Personal memoir excerpt with no actionable allegations

4.2.12 WC: 191694 that word, at least to my family) Uncle Hedgie, who you always knew exactly what he was thinking. When I began teaching at age 25, some of my more "proper" students objected to my constant interruptions, until I persuaded them that being interrupted was a compliment, signifying that their point had been made and understood. ("We get it.") Some televisions viewers have also written to me about my penchant for interrupting opposing "talking heads." It's simply a matter of style, not rudeness, though some mistake the former for the latter. Another blessing of my early religious training relates to memory and my use of it in my professional life. My mother was blessed (cursed?) with a near perfect memory. (Probably more nature than nurture.) She could recall virtually everything from her youth. When she was in her 80s, she would spot someone on the train and go over to her and ask her “Aren’t you Mildred Cohen and weren’t you in my sixth grade class?” She was invariably right. She remembered, word for word, what she had been taught in the third or fourth grade. She remembered every melody she had ever learned, even though she never went to concerts and didn’t listen to recordings as an adult. She could recite from memory long poems she learned in elementary school. Most surprising of all, she had committed to memory an entire Latin mass, which a Catholic elementary schoolteacher, in an effort to Americanize the children of immigrants, had made her learn by heart. She had no idea what it meant, but it was one of her favorite parlor tricks to repeat its Latin words, accompanied by the church melody she had learned. She never forgot anything she had heard, read or smelled. Growing up with a mother who never forgot was a curse for me, because I did a good many things I wish she could forget. Although I always knew I had a good memory, I discovered that I had inherited my mother’s extraordinary gift while participating in intercollegiate debates. The debate tournaments always took place on Saturday. I pleaded with my parents to let me go, promising that I would travel before the Sabbath and after the Sabbath, and that I would say my prayers wherever I happened to be. My parents agreed on the condition that I not write during the Sabbath. (“Meturnished”) My mother told me it wasn’t necessary to write because I could remember things that others had to write down. (“Our family has good memories.”) I was doubtful but it proved to be true. I became a champion debater and my teammates marveled at the fact that I didn’t bring a pencil or pad but could recite word for word what my opponent had said before responding to it. I then realized what a blessing this memory was. I went through the rest of college and law school without ever taking a note. This enabled me to listen very carefully to what was being taught and to have a far better understanding of it than the student “stenographers” who were busy taking down every word the teacher said, as if putting it in writing was a substitute for understanding it. To this day, I rarely take notes, even in court, though my memory for new information is not nearly as good as it used to be. Recently, after watching the film "Invictus," my wife asked me if I had any idea who wrote the poem by that name. She thought it must be a well known poet, such as Byron or Shelly. Without thinking, I blurted out "Henley." She replied "who the hell is Henley?" I said, "I don't have the slightest idea, but I think Invictus was written by some English poet named "Henley." She checked Google and sure enough the poem was written by a relatively obscure Victorian poet named William Ernst Henley (1849-1903), who wrote little else of note. His name popped into 33 HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_017120