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| An Apache hogan hut at Monument Valley. |
(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 “September brings anniversary of a
memory” was originally published in the Sept. 9, 1993 edition of The Monroe
Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
Strange, how during the times of the year when certain
events happened in the past, the memory seems to become stronger.
It was during the month of September many years ago when I
ventured forth to visit the family of a fallen friend who lived in the desert
country of Arizona.
The Son of Slow Man was a member of the White Mountain Apache
Indian tribe. He had joined the Marines to see the world and cast his fortune
upon the hopes that he might someday retire and return to his land and help
lead his people in a more fruitful and better life. But sometimes fate deals in
strange and mysterious ways.
The Son of Slow Man would never see these times that he had hoped
for. He was killed in combat in some of the bloody fighting during the Korean
War. He was laid to rest on a frozen hillside, far from the land that he loved and
talked about so much. Later, along with many others, his body was exhumed and
shipped to his desert homeland for re-burial.
I had contacted his family by letter and notified them as to
the time of my arrival at a small trading post near the then small community of
Apache Junction, Arizona.
I knew that somewhere out there in the vast desert, my
friend’s father and mother lived a primitive life, almost as their ancestors
had, over a hundred years ago. Requesting that they meet me at this location, I
set out on a journey that will live in memory always.
I arrived at our rendezvous point about 10 a.m. on the 12th
day of September. I was told by the owner of the small trading post that if I
had any ideas about riding the motorcycle I was traveling on out into that
desert sand that I was crazy.
He informed me that the family of Slow Man lived about 3-1/2
hours by horseback, “out thataway,” pointing into the vast desert. For a
country boy from South Alabama, I knew that I didn’t need to get lost out
there, a hundred miles from nowhere.
The owner of the trading post allowed me to park my motorcycle
in the corner of a sheep pen nearby, assuring me that it wouldn’t jump over the
wooden fence that surrounded the sheep corral.
About the time that I had almost given up hope of being met
by the family, a wagon drawn by two small mustang-looking horses drew up at the
trading post. On this wagon was an old Apache man and his wife.
With the help of the trading post owner, I convinced the old
Indian that I had been the friend of his dead son. Slow Man could speak broken
English enough that he and I could communicate to a degree. His wife either
spoke no English or didn’t want to speak any. She only spoke in the Apache
tongue.
Prior to leaving the trading post, the owner informed me if
I wanted anything else to eat beside sheep mutton, I had better get it now. He
informed me that I was about to enter another world. Little did I know that he
was telling the absolute truth.
Loading my few belongings on the wagon, we headed out across
the vast desert. As the wagon wheels ground through the deep sands and jolted
over small boulders about the size of a man’s head, I tried to relate my story
to Slow Man about my friendship with his son.
The wife of Slow Man did not speak one word during the
almost four-hour journey that ended atop a high plateau, where the Hogan of
Slow Man was located.
The mud Hogan was about 30 feet in diameter. It had one door
and one small window. In the top was a hole about the size of a man’s hat. This
hole allowed the smoke to escape from the fires that warmed the Hogan in the
winter and from the cookfire built inside when the severe cold kept the old
Indian woman from cooking outside.
There was no furniture inside except a wooden barrel that
sat upright with a kerosene lantern sitting on top. The old Indian and his wife
slept on the hard sandstone floor of a pallet made of thick, heavy sheepskins.
I was told I could sleep across the Hogan from the old
couple, or I could sleep outside where the air was cool. I informed Slow Man
that I would try both places before I made up my mind. A faint smile came upon
the aged and wrinkled face of the old Indian.
For a living, Slow Man and his wife raised a few hundred
sheep, along with a few head of cattle there in the desert. Wanting something
to do to pass the time, I jumped in and did everything I could to help with the
herding and the gathering of firewood for the coming winter.
This pleased the old man greatly. His wife even began to
communicate with me. To my total amazement, she could speak fair English. I was
even shown the way down to the windmill and the watering tank for the sheep and
cattle. Here, I could bathe on occasion, provided no one was around getting
their weekly supply of drinking water.
It wasn’t until about 10 days after my arrival that I found
out that the old Indian couple also had a daughter. Through hard work, this
daughter had gotten a college degree and now taught at an Indian school quite a
distance away.
Telling her that I wanted to visit the grave of her brother,
she informed me that she didn’t know where her brother’s grave was. Then she
told me of the burial rituals of her people for those who had fallen in battle.
She stated that the remains of her brother had been carried
out into the desert by some older members of the tribe and buried in a secret
spot, known only to them. A herd of horses was run back and forth across her
brother’s grave so that it could not be recognized again.
After telling her father what I wanted to do, Slow Man led
me to the edge of the high plateau and pointed to the distant sunset. “He’s out
there,” said the old Indian. “He talks to the winds. Before too long, I too,
will sleep out there with him. Then we both can talk to the winds. If you
return someday to these lands, I will be out there.”
The old and tired man then pointed to the glowing sunset.
Before my stay was over with Slow Man and his family, I was
to become a part of a ritual that made me a member of the White Mountain Apache
Tribe. I, too, was adopted by the old man and his wife as their son.
After almost two months there on the high plateau, I knew
the time was at hand for me to return to my people. One night, around the hour
of midnight, I gathered up my few belongings and began the long walk back to the
trading post and my transportation.
I knew that the agony of a final farewell to these people
whom I had grown to love and respect would be too much. I took the easy way
out. Leaving a farewell letter that I had prepared earlier on my bed of
sheepskins, I slipped into the desert darkness.
I knew that the daughter of the old Indian couple, upon her return
from school in a few days, would read the letter and explain to them why I had
slipped away into the desert night without saying goodbye.
Almost four months was to pass before a letter came to me to
my mother’s address. The message was from the daughter of Slow Man, telling me
that her father, and my friend, had passed away. The letter told me that Slow
Man had joined his son, there in the desert.
Now, their spirits walked together, and the spirit of the
old Apache now talked to the winds.
(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 also helped organize
the Monroe County Museum and Historical Society and was also a past president
of that organization. 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.)
