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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 “Watching the miracle of a summer
sunrise” was originally published in the July 21, 1994 edition of The Monroe
Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
The town was quiet Sunday morning as I eased my iron horse
onto Highway 41 and headed north. I could imagine most everyone in the Hub City
yet in bed, enjoying that last-minute nap, and I descended the hill to
Limestone Creek.
After being waterlogged for the past few days from the heavy
rains, I just had to get loose and visit some of my favorite spots that I had
been neglecting because of the weather.
As I sped up the road and glanced to the east, I could tell
that I was in for a treat if I hurried to that favorite hill yet some distance
away. The eastern sky was beginning to lighten, and for a change, there wasn’t
a cloud anywhere in sight. I had the road all to myself, so I applied the
spurs, and within a few minutes, I was dismounting atop my favorite hilltop.
Brushing off that special rock I usually sit on, I felt a
bit of sadness for those I had left behind, those who had chosen a last moment’s
nap instead of being an eyewitness to a miracle.
The eastern sky looked as though a giant brush had begun to
sweep away the deep reddish purple that covered the horizon. The piercing rays
of the rising sun streaked upward and across the eastern horizon as though a
gigantic volley of fireworks had just been ignited across the vast valley
before me.
Then, though the heavy mist that hung low over the huge
valley, a rising ball of deep reddish orange appeared ever so slowly as the
morning sun seemed to rise from its place of hiding. The mist across the large
valley before me seemed to be pushed aside, as though a giant unseen hand
prepared the way for the rising red ball of fire that appeared from nowhere on
the eastern horizon.
Again, for a moment, I thought of those who yet lay in the
sack, missing the miracle of this morning’s sunrise, I thought of the many
thousands of dollars that had been spent and the many miles traveled by those
seeking to witness various happenings that would never compare to the miracle
that was before me. And to view all that was before me had cost me nothing.
The huge ball of orange reddish fire now sat on the edge of
the eastern horizon as though it had been placed there with great care. The
misty haze had all but disappeared from the deep valley before me, stepping
aside to make way for the coming attraction. Now, a space of light could be seen
at the bottom of the flaming orange ball and the eastern horizon.
All across the huge valley, the plush green timber seemed to
reach for the heavens, seeking a touch from the fingers of that life-giving
light that danced through the atmosphere. While across the huge valley below
me, the whole world seemed to come alive with the sounds of the morning.
Across the bottoms, birds of all types took to the air, as
though a signal had been given that the hour of dawn was at hand. The trees that
grew on the bluff below me came alive with squirrels, as if they, too, had
heard the call of the morning awakening. Off to my left, a fox barked as it
heard the dawn breaking.
Realizing that I had left my place on the rock and was now
standing, I watched in awe at the change across the valley before me. Those who
had stayed in bed for those last minutes of sleep had missed a spectacle almost
too wondrous to describe. The passage of time played no part whatsoever in the magnificent
event that I had just witnessed. Time had seemed to stand still there on the
hilltop where I was standing.
The feeling of just how small man is when compared to the
vastness of our universe seemed to settle around my shoulders. I was reminded again
that man does not and cannot control the happenings of our universe. We are
here only because we are allowed to be here.
The bright morning sun had now pushed the remaining shadows
from the high hill. The morning activities had by now gotten into full swing in
the huge valley and the high hills that bordered it. The fresh air further
lifted my spirits as the events that I had just witnessed raced again through
my mind. A feeling of sorrow again came over me for those who had missed that which
I had just been allowed to be a part of.
As I made my way out to the paved road, the quietness of the
morning seemed to draw me ever so
strongly toward the distant hills to the north. I yet had time to take just a
short ride up through the hills before returning home to begin the morning. A
few minutes more wouldn’t make any difference; the fresh morning air beckoned
me onward. Just a few miles more, then I would turn around and make my way
south to my driveway from where I had started.
The plush green beauty of the countryside was almost
breathtaking. As the winding road seemed to weave its way through what looked
like tunnels of the standing timber, I knew that I had made the right decision
to come this way on this most beautiful morning. I had been a part of a morning
worship in which not many get to participate. I had witnessed God’s handiwork
at its greatest.
As I sped along admiring the beauty around me, I must have
lost track of time. Glancing at the speedometer of my motorcycle, I realized I
had ridden over 56 miles since leaving my driveway this morning before sunrise.
Oh well, I can always blame my wanderings on that mean old vagabond blood that
flows through my veins. But then again, that vagabond blood has its good points
too – wouldn’t trade it for anything.
(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, 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 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. Some of his earlier columns also
appeared under the heading of “Monroe County History: Did You Know?” 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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