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| George Buster Singleton |
I grew up in a rural farming community where everyone knew the business of everyone else. This was a good thing because there were several people in the area who had no family to turn to should they need help.
The menfolk in the community saw to it that these people got help if it was needed. Chores included cutting their firewood and repairing anything that needed repair around the farms. Those who needed personal care in time of sickness were cared for by the other members of the community.
Down the road from where I grew up lived Aunt Roxie. Aunt Roxie was a very attractive middle-aged black lady who had lost her husband in a sawmill accident some years back. Aunt Roxie owned a nice comfortable house and a small farm.
In the days of the Depression, she would have been a “nice catch” for any of the eligible black men of the surrounding area and the community.
But Aunt Roxie would have nothing to do with any of the local eligible menfolk. Many had tried to court Aunt Roxie, but had failed. She had set her standards much too high, according to the local gossip. The eligible men in the area had to earn their living either by farming or doing hard labor at a nearby sawmill.
Aunt Roxie had let it be known that before she would consider any courtship, the man would have to be a total gentleman. He would also have to be well-educated. He would have to dress neatly and have the best of clothing. And, last but not least, he would have to have some good method of transportation.
The years came and went. Aunt Roxie lived alone in her home, which was kept spotless. She was, without a doubt, the best cook in the whole community. The goodies that Aunt Roxie kept around her house was why this five-year-old boy had chosen her as one of his best friends. He could not resist stopping by her house every day to see if she needed an errand run. These stops were always good for a slice of delicious buttermilk pie that was second to none. And, the popcorn candy that she always had on hand wasn’t to be sneezed at either.
Then, one day in early June, it happened. Down the narrow dirt road came a clean and shining buggy. It was drawn by one of the finest-looking horses that had been seen by the local folks. The polished leather harness gleamed in the afternoon sun. And, the huge travel trunk strapped on the back of the buggy seemed to boast of the fine clothing that was stored there. The seats of the buggy was made of fine polished leather, not a scratch or soiled place could be seen on them.
In the driver’s seat sat a well-dressed handsome black man complete with top hat and travel coat. He had on a white, ruffled shirt, complete with bow tie. His driving gloves were soft and comfortable, and his dress boots looked as though they had just been polished.
He had stopped at the local country store and inquired about a place where he might stay for a short while. He stated that he was a traveling magician and would like to put on some magic shows in the area before moving on. The news traveled throughout the farm community like wildfire, a place was found where he could stay, and a time and place was set for his first performance. “Will Street,” the magician from New Orleans, was in business.
Will Street and his magic show was a complete success. His ability to put a small rooster in a glass bottle, along with making a large black cat that he had brought with him disappear, was the talk of the country folks.
Gossip began to ride the winds of the farm community. The shining new buggy had been seen hitched to Aunt Roxie’s yard fence on Saturday afternoons and after church for Sunday dinner the following day. Word had it that Will Street had proposed marriage to Aunt Roxie. All the local folks surmised that Aunt Roxie had finally found the man who met her specifications.
The afternoon of the wedding was the highlight of the community. The womenfolk of both races gathered and decorated the front porch of Aunt Roxie’s house. Pine ribbons were tied along the picket fence around the front yard. Delicious food of all sorts covered two large tables that had been placed under the large magnolia tree over in the corner of the yard. It was my duty, and that of my black playmate, Robert George, to keep the insects fanned away with two large palmetto fans.
A snow white sheet was placed on the ground for the bride-to-be and the groom to stand on during the wedding ceremony. Things were getting quite hectic under the large magnolia tree. The insects were quite plentiful that hot August Saturday afternoon.
Life returned to normal after the wedding. My visits became more frequent, along with my friend, Robert. The buttermilk pies seemed more plentiful, and the small magic tricks performed by the magician from New Orleans kept two small boys wide-eyed and spellbound for hours on end.
A period of almost four wonderful years would pass as the couple lived happily together. Aunt Roxie and Will Street were seen quite often traveling to and from his magic performances around the area on Saturday and Sunday afternoons.
Then, one Saturday during the final days of October, Will Street the magician performed for the last time. As he closed his show and was loading his buggy for the journey home, the magician from New Orleans slumped to the ground. Will Street was dead.
After the death of her husband, Aunt Roxie seemed to lose all will to live. No more did she take pride in her cooking and house cleaning. The buttermilk pies and popcorn candy ceased to exist. The house and yards fell into decay. Aunt Roxie just sat alone in a huge rocking chair in front of the empty fire place.
Then, one evening in late December, the men of the community were summoned to the home of Aunt Roxie. She had failed to answer the door when a neighbor had dropped by to check on her and leave some food, which was often done by the local folks.
The front door of the house was forced open. There sat Aunt Roxie in the large oak rocking chair. She was dead. She had joined Will Street, the magician from New Orleans – the man who had met all of her specifications, both in dress and manners; the man who had completely swept her off her feet, the man who had made her life most wonderful once more. Now, again, they were together.
(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, was bitten at least twice by venomous snakes, 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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