As native Kentuckians, with a touch of southern warmth, my parents and I found transitioning to Boston culture a shock when my brother moved there to attend law school. We thought all the Beantown denizens were angry at us as they conversed in their clipped and, to our ears, harsh brogues. My dad suggested that perhaps the cold climate had made them upset with the world. And don’t get me started on their impatient driving habits, which my brother adopted immediately.

Upon ascending to the highest court in the land, Justice David Souter occasionally found his Massachusetts accent a handicap. He perplexed one counsel in oral argument by seeming to ask about the “floor” in his argument. “Floor, you honor?” replied the lawyer. Souter smiled and admitted that the word “flaw,” had been corrupted by his New England twang.

Known for his Yankee reserve, Souter always seemed out of place in the sometimes inauthenticity of Washington politicos. When I once invited him to deliver the Henry J. Abraham Distinguished Lecture at UVA, he bluntly wrote that he neither attended nor gave lectures because he found them useless. Now that’s authenticity!

Yet he was perfectly suited for the staid traditions of the U.S. Supreme Court that is supposed to eschew partisanship in favor of more neutral interpretations of laws and the Constitution.

I thought it sad that his obituary stated that the unmarried and childless justice left “no immediate survivors.” What about all his loyal law clerks, his goddaughter upon whom he was known to dote, and those of us who admired his jurisprudence? Not to mention the legacy of his poignant 1997 eulogy for his “pal,” Justice William Brennan. I’ll choose to remember that even if his legal precedents don’t survive this polarized era, his essential empathy will live forever among his tribe of supporters.