I remember when math was easy. I remember being the new kid in second grade and getting to the final round of a class multiplication challenge. I remember being able to do long sums in my head, knowing those multiplication tables cold. I remember the pride I took in being good at math.

And then I remember when math suddenly wasn’t easy anymore or fun.

It started in fourth and fifth grade with a teacher I had both years who didn’t know what she was doing, my grades slipping all the while. It continued in sixth grade with a teacher who didn’t even try, simply giving our class so-called math contracts and having us essentially teach ourselves. By high school, I needed a tutor.

Getting math help wound up being a godsend. It definitely helped me pass precalculus my junior year, calculus my senior year. Some people need a reading tutor, others require indepth help in the sciences. For me, after several years of lackluster math instruction, I needed a kind person or two to sit down with me and make math fun again.

There was the 20-something dude whose name I don’t remember who would sit at my kitchen table and patiently help me finish my homework. Then there was “Dave the Math Tutor,” the aging hippie and unabashed pagan who would bookend our sessions at his apartment by blasting Billy Joel and stories about having four girlfriends.

Dave was cool as anything and helped me survive the perils of high school calculus. And as an added bonus, math was fun again.