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| George Buster Singleton |
It’s strange how the changing of the seasons affects human beings. Even the slight cool breezes in the early morning hours seem to broadcast to the world that early autumn is at our doorsteps.
With the coming of the early morning breezes and the beautiful sunsets that I have witnessed within the past few days, the feeling of restlessness begins to beckon from within.
I often wonder how some of our society never has the urge to just slip away and wander around over the countryside and view the beauty that is there for mankind to appreciate. As I talk to various people within this area, I am always amazed at the number of these people who never bother to load up and ride to the nearest high hill to view an evening sunset.
I’ve talked to many young people and very few have ever witnessed a sunset first hand. They have seen some on the television sets in their homes, but very few have ever been loaded up by their parents and carried to a special spot to view this marvel of creation.
This past week, I had a whole day that I could call my own, so I decided to throw all caution to the winds and follow my gypsy instincts and spend a full day in vagabond fashion.
As I left the coffee shop, the cool breeze that tickled my cheeks didn’t help matters any. It seems that somewhere in the distance, someone was calling to me to head for the hill country and see for myself a preview of what was to come. I knew that by the time I had ridden a few miles up the road, the urge to wander would have covered me like a blanket and only the setting sun would turn me around.
My first stop was near the community of Chestnut. Pulling up a dim and grown up road, I stopped my transportation near an old home place. Walking over to the rough grown up area where the front yard once was, I walked over to where a lone grave marker leaned in the high weeds and heavy underbrush. Here was the final resting place of a lone Confederate soldier who had been buried in the corner of the front yard of the family home place. Wiping away the dirt and mold on the marker the best that I could, I made out these words:
T.J. Sadler
Co. A, 13th Alabama Infantry
Confederate States of America
Next to this Confederate marker is a crude handmade marker that is made out of rough limestone. The initials “J.E.” have been roughly scratched with some type of sharp instrument. Also, the date of Aug. 7, and the year of 1855.
Below this is the roughly scratched number 29. The crude limestone marker is shaped roughly like a heart. Over a ways there is what appears to be three or four more graves with no markers on them. The sunken places in the ground gave rough evidence that perhaps these might be some of the Confederate soldier’s family.
Standing over the graves is one of the largest oak trees that I have ever seen. The tree seems to stand guard with its protective branches reaching out as though to give cover to those who sleep there. I have come to this place many times.
Such a shame that our fairyland society has all but forgotten these places that lie abandoned and unkept throughout the southland.
As I made my way on toward the town of Camden, I decided to pull off and visit another grave that I knew of that rested there on a high and scenic hilltop. Unlocking the steel gate that blocked the narrow road, I was soon standing beside the lone grave of another person who had suffered greatly because of the dreaded Civil War.
This young lady had been engaged to a soldier of the Confederacy. Receiving word that her husband to be had been killed, she chose to end her life by hanging herself in her upstairs bedroom.
As usual, the weeds and grass around her final resting place had been pulled up and thrown to the side. The story goes that the ghost of her lover returns to her grave from time to time and neatly trims around her place of burial.
The one who related the story to me has witnessed the strange and ghostly figure, dressed in a Confederate uniform, kneeling by this grave in the early hours of the morning, pulling up the grass and weeds.
A quick stop in Camden for a cup of coffee was refreshing. To my amazement, there were three people in the coffee shop that I knew. As usual, I was asked where I was going. When I answered that I didn’t know, a lady who was sitting nearby looked at me in total amazement. She couldn’t believe that I didn’t know where I was going.
As I departed, the coffee shop, this lady continued to look at me in a weird manner. The next night, I received a telephone call from one of my friends telling me that this lady had questioned them at length as to what type business I was in. She couldn’t believe that I was traveling around on a motorcycle and I didn’t know where I was going.
Passing quickly through Dixon Mills and Sweet Water, I found myself turning off the highway after crossing the river near the community of Nanafalia. A wonderful lunch of fresh catfish at the restaurant overlooking the Tombigbee River was a delicious treat.
I didn’t understand why, but it seemed that everywhere I had gone today, I was seeing friends that I had known for a long time. While eating lunch, who would come in, but two ladies that I had gone to high school with. It was almost like a homecoming.
Back on Highway 69, I passed through the community of Campbell. I turned back toward the river to the old community of my maternal ancestors. As I stood in the small family cemetery, I realized that also buried here were the graves of four soldiers of the Confederacy. Strange, how all these visits seemed to come together as if by chance in a single day.
I then took a quick detour stop at the high hill known as the Mountain and visited the cemetery at Witch Creek church where also are buried several soldiers of the Confederacy, and an uncle of mine. Back on Highway 69, I continued west to Coffeeville and on across the Tombigbee to the town of Silas. Since I was here, I thought that I would visit the grave of the uncle whom I had been named after. He had been killed in a railroad accident three months before I was born.
As I departed the small burial ground, I knew that if I was to get back to the Hub City during the hours of daylight, I had to hurry. After 12 hours of wandering and 204 miles later, I rode into my yard.
Another day of wandering had come and gone. It had been just wonderful. That vagabond blood was now cooled somewhat.
(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.)
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