in my pocket before leaving home. I must
have said something that they didn’t like because they left the large oak tree
in an awful hurry.
Just as things began to settle down again and I thought that
I might get on with my nap, I heard a noise in the underbrush across the road.
Out of the weeds and tall grass came a large armadillo
slowly making his way across the gravel road. I sat very still as he slowly
made his way toward the table where I was sitting.
I didn’t mind him looking around, but I wished he would go
on about his business. I wasn’t looking for company for lunch, but it seemed
that this was what the armadillo had in mind. I wasn’t sure if an armadillo ate
sardines and crackers or not. But he wasn’t about to get a can of mine.
Besides, I always eat two cans.
After what seemed to be a very long visit, my friend, the
armadillo, moved into the underbrush and down the hill toward the river.
According to my stomach, it had gotten to be about lunch
time. The thought of the moon pies and sardines had flung a craving on me. I
was ready for lunch. After a feast fit for a king, I thought I might doze off
for a few minutes there on the hill as a cool breeze crept over the area of
Nancy Mountain.
Just about the time I dozed off, the sound of an approaching
automobile reached the hilltop. Before I could get up off the table, up drives
an elderly couple from lower Baldwin County.
Before I could get a word in, they were removing from the
trunk of their auto a large picnic basket and an ice chest. Assuring them that
I didn’t mind if they had a picnic lunch there under the shelter, they began to
unpack their goodies.
After seeing all the good food they had, I was sorry that I
had eaten. My sardines and moon pies weren’t much compared to the lunch they
spread out there on the table.
They had never heard the story of Nancy Haines and the
tragedy of her family there on the hill during the early days of the dreadful
Civil War. They knew nothing of the ghost of Miss Nancy as she walked the old road
and faint trails that led down to the river, hoping to meet her loved ones
coming home from the bloody war.
Our conversation went on for quite some time about the
happenings around the area and throughout the county.
After relaying to them the adventures I had experienced
while traveling over the country by motorcycle, they were about ready to sell
their auto and invest in an iron horse.
As they were about to depart Nancy Mountain, they wanted to
know if I would come with them again here to the hill and retell the story of
the ghost of Miss Nancy.
Next time, they were going to bring along some friends. I
assured them that I would meet them there if they would let me know the day
they were coming.
As I stopped for a final look across the vast valley and river
below me, I decided that it had been a very good day after all. Even though I
didn’t get my nap, I had made some new friends and I had gotten the latest gossip
from the band of crows, although I had been able to get a word in edgeways. Looking
across the valley, I had witnessed once again a porter of the great Creation.
The evening shadows had begun to gather there atop Nancy
Mountain as I watched the golden rays of the setting sun through the trees to
the west.
I mounted my motorcycle as on would have mounted a fine
horse in the olden days. Leaving the mountain is never an easy task, but I knew
that I just go. It had been a very fine day. As always, I was glad that I had
come.
(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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