For any given memory, Lisa Hickey will always choose to remember the good.
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It was the same confused memory I always had. We were all there, at the kitchen table, my Dad, my Mom, my two younger sisters. We had just eaten dinner, and cleaned up. And for some reason – maybe one of us kids had a part in a school musical, but more likely because it was Friday night and we were together and happy – we started singing “Alexander’s Ragtime Band”. In five-part harmony—hah! If only we could sing! And there we all were, tapping spoons and forks on the table’s edge to get the beat. Laughing. My father could belt out the low notes and smooth together the sound of those of us who were completely off key. And we sang, “…And if you want to hear that Swanee River, played in Ragtime…C’mon and hear, C’mon and hear, Alexander’s Ragtime Band.” It sounded so…funny, so happy, so silly.
And then – inexplicably, the rage. I’ve gone back over and over in my mind to try and figure out what was the moment when things changed. How did we go from a family that sitcoms were made out of to a yelling, shrieking monstrosity? Who said what? Why was a plate being thrown against the floor and broken — again? To this day, I can’t imagine what could have possibly been said – in the middle of a family sing-along – that – that could have possibly gotten someone so mad. I do remember the disappointment – I had been fooled for a moment into thinking we could be a happy, normal family. I remember thinking, while we were singing, how perfect it all was. And then, after…how stupid I must have been for thinking so. But mostly, I remember the confusion. How did I not realize the rage was coming?
Yet when I think back on that moment, I can’t help but break into song.
***
It was as if I had two fathers. In fact – the story goes — when I was first born, and my parents moved into the small brick house in Douglaston, Queens, my dad even had the neighbors confused. My father would go off to work, full head of hair (thanks to the toupee on his head), walking tall with the lifts in his shoes, styling eyeglasses, a perfect suit. Later in the evening, a short bald guy would appear to take the trash out, sweatshirt, baggy pants. The neighbors apparently suspected my mom of living with two guys. Oh, the scandal!
And so, in thinking back over my childhood, I could choose to remember the memories of my parents that scarred me. The times where they were clearly abusive. And there are times when I must remember those times, so I can consciously act in a way that is different. But, for today, I choose not to remember the bad times.
It’s Father’s Day. And I choose to remember the father that I loved.
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I remember the scrambled eggs. How my father always got up ahead of everyone to cook us breakfast. He sang as he cooked – and he’d take the frying pan, and do a little dance as he scrambled. He was funny…really funny, so his dances were intentionally comical but surprisingly graceful. There was nothing quite like being 5 years old, or 8 years old, or 12 years old, and have a singing, dancing, joking, scrambled-egg cooking father to serve you a hot breakfast every day before school started. It was only recently that I was talking to my Aunt – my mother’s sister – and she said, “Your father made the best scrambled eggs! And he taught us how to make them – we were never the same after that!” I was startled. Was that a twinge of jealousy I felt! But then, I laughed. How did I not realize that I wasn’t the only one with a shared scrambled egg experience with my father. How could that be! My aunt went on to explain (“Of course you probably knew this Lisa”, but I hadn’t) that my father had been a short-order cook in the Merchant Marines. When you have a war-ship full of sailors to feed, you learn to cook a mean egg.
I remember the trips to Jones Beach each summer – long rides filled with traffic on the way out across Long Island, and filled with traffic and sand on the ride home. There was nothing I’d like better than riding the waves. My sisters and I would beg our parents to let us stay in the water, even when our lips had turned blue from the cold and salt streaked our hair as we’d been tossed around in the waves for hours. My dad was there, waist-deep, watching over us, never once making us come out of the ocean before we were satiated. In fact — our family vacations, everywhere — beaches and lakes and caves and mountains and and islands and state parks all over — were some of the best memories I have.
There was the time my cat, Mercury, escaped outside. As we were looking for him, three wild dogs took off like a shot across our lawn. A blur of black fur that could only be a cat scared out his wits bolted by. “Get him Daddy!” The quartet of animals headed straight towards the river. Mercury, despite being declawed, lept up to a bough and hung on for dear life over the roiling water as the dogs surrounded him. I have never seen eyes so wild – not on a cat, not on a human – as Mercury’s that day. My father calmly walked right past the dogs into the water, where a grateful Mercury dropped into his arms. There’s nothing like a dramatic pet rescue to turn a dad into a hero.
I remember my dad taking me on the college tours. He recognized — long before I even did — that what would make me happiest was a career where I could combine math and art. Math and art! Who knew — that is exactly what I am doing as I run The Good Men Project as a business and media company. We take stories and we make them art. We look at the numbers to make it work as a business. And he was right – I couldn’t be happier. Thanks, dad!
***
If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years at The Good Men Project, it’s that there’s no simple answer to good, nor to bad. Most people try to do the best they can, given their circumstances and the course of their life. I can choose to relive the bad memories, or I can choose to relive the good.
Today I choose good.
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