Latin

For reasons that escape me still, my Mom insisted I take Latin in high school. A lot of it. One year would have sufficed; three years was simply torture. "It's the basis for our language" she would argue. "By parsing an obscure comment, you could show off your Latin and put that pompous person in his place!" 

Today's version of English would render such ancient and quaint knowledge merely suitable for getting beaten up.

So Latin I took. 3 years. Every one with Mr. Quinn. I mean, how many Latin teachers exist.

Mr. Quinn was a no nonsense guy.  We learned our conjugations: 40 years later I can recite verb endings: "us, e, o, em, o". Or crap to that effect. They apparently meant something at the time, but those gray cells have long since been replaced by Led Zeppelin lyrics.

Mr Quinn drilled us on them daily. We became so bored, Ken Arneson would roll chalk behind him when his back was turned so he would crunch it when he turned around. Good times, good times.

It would not particularly surprise you that my Mom went to Girl's Latin School in Boston.  E Pluribus Unum.  I Felta Thigh.  Latin: It never dies.