Living with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

(I ran version of this story in July 2016. I’ve updated and made a few changes to the piece.)

When I was young kid, I loved to watch my dad carve an old sea captain or a duck from a block of wood. Or maybe a hound dog or grizzly bear. He carved anything that caught his attention. He once carved a funny-looking version of his dentist. The guy had a white coat, a smile, and a pair of pliers holding up a big old tooth.

My dad would feel all sides to a piece of wood, usually basswood, before he ever made a cut with his small wood carving knife. I’ve written about his carving and whittling in the past. In many respects I became a writer because of him. I saw the joy that he got from carving. I couldn’t carve like him, but I found that I could create characters and scenes on the page.

I was too young to read Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic novella The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde but the story of the well-respected and intelligent Dr. Jekyll transforming into crazed and violent Mr. Hyde would have made sense to me. The characters would’ve felt real to me.

In many respects, I had my own Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in my home. I understood what it meant to walk on eggshells when I was near him. I had a front row seat to my father changing from patient and calm to an angry man.

Kind Dr. Jekyll or mean Mr. Hyde?

When he was angry or upset about something, anything could set him off. I often faced his anger over trivial matters. These included failing to retrieve a tool quickly enough or not holding the light steady when I had to help him work on a project in his workshop. Later, when I was old enough to drive, it included coming home with the “Check Engine” light lit up in my mom’s car.

My father came from a different time. He wanted more for his family, but he couldn’t always provide it. His own father died when he was young. He worked hard, but life often got in the way. When a car wouldn’t start or an unexpected bill came, he let loose with a flurry of verbal assaults. His comments were chaotic and haphazard. He didn’t mean to harm his sons. However, the rat-a-tat verbal spray caused irreparable damage. You’d walk away feeling like a failure.

A different side

While those memories are real, I also remember seeing my dad get down on his hands and knees to play with his grandkids. His knees would crack. He would be short of breath. Still, nothing was getting in the way of playtime with his pals.

I would watch the scene play out in front of me. I couldn’t help but shake my head. How was this the same man? How could I have childhood memories of him being a violent, foul-mouthed madman? And then with my kids he was a mild-mannered Mister Rogers?

My dad passed away twenty years ago. However, my two oldest kids still regale their younger brother with stories. They talk about how much fun they had playing with him. They also recall how he could always be found with a piece of candy or a coin for them.

Please let me be clear: not all my childhood memories of my father were from some kind of strange horror show. I have some great memories. Still, every once in a while the harsher ones like to crash the party. I’ll drive by a father and son working in their yard. I’ll tense up. My mind will instinctively recall working with my dad. I’ll remember his temper and being called some horrible name that no eight-year-old should ever be called.

I don’t mean for the memory to interrupt the present. I’m a grown man. I’m not that little kid anymore. Our brains, though, have a mind of their own. The bad memories are like a nightmare that rises up and comes out of nowhere. It’s like a high school football team ripping through a large paper banner at the start of the game. In this example, though, the team is not wanted. There’s no cheering crowd, no hub bub. Just me, saying “Yea, yea, go away bad memory!”

The power of forgiveness

Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about these two versions of my dad. I’ve put in the work. I’ve prayed about it. I’ve talked with others and written about my dad. I forgave him for his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality. When I became a father, I discovered that I understood him better. He never learned where to go with the pain. If nothing else, I learned that we all have choices. I have them. You have them. We can hurt the ones closest to us or we can work through our hurts.

Instead, I choose to remember the good times. I recall the values he passed along to me, like honesty and hard work. I thank God that he wasn’t a drinker, which would’ve made the situation ten times worse. I remember too the pride he took in my high school and college graduations and, most important, my marriage and three kids.

Finally, I’ve tried to focus on controlling the things I can control and ending the cycle of hurt. This includes working to be a good husband and father. For the most part, I’ve been successful, but I certainly have my days. My hope is that my own children enjoyed Robert Louis Stevenson’s book for what it was: a classic literary tale and not something they ever had to witness in their own home.

Here’s to peace and calmness.

Related Stories:

• How I carved out my own place in the world
• Breakfast with dad and Crocodile Rock
• See ya soon, Dad!
• Five minutes with dad

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