Notes on becoming an octogenarian

If I had been asked, at age eight, if I could imagine reaching the age of eighty, I would probably have said I could not. My hope for my future was to die gloriously in battle, and with my dying breath to utter words that would prove inspirational for generations to come. 

Fortunately, that was not my fate. Here I am at eighty. I can't resist sharing a story I've shared recently in other contexts. If I recall correctly it comes from the Scottish writer and broadcast executive Moray McLaren. A collector of folklore visited a remote Scottish island. He got off the boat and, walking along the island's main street, sought to find someone with a long memory. He stopped a man and said, "Excuse me, but are there any octogenarians on the island?" The man furrowed his brow for a moment, then said, "Octogenarians? ... Ah, yes. There was two. But my brother shot the one and the other flew away. Octogenarians, yes, there was two." 

 I shall avoid remote Scottish islands.