When the lights came on in my mind—he was still pacing the floor, yelling. I thought —be still wait for the down swing of the pace—run Viv! I darted out of the living room and up the stairs, rushing to my room. (Why I didn’t go out the door—well I assume I didn’t have enough distance between him and I to get out) the door made it shut and locked but he was right behind me—pounding. And this time he meant to get through it. The only escape was out the window. I put the window up as the pounding continues—PROBLEM— my window is three stories above a concrete pad off of the basement back door. BIG PROBLEM! The kitchen alcove stuck out off of the back of the house—but it was three feet from the window to the edge of the alcove. Like Angelina Jolie or some shit, I went for it. And how—I don’t know—but I made it! None too soon, as the door gave way to his anger. He was still raged, reaching for me in anger. But there I sat. Out of his reach. There I stayed for two hours until my mom and the other two kids came home.

Mom helped me in, temporarily in disbelief. Probably shock. My face black and blue from the punch in the living room.

FEAR can promote otherwise inconceivable feats.

This night I planned a night out with a girl I was a friend with—you know—not really close or anything. I had long hair—curled It before going to school or out for the evening. Be damned in a house that had two girls with long hair and a mother that was a beaautician —could I find a hair brush! NOPE!! Not to save my soul or me either. Down to the basement where mother’s beautician stuff was, up the stairs to all the baths and bedrooms. NOPE! Then the guy with the manhattans barks “what are you looking for?” Viv—um a hairbrush, but um—don’t worry about it. Dad—gets up and downstairs he goes. Viv—duck in the bathroom. Shhh. Shake your hair out and go—-hey dad never mind. I’ve got to leave. Viv— hand on the door. Dad—bolts the stairs grabs Viv by the hair and throws her into the living room.. Viv-lands on the couch. Dad— blistering venom, spitting,cussing, raging, whaling his arms—-PACING THE LENGTH OF THE LIVINGROOM. Dad—only one sentence makes sense as it comes from his mouth, “I don’t know what the fuck your problem is!” Viv—without trepidation “You are”

BAM!!! Viv—lights out!

My junior year was a bumfuzel. Every day dad was on a bender. There were three of us kids, but mom and dad forgot what birth control meant and there was soon to be a fourth.🤦‍♀️ Cracking out an awesome 17 1/2 years between me the oldest and baby four.

Geez, probably every other week dad and I would get into it over nothing. (Remind me to clarify—nothing —later). Blind rage is a violent monster that knows no bounds. And what is as bad is that the delivery guy doesn’t remember a damn thing—hence BLIND!

From the far side of the family room he would sit with his glass contained, always drained- manhattans. Until the unintentional spark that would ignite him into a charging bull. Run Viv-Run Viv! Up the stairs, slam my door with rage right behind. Out the door, up the hill to the Black’s house—run vivienne! The viper stopped at the door—he seldom came outside with his wrath. Excuse me while I breath a minute and have a smoke—this is tough stuff.

Sometimes I was fast enough to make it to my room and slam the door and lock it. I became proficient at a one motion slam and lock! He would pound and beat the door till the windows shook. Other times I wouldn’t be fast enough and he would make it into the room, chase me across the bed and down the stairs I would go—out the door. In my mind I knew the bed couldn’t be too close to the wall—think ahead. Run Viv run.

Let’s think about the Blacks—how often should a young woman show up at your door because of a violent father?

45 years we’ve been in Kentucky. My high school years were the bomb—not. They were awesome—awesomely difficult. You see my parents took me from the corner stone of a major city where people were like dippin dots—no single one stood out, no one more important than the other and actually that was about the most normal things were ever going to be. Grade school was a block away and I walked to and from school and even came home for lunch (the dawning of the age of spaghetti O’s). After school I checked in at home and checked right back out. This was still the time when kids could for the most part, just be kids. Run the blocks on foot or by bike until 6:00 sharp for dinner,then back to the sidewalks, friends houses and the school playground.

1974 flipped the biscuit. Mom and dad dropped me smack dab into Appalachia. You see the great people of Appalachia are a culture all there own. A culture that I would one day, along time in the future come to love—but at the time my dippin dots just got turned into puddin pie. As a dear friend Zeke pointed out to me—probably by the time I was 8 or 9 I had figured out that I had surpassed mom and dad, needing them very little.

Sooooo—I needed a plan—I mean come on this can’t be that complicated—right? Wrong! Oh hell—it was going to be bad! Well anyway we’ll get to that. Freshman year is when I met Zeke. We dated for two years. Figuring out teenage concepts (you know) and fine tuning our developing minds (which means Carlos Castaneda style) and all of that sorta thing. But darling ones —-this would be a couple of building blocks to add to my foundation. My seemingly cracked foundation.

The majority of the kids at that school thought they were big shit because of a local company that most of their parents worked at. Basically you were or you were not. Being “not” I struggled with the entire concept because I really didn’t give a snot one way or another. Failing to be a tag along, I continued on my own path, with my own plan. Simple—I was going to get through this four years and motor on out the road back to Illinois and my wonderful grandmother.

Zeke went one way at the end of our sophomore more year and I went another. Dated around, floundered, babysat and cleaned houses. Trying my best to be anywhere but home. This was the peak of my fathers drinking problem. With Manhattans came anger.

Because I’m stuck somewhere between northern Illinois and Kentucky as far as my dialect, I will randomly add phrases or words from the different regions—so if things are missed spelled, twisted or j’ust plain not normal —just go with it—it’s intentional…my mother says in horror “vivienne that was really Kentucky sounding”. NEWS FLASH DARLIN—we are from KENTUCKY!

From here on to effectively write this the names of individuals will be changed to protect the guilty. But the stories are true—so come along—laugh with me, cry with me and shake your head—but end with a smile and look forward to the next post!

I’m originally from a small town some place in north central Illinois, then a suburb of Chicago, and very short pit stop in Ohio and finally I ended up in Kentucky—wait a minute —where? No seriously—where? Ok take a deep breath—-NO—what the fuck—how did this happen to ME? That was my mind set at 14!

This is about me, where I’ve been, things I’ve done, weird stuff I’ve been through,going through, laughter, sadness, serious hardship, struggles and ridiculously funny shit. But the point to this is, that regardless how high or low, bad or good—-I just want someone to know—I’VE HAD A REALLY GOOD TIME!

Yes—I did just start a Freakin blog—but admittedly I have NO idea what I’m doing! So this is going to be fun! If I get it wrong—my apologies—sorta, after all it is my blog to mess up. So let’s get on with it.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton