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| George 'Buster' Singleton |
(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 “A community get-together – only
the memories remain,” was originally published in the Nov. 3, 1994 edition of
The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
As the chilly weather begins to creep across the land and
the fallen leaves blanket the hills and ridges, many memories from a happy
childhood come to mind.
As I stood outside in the crisp afternoon air Saturday,
something seemed to be missing. Nowhere did I see a curl of smoke from a
burning fire, rising from a smoking chimney. And the chilly, sighing winds
carried no wonderful odors of dry oak wood burning in the large fireplaces that
I remember.
I write of another time; a time when family togetherness and
community fellowship were alive and well; a time when several families of the
farm community would get together to cut and split wood for one another,
especially for the elderly, while over a hot roaring fire in the yard, a large
boiling pot of lye hominy filled the crisp air with an odor that had everyone’s
mouth watering.
Saturday afternoons
These wood-cuttings would usually take place on a Saturday
afternoon. During the past week, the cross-cut saws had been made ready by my
father. He took great pride in his ability to sharpen these saws so that they
seemed to “drop through an oak log” when used. Also, the splitting axes were
sharpened to the point that the edges would cut a hair when it was pulled
across the edge of the cutting blade.
Always, there would be a contest of a sorts; the young boys
would always try to see who could outlast the other on the end of the cross-cut
saw. The older men always encouraged these sawing duels, which was one way to
get a sizeable amount of work out of the young boys when the wood sawing had to
be done.
Much bragging and recognition of the winners would take
place after the contests were over. Little did the youth realize, but the more
sawing contests were promoted, the less time the older men had to spend at the
end of a cross-cut saw.
As the sawing progressed, the splitting of the blocks of
wood would begin. The wood was split because it would be easier to handle and
the split pieces would stack better in the rack or wood box. And, too, if the
menfolk were away when wood needed to be added to the fire, it was easier for
the womenfolk to carry inside and put on the fire.
Splitting contests
After the logs had been sawed into blocks, the splitting
contests would begin, just as had the sawings. A single blow to a wood block
with the razor-sharp ax usually would cause the block to fall in half. Then, a
blow to each half would leave the block in quarters.
Sometimes, when a large block was encountered, a sledge
hammer and a wedge had to be put into use. This was always done by the older
men, the professionals, as they thought of themselves. Some took great pride in
their ability to make those decisions that caused the work to be easier and
progress safely.
During this time of sawing and wood-splitting activity, all
eyes of the young boys would, from time to time, stray over to the large pot
where the hominy was cooking. It could be quite dangerous, swinging a
razor-sharp ax, while at the same time trying to get a sneak look at that
pretty, red-headed country beauty, dressed in that starched gingham dress, who
came out to stir the cooking hominy.
After a few strokes around the inside of the large boiling
pot with the battling stick, that pretty young thing would slowly make her way
back to the house. After she entered the house, a quick inventory was made by
those using the axes, checking to see if any toes were missing or any ax
handles were broken.
No suspicion
All this had to be done without creating suspicion from the
older folks, who were watching every move of the young boys with eyes like a
hawk.
The wood-cutting finished, all gathered around the large
cooking pot for a bountiful helping of delicious hominy. Many other goodies,
such as potato pies, ginger bread, sweet muffins, baked ham and much more, sat
in open containers around the edge of the front porch.
A sizeable cooler of fresh buttermilk, just drawn from the
well where it had been cooling, was also there. A large pot of steaming-hot
coffee rested on the hot coals at the edge of the open fire. As the evening
shadows crept across the yard, two or three coal oil lanterns were lighted and
hung from the limbs of a large chinaberry tree that grew in the yard. Over in
the edge of the shadows, two or three pet hound dogs waited patiently for their
feast on the scraps and leftovers.
As the delicious meal came to a close, out of the shadows
came the sounds of a guitar and a fiddle. A mouth harp and a banjo joined the
music. Old Man Jake, the oldest man in the community, sprang to the center of
the yard and began to buck dance, as though he wasn’t a day over 18.
Dancing
All activity ceased among the womenfolk as they put aside
the dishes and joined their husbands and danced to the tune of the Virginia
Reel and many other tunes popular among the country folks. Bashful young boys
awkwardly joined the dancing after being almost dragged to the center of the
yard by those pretty young things in the starched gingham dresses.
And, Old Man Jake, having regained his breath from his buck
dancing, was now doing the calling for the square dancing going full swing in
the front yard.
These wonderful times of community fellowship and
togetherness have faded. No more do we join our neighbors for a few hours of
happiness and friendship. Hardly do we know the names of those who live next
door.
With the changing times, we have grown much poorer from this
thing we refer to as progress. Sometimes, the few words of a little-known poet
bring more to mind than pages upon pages about the happenings of the past.
Linger a while and walk with me
In the shadowy mist that was yesterday.
Stroll into the recesses of our memories
And learn of those good and happy times of a long ago.
Pass me not, for I am the spirit of the youth
Who walked among the winds of joy
And contentment of a time now faded
Linger a while, if only for a moment,
And through these memories, I will know
That I am remembered and not forgotten.
(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 on
Dec. 14, 1927 in Marengo County and served as the administrator of the
Monroeville National Guard unit from 1964 to 1987. 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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