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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 “Yearning for the time of old
cotton-pickin’ days” was originally published in the Aug. 29, 1991 edition of
The Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
When I write and talk about my early life as a country boy
and being raised in the country, I mean no disrespect to the youth of today. I
am one of those people who know many changes have taken place and many things
have ceased to exist. It is not the fault of our youth if they don’t know from
firsthand experience the feeling of crawling up and down a long cotton row
while dragging an eight-foot cotton sack on a hot sulky afternoon.
We drive our fine, air-conditioned automobiles down our
paved highways, look out across the snow-white cotton fields, and think nothing
about seeing a mechanical machine (cotton picker) picking the white, fluffy
cotton, gathering up to three or four rows with each trip across the field.
And, sitting up there in an air-conditioned enclosed cab, the operator listens
to the finest stereo music. But take it from me, it hasn’t been like that
always.
During cotton-picking time, the day started around 5:30 in
the morning. I can see then now – hired cotton pickers slowly making their way
over to the wagon, to be carried out to the cotton fields that are snow-white
with the opened cotton. The only difference between myself and the hired
pickers was that they got paid for what they picked. Money was never mentioned
to my brothers and myself; the work was part of living.
Once everyone was seated on the wagon (those who wanted to
ride), the large mules slowly headed out toward the field. The mules seemed to
know, also, that the day was going to be long and hard. Singing would usually
start from within the group on the wagon. Those who walked along behind would
join in, or answer to the lyrics being sung. One could always find me huddled
up in the wagon bed, trying to figure out some way that I could get sick; I
hated picking cotton with a passion.
When the cotton field was reached, the wagon was placed
where the picked cotton could be brought to it and weighed. The weight would be
written down on a piece of paper under the name of the picker. At the end of
the day, these figures would be tallied up and pickers would be paid according
to what they had brought to the wagon.
I can see them now, strung out across the white fields, with
the long cotton sacks dragging behind them. There were some who carried two
long sacks – one on each side. These people would also pick two rows of the
white cotton at the same time. And behind them all, a struggling and sweating
boy of 12 was doing his very best to try and keep up with the other pickers.
The wagon would leave the field around 10:30 a.m. It would
carry the picked cotton to a special room in the barn. Then, after unloading,
the wagon would bring the dinner that had been prepared by my mother and my
sisters back to the field. Near the edge of the huge cotton field was a cool
stream of water, surrounded by several large oak trees. Here, under the cool
shade of the large oaks, dinner would be spread. This was the only good time
that I knew of that was associated with a day of picking cotton.
The noon hour over, everyone returned to his place and
started once again to gather the large, white bolls of cotton, while this same
boy of 12 was trying to figure out what he had eaten at the dinner meal that,
he hoped, would cause a good stomach ache. But it seemed that this never
happened; always, always, the thought came to mind that even if he were
successful, a terrible dose of castor oil would be waiting upon his arrival
back home. So the only thing left to do was to look to the sky and hope against
hope that it would rain. That, too, was very rare.
Most times after the noon meal, the cotton field would break
into song. Many of the old tunes sung by those picking the cotton have long
passed into oblivion. I won’t say that I didn’t enjoy the singing; many times I
would find myself trying to sing along with the others, almost forgetting where
I was and what I was doing. And today, as I look back into yesteryear, the old
tunes spring forth; every word in detail, as if it had just happened yesterday.
The journey home at the day’s end was a most welcomed time.
The thoughts of being around the supper table caused a hungry boy to forget
about the long cotton rows that seemed to have no end. Snuggling up in the
cotton as the mules and the wagon headed homeward was a much-looked-for time.
But it did not end at the supper table. The highlight of the
week was to be allowed to spend Saturday night in the room in the barn where
the cotton was stored, awaiting the trip to the cotton gin and the market.
Nestled down in the fresh-picked cotton, my friend and I would swap many tales
and stories before the Sandman made his call.
The warmth of the fresh cotton on a cool autumn night and
the security of your pet dog asleep at your foot exceeded all the comforts that
a country boy could hope for. And the snacks of popcorn balls and various other
goodies, prepared by a most wonderful mother who seemed to understand all the
needs of her baby son, left nothing to be desired.
Just last week, I returned to the old cotton field with the
long rows. Nothing is there now except the tall timber that has replaced the
cotton. As I reminisced there under the tall oaks, I thought it hadn’t been
that bad. I almost wished that I were picking cotton again. Remember, I said “almost.”
(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, graduated from Sweet Water High School, served in
the Korean War, moved to Monroe County in 1961 and served as the administrator
of the Monroeville National Guard unit from 1964 to 1987. For years,
Singleton’s column “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. 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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