Flashback Friday: My big redneck attempted killin'

It was the summer of 1985, and I was living with my momma and daddy in the "big house," which is what I've always called the home my family moved into when I was 11. Typical of Alabama in the midst of summer, the air was sticky from the humidity and sweet with the smell of honeysuckle.

Our home was the location of many impromptu gatherings and one such gathering of family and friends had sprung up on this night. I don't recall many of the more minute details, but things like food, drink and laughter are at the top of my memories.

My favorite cousin, who I'll call Honey to protect her anonymity, was there, but the specifics of what we'd gotten up to that night escape me. I do know that as dusk turned to dark and tee-totaling grandparents headed home, the liquor cabinet was flung open and a full-blown party erupted downstairs.

The grown-ups were having a raucous time imbibing in their favorite adult beverages while Honey and I hid out in my room. However, a knock at the door silenced the revelry for a moment after which all hell broke loose.

You see, my aunt's husband, or he might have been her ex-husband at this point, had decided after getting tanked on Crown Royal mixed with a splash of Mello Yello (and by calling it a splash I am sure I am being generous) that it was of utmost importance that he, despite being three sheets to the wind, must drive to my house to kill my aunt.

However, in order to kill her he knew, even in his state of being sloppy drunk, that he needed to get close to her. Therefore, after knocking on the door, which is what quieted the party and caused Honey and I to crack the door to my room so as to better be able to eavesdrop on the situation downstairs, he somehow convinced my aunt, who is also Honey's momma, to come outside to talk to him.

Their talk was apparently short and to the point because the next thing I remember is my aunt hollering, "He's got a knife," which caused us to run to my bedroom window that overlooked the driveway and afforded Honey and I a birds-eye view of the chaos unfolding before our eyes.

I've never forgotten watching my aunt run around and between the cars parked in the driveway trying to get away from him or hearing my momma and other members of the family plead with him to stop and scream at him to leave.

My daddy, a trained soldier with more than 20 years service to the U.S. Army under his belt, didn't stay in the driveway, but, rather calmly as I recall, came upstairs, got one of his rifles, loaded it and took it outside where he confronted my aunt's attacker.

Staring down the barrel of a rifle proved to be the catalyst for the knife-wielding assailant to drop his weapon as directed by my daddy, who no doubt would have opened a major can of whup ass had the man on the other end of that barrel not complied. Since he was no fool, daddy kept that gun focused on him until the sheriff's deputies arrived.

This scene unfolded in a matter of minutes, but for me, and for Honey, it was as if it lasted forever and took place completely in slow motion. We watched everything while crouching below my bedroom window, and I swear, I could feel the fear radiating between us. In fact, Honey was so scared she was witnessing her momma's last moments on this earth that, bless her heart, she peed in my floor.

After the deputies hauled the drunkard to jail and everyone came back in the house to catch their breath and reflect upon what had just happened, my momma discovered just how close she'd come to getting cut. My aunt, her baby sister, had taken refuge behind my momma in an attempt to hide from her attacker. In his bid to kill my aunt, he slashed my momma's blouse with his knife ripping open the entire side.

Had she not been wearing such a loose-fitting top, I know my momma would have ended up with no-telling what kinds of wounds from trying to protect her sister.

While this is the only attempted murder I've ever witnessed (thank God), it prompted me, at the tender age of 11 & 1/2, to note for future reference that I should be very careful when selecting a man with whom I might be inclined to spend time or perhaps even marry.

A few years later when I began dating I, no joke, made sure to steer clear of any boys who I felt had maybe an unhealthy affection for knives. After all, witnessing what I did that sticky, sweet night in the mid-1980s clearly defined for me that there are two types of men in this world: those who will get drunk and try to kill you in a relative's driveway and those who will calmly put a rifle to the head of anyone who dares threaten his family.

I knew after that night that I was going to be on the lookout for the latter type of man. Thanks be to God I found exactly what I was looking for.