In the 1950s, all adults were supposed to be married, and all married people were supposed to have kids. Minimum of two, but as many as possible.

This, of course, totally ignores the fact that not all adult humans are designed to be parents.

My dad, for instance, was a wonderful and interesting person. He got a degree at Heidelberg University while in the army of occupation because he was the first Ozarks boy who read about the Merovingians and the Carolingians. He told his history professor how it all sounded to him, as a hillbilly. His history professor told him to write it down and they'd give him a doctorate. He did, and they did.

But my dad was not really a historian, and he also wasn't interested in banking, which is what the army had him doing. He ended up working as an engineer on the thermonuclear bomb. But that wasn't his real vocation, either. When he met my mom, he was working as a broadcast engineer at the local TV and radio stations. That suited his personality, and he was very good at it. He created and ran a TV studio for a University. He ended up specializing in remote education, which, at that time, involved sending video tapes to the remote students. I think he would be pleased at how much easier remote education is for modern students.

When I was about 12, my dad got religion. He became a minister in a church that doesn't pay its ministers. I've watched him helping the poor, the sick, the lonely. As a volunteer.

So, my dad was a wonderful, loving, kind human.

That doesn't mean he was a great dad... just an admirable one.

My earliest memory of my dad, I would have been about 3 or 4 years old, I was in the front yard, and my dad was trying to teach me to play ball. He threw the ball to me; of course, I didn't catch it. I threw it back; I think it landed somewhere in the same state, but I'm not totally sure. My dad tried it again; and I was as incompetent as previously. And he threw the ball to me again, and, as I was running after it (again) he said, "You're too stupid for this." He turned and went inside.

I probably cried.

I still can't throw a ball to save my life.

In a later memory, I'm probably about 5 or 6, my dad was trying to teach me a card game: Crazy Eights. I was a novice player (and a little kid); he was a card shark (and an adult). Naturally he beat me every time. He hooted and pointed and told me I was too stupid to play card games.

I still hate card games.

When I was an adult, an elderly woman asked me, "But didn't he let you win? Just to teach you how much fun playing cards could be?"

I told her, "Of course not. That would weaken the breed." He must have told me that at some point - it seemed the obvious answer, and not one I would have come up with on my own.

When I was 8, all the kids in the neighborhood got bicycles for the December gift-giving holidays. It was one of the few times I remember it was advantageous to be Jewish: Hanukah came two weeks before Christmas that year. (With a Jewish mom and a Christian dad, we could go either way, whichever worked with dad's schedule.)

I remember all the (Jewish) kids were out with their dads on the flat, not-too-busy street at the end of our block. (Our block was on about a 30 degree incline, not good for novice riders.) All the other kids had training wheels on their bikes. Dad had removed mine ("If you learn with training wheels you'll never learn how to ride a bike properly!" And the breed would be weakened...)

So, he got me on the bike and shoved me off on my maiden voyage. Needless to say, in about 12 feet I crashed and burned. Dad got me up and on the machine again, and, no, I wasn't a natural with bike-riding either. After the third crash, dad picked up the bike, told me I was too stupid to ride a bike, and wheeled it off up the hill to our garage.

I absolutely sat in the gutter and cried.

My mom was blind. She was not going to be able to teach me to ride a bike. And, in the early 60s, that skill apparently was something DADS did anyway. She called our neighbor, Ed.

Ed was divorced and NEVER got to see his own kids (another feature of early 1960s life - women always got custody and dads never saw the kids again.) He told my mom he would be DELIGHTED to teach me to ride a bike.

I looked up from the gutter to see (through tears) my bike in (what I then and forevermore called) my Uncle Ed's hands.

"I hear you're having trouble learning to ride a bike," he said. "I can see why - you should have some training wheels!"

I wasn't going to tell him my dad had taken them off, but I was glad he could see I was at a disadvantage versus the other kids.

Needless to say, I was soon swooping up and down the street (with the occasional spill) with all the rest of the kids.

So, there, dad! Not so stupid after all! And thank you forever, Uncle Ed!

When I was 15, my folks bought me a car. This sounds privileged, but, remember, blind mom, workaholic church-aholic never-home dad. I was supposed to drive my mom to her work and on her errands and save on all that cab fare.

Oh, did I mention that it was a standard? I'd learned to drive an automatic at school, but this was a whole new skill.

A skill, unfortunately, my dad would have to teach me.

You can visualize this episode already: me and dad in the car in an empty parking lot; three tries to start the car, three stalls; dad dragged me out of the driver's seat and told me I was too stupid to drive a car and drove us both home.

But, I wasn't 8 anymore. I didn't sit crying in the gutter. When we got home, I told mom I needed someone to teach me how to drive a standard. Luckily my piano teacher met the qualifications and was willing to help.

I still drive a standard. It prevents the neighbor kids from stealing my car.

Of course, it didn't stop in high school. When I enrolled in college, I declared as a statistics major (possibly the only person on Earth ever to do so at enrollment.) My school, however had a huge IMPORTANT electrical engineering college, so I asked dad if he was disappointed that I wasn't majoring in engineering.

"No, you're too stupid to be an engineer."

And, yes, he was dead serious.

And I was an SAT finalist (there were only 4 of us in our town that year.) And I was majoring in... STATISTICS... for godsakes - not exactly considered an "easy" subject.

I was 18. I ignored it.

At least I thought I did...

When I was in my 50s I started work at a for-profit university. As a PhD statistician (with a minor in science) I was teaching math courses and the introductory science course. Then they asked me to teach (finally!!!) Physics. The cadillac science course at our school. Except Physics had a unit in it: Electromagnetism.

>gulp<

As the weeks progressed, I saw Electromagnetism looming. I was panicked. "I can't teach Electromagnetism! I'm too stupid to teach Electromagnetism!!" Many of my students were majoring in Electrical Engineering - they would spot me for a fake for sure.

When the week finally hit, I was laser-focused on the materials in the book. I checked the accuracy of my lecture notes and my handouts over and over. I tested all of the experiments to ensure they would work flawlessly.

It turned out I really DID understand how magnets work, how electricity works; the students loved all of the experiments. No one detected that I was faking electromagnetic expertise.

I got home at 11pm. I immediately called my dad (who goes to bed at 10:30) to tell him: "I taught Electromagnetism tonight! To Electrical Engineering majors! They loved it!"

I think he probably (sleepily) said, "Hmph," or something encouraging like that.

No, I still don't play cards... I still can't throw a ball...

But I can teach electromagnetism...

And, no, I don't think I'm stupid...