Do you know what the word vexillology means? Do you know what President Truman’s middle name was? I do, and as far as I can tell I have never derived an ounce of benefit from knowing these and other oddball facts. I can tell you the number of people on the Supreme Court as easily as I can tell you Avagodro’s number, but I would have to find an old tax return to tell you my own Social Security number.

It’s a virtually unstoppable habit. I can be with a friend at a restaurant and they might order a hamburger and a cola. I will involuntarily blab: “The hamburger, first sold in New Haven, Connecticut, in 1900, and cola originally contained cocaine and caffeine from the kola nut.” Yes, it can really be tedious having lunch with me.

I was recently reminded that I came by this quirky trait honestly. A news story earlier this year stated that Jeopardy is now prohibiting Canadians from participating in the prime-time trivia contest. It seems the program doesn’t want to comply with Canada’s strict new digital privacy laws. In my humble opinion, I think it’s because the only questions they haven’t asked yet concern curling (the Olympic sport, not the hair-thingys), maple syrup (Canada produces 80 percent of the world’s supply) or the definition of a “two-four” (it’s a 24-can case of beer, and you need it if you go curling). How this relates to me is that my dad was the first Canadian ever on Jeopardy.

Quiz shows got a black eye in the 1950s with organized cheating to boost ratings, but Merv Griffin took a chance and developed Jeopardy. However, it was his wife that suggested each contestant be given the answer first and then guess the question. The premiere was on March 30, 1964, and it was an instant hit with my pop. He would come home for lunch, find the program amongst the three TV stations and begin questioning answers. “Who was Charlemagne? What is cadmium? When was July 1, 1867?” He did all this and still beat me at Barrel of Monkeys.

Without much ado, he announced to the family that he was going to drive the 600 or so miles to New York City and get on Jeopardy. He then delved into his wall-sized bookshelf, which contained hundreds of tomes. For me, they made excellent building materials for my little green army men forts, but apparently they had another use. The majority of them were history books (his love of the subject was also passed down to me). These were the days before Google democratized access to knowledge, so having handy reference books at home was a must for the trivia buff.

And so it was on Dec. 16, 1964, that the host, Art Fleming, announced to the audience that my dad was the show’s first player from the Great White North. I sat in front of the television in my cowboy pajamas ready to offer any vicarious help. If a question involved Legos or sock monkeys or a math problem that didn’t go over 10, I was his lifeline. And if it was a nursery rhyme, bet the farm!

After four days, even without my help, Dad had $2,600 in his pocket (50 grand on today’s board). When it came to Final Jeopardy on the fifth day, the answer must have been a doozy as no one got the correct question. Unfortunately for Dad, he bet all his money, and unfortunately for me, I inherited all his financial savvy.

He came home a conquering hero to our tiny burg of Blenheim, Ontario. To quote one ardent fan: “You knocked the spats off those New Yorkers.”

The ensuing newspaper picture has become something of a legend in our family. It is perhaps not the first, but surely one of the best, awkward family photos. The centerpiece of the snapshot is Dad wearing a dark jacket and thin tie. He looks sternly into the distance not unlike a heroic statue of Lenin. Then there’s my brother trying and failing to look cool. He strikes a pose less like James Dean and more like Jimmie Dean, the sausage guy. I am wearing a new white sweater that will probably be garnished with bubble gum or Crayola streaks before the day is out. I am sitting on Mom’s lap, and she looks at me as if I’ve stewed my pants. I don’t remember doing so, but I can’t rule it out either. And, alas, my poor sister. She stands out from the crowd because she’s the only one that looks normal.

If the answer is, “Yeah, eh, no two-four or syrup for you guys on curling night,” the question must be: “What every Canadian wants to say to the producers of Jeopardy?”

— Printed by permission of Chris Austin. Chris is an award-winning humor columnist and The Beachcomber’s circulation manager.