 |
| 1933 B Model Ford |
(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 “Memories of a watermelon patch
raid” was originally published in the June 20, 1996 edition of The Monroe
Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
During the years of my teenage life, I wasn’t all bad. I
admit that I was guilty of many times being a part of a watermelon patch raid
or swiping a few fresh ripe peaches from the orchard of a grouchy old man who
lived in the farming community where I grew up. But, as I look back, it seems
that this kind of behavior was expected from the youth of those times. On
several occasions, I overheard my father and other men laughing and telling
about certain events which were set up to try to frighten the living daylights
out of my older brothers and some of their friends when they would raid a
watermelon patch or a peach or apple orchard.
Always, if visitors or relatives from the city came to the
farm communities during the time of year when the melons were ripe, a raid was
always organized so as to frighten the living daylights out of the city
slickers. Many times, it was always proper to show one’s courage to the country
girls, to carry them on a watermelon patch raid on the night of a date. This is
a story of one of those not so organized raids.
It was during the summer after I completed the eleventh
grade in high school. A friend of mine managed to borrow his brother’s 1933 B
Model Ford for a night on the town. Since there wasn’t a town nearby, other
than Sweet Water, that we could have a night on, we decided to just carry out
dates on a tour of the area. Hardly had the night gotten underway, when someone
mentioned, “Why not raid someone’s watermelon patch?” Since my father’s death,
we had discontinued any type of farming. My dear mother and I had moved from
the farm to the town of Sweet Water. I had become a city boy of sorts; and city
boys didn’t have watermelon patches. We couldn’t go to my friend’s family patch
since he was afraid that he would be seen and he might have the car taken from
him.
The dark-haired young lady I was dating excitingly suggested
we visit her father’s watermelon patch. She assured us she knew a way to get to
the patch without being seen. Hearing her talk, left no reason that she didn’t
know the trail to the patch and that she was very familiar with the area. She
assured us once again that she had grown up on this farm and she knew the lay
of the land by heart.
Parking the old Ford at the spot where my date instructed us
to do so, we crossed the narrow country road and headed across a large field
that lay on the side of a sloping hill. There was a full moon above, but the
heavy clouds which floated around the moon caused it to disappear behind the
clouds at times, causing total darkness. After losing our way several times, we
finally came upon the watermelon patch belonging to the father of my date.
As the heavy clouds slowly moved across the face of the full
moon we eased along the melon rows seeking out a couple of good juicy
watermelons. After “thumping” about half the melons in the patch, we selected
the two we thought would best suit our taste for a sweet juicy watermelon
eating on a creek bank not too far from where we had parked out vehicle. Now
all we had to do was return to the old Ford and load up and head to this
favorite parking place. As we slowly made our way down a narrow path in the
direction we thought would lead us to the narrow country road where the B Model
had been left, the heavy clouds completely covered the face of the full moon.
Within minutes, the night had become very dark. As we slowly
moved along the faint path, it seemed to me that this wasn’t the path we had
traveled on our way to the melon patch. I confronted my date about the path not
being familiar. She assured me in no uncertain terms that we were on the right
path. She reminded me in a firm voice that she had grown up on this farm; she
certainly knew where she was going. Shouldering my watermelon, I said no more
and followed the young lady down the hill with my friend and his date coming
along behind.
All at once, the full moon broke from behind the heavy
clouds. To our amazement, we were just a few short steps from the wooden fence
surrounding the family barnyard. Whispering among ourselves, we tried to decide
what the next course of action would be. My date, who seemed to know
everything, suggested that we slip through the barnyard and out to the road
that was not too far from where we were standing. I knew that we couldn’t retrace
the path we had taken down the hill, because it had grown dark, once again and
we needed to get to the dirt road somehow quickly as possible.
Slowly we opened the barnyard gate and eased into the enclosed
area. All at once, a young mule that was in the barnyard began to snort loudly
and race around the barn. Fearing we might be run over by the frightened mules,
we raced for the other gate that we had been told was on the other side of the
barnyard. To make matters worse, a small calf lay on the ground there in the darkness.
Trying to reach the safety of the gate without dropping my watermelon, I
stepped up on the back of the calf, not knowing it was there. This was when all
heck broke loose; I fell broadside in the barnyard filth, losing my watermelon.
The frightened mule continued to snort loudly and race wildly around the barn.
My date’s father (I was to learn later) came out of the house with nothing on
but his nightshirt and began to fire his shotgun up into the air. This really
caused the raiding party to hook up and get up the road to where we had left
the car.
As we finally regained our breath, all wanted to know what
had happened to the watermelon that I was carrying. When I told them that I had
dropped it when I fell over the sleeping calf, everyone seemed to get mad. They
couldn’t understand why I didn’t hold on to the watermelon. Nothing was mentioned
about my buddy missing his melon in all the excitement. Needless to say, there
was no watermelon cutting that night there on the creek bank.
As usual, my darling mother was awake when I arrived home that
night. As I tried to slip in the house without her seeing me, she turned on the
light. There I stood in my new shark skin pants, dirty and filthy from falling
over the sleeping calf. Her words were: “Lord, son, what in the world has
happened?” I replied to her that she could go on back to bed; if I told her
what had happened, she would not believe it anyway.
(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.)
No comments:
Post a Comment