When I was a boy, before I could read, I used to climb atop my father's heavy, old, dark wood office desk in the chemistry laboratory and play with the molecule models.  How fascinated I was with the tinker toy-like set!  The little wooden balls symbolizing atoms were of different colors and contained varying numbers of holes, depending upon their valences.  Carbon was black with four holes.  There were red, yellow, and orange ones.  I stuck wood and wire pegs into them with glee, making imaginary animals and vehicles until, eventually tiring, I'd slip off the desk to explore the nearby stockroom.  I delighted in the many strange bottles, some clear, some dark brown, of different size and shape, and various colored powders and crystals.  The lab also provided a unique olfactory experience with its odors - some sour, even acrid, some sweet, some fruity, all new.

 My father was a full-time chemistry professor and a part-time magician.  He loved to regale audiences, particularly the young, by turning "water" into "wine" (then back again into "water;"  ours was a community of teetotalers), making "water" into "milk" or "orange juice," producing liquid light, and the like.  I often watched him, wide-eyed, as he mixed chemicals together to prepare solutions for his demonstrations.  His repertoire included other nonchemical tricks, such as making a coin or rabbit disappear and reappear elsewhere, naming an unseen card from a deck, and memory feats from a telephone book.  He also did wonderful things with string, tying intricate knots and cutting segments without seemingly altering the original length.  He seldom performed for money, and then usually only to cover travel expenses.  His reward was in seeing the wonderment and joy in children's eyes as they watched the show.

 Besides coins, he could make other things disappear.  Like words and numbers and formulas. Especially formulas.  Blackboard space in the classroom was limited, so he would stand with his back to the class, chalk in right hand and eraser in left.  Holding both arms aloft, as if conducting a choir or orchestra, hands moving in concert, he would immediately erase with his left hand what his right had just written.  Woe be to the unfortunate student who could not take notes without watching his paper rather than the board.  I had heard of my father's reputation as the fastest eraser in the East, but didn't really believe it until I took a chemistry course from him, after which I silently vowed to take shorthand next chance I got.  In those days almost anyone taking a chemistry course was exposed to his Blitzkrieg blackboard technique, as he ran the department almost single-handedly, teaching virtually all courses at one point.

 Once, during class session in a basement classroom, a janitor stumbled down the adjacent outside stairs with his mop and bucket.  As he fell, his four-letter epithet was clearly audible to all in the classroom.  A sudden hush - akin to what might be expected at entry into a magnificent Gothic cathedral - came over the room.  This was a parochial, strait-laced school, at which profanity was discouraged.  My father paused a moment mid-sentence, then grinned.  The room exploded with laughter.

 Despite his famous blackboard method, my father was perennially considered a favorite teacher for his genuine interest in students and their welfare.  He was invariably open for questions and could be interrupted at any time to help a student, even financially if necessary.  His fairness was, to my knowledge, never questioned.

 On an accelerated study program, I was particularly grateful for his conviction in the importance of education.  Many times he helped smooth a rough problem in any of several subjects while I was in high school.  Our family was large, with six children, and many things we went without.  Never, however, did we lack books or other learning aids.  He purchased The World Book Encyclopedia, almanacs and dictionaries to save us extra trips to the library.  On many a wintry night, he brought us sliced apples as we studied in the living room, an unnecessary but kindly gesture of support for our scholastic diligence.  Largely to his credit, all of his children achieved at least master degrees; several obtained doctorates.  Perhaps more important, they retained their love of learning and passed that on to their own offspring.

 Once in a while the tables were turned and my father played a trick on himself.
Like the time he mailed an unsigned cheque in payment of a bill.  The firm returned the cheque, asking him to please endorse it.  Embarrassed, he apologized profusely and mailed it back immediately, again unsigned.  The understanding company returned it with a classic note: "We have heard of absent-minded professors, but you, Dr. Chen, take the cake!"  My mother derived endless delight from telling this anecdote to various listeners.

 Another time was when he had a side mirror installed on the family car, which was inexplicably purchased without one.  When the service station attendant asked where the mirror should be placed, my father, rather than glancing out the window, put his head out, the better to guide the installer.  Thereafter, we had the only car in town that required the driver to stick his head outside in order to use the side mirror. 

 On occasion, he would drive the sole family car to work, no more than a half-mile from home, then walk home, ignoring the parked car in his preoccupation with more important matters.  Upon reaching home and discovering the car to be missing, he would send one of my brothers back to school to fetch it.

 He was able to laugh at himself for these and other similar incidents, but he didn't laugh at others.  He would not put down others needlessly, nor seek revenge if wronged.   He cited the Golden Rule, from Holy Writ and enunciated by Confucius and other seers, as a guide for his actions.

 His interests ranged widely, as did his talents.  Whether tending a half-acre garden (which not only constituted the main source of our provender but often yielded a harvest exceeding our needs, in which event neighbors were given the excess), installing a new ceiling, operating a photographic darkroom, or practicing origami, he applied himself with competence if not expertise, prompting a self-description as "jack of all trades, master of none."  This appellation never stuck, however, likely due to its inaccuracy.  My father was a first-rate chemist, authoring numerous articles and books as well as teaching a full schedule.

 The ultimate magic he wrought was in the way he related to his family.  What with writing and teaching, he was frequently occupied and preoccupied when his children wanted attention.  He usually interrupted what he was doing for us.  Many summers all eight of us piled out luggage and ourselves into the family sedan and journey to distant places, combining vacation with cultural enrichment.  The result was that, over the years, our family has shared an uncommon bond of closeness that neither time nor distance has broken.

 As the years pass and the family circle enlarges by marriage and birth, the magic of the gentle magician lives on.