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, according to whom 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 do you know if there are 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.

Andy Irvine and Donal Lunny, "My Heart's Tonight in Ireland"

I met Andy Irvine sometime in the late '80s when he performed at the Eagle Tavern on West 14th Street. I was introduced to him by my date, Zane Berzins, of blessed memory. She may have been the only native speaker of Latvian who was also fluent in Irish Gaelic. Later I learned that Martha, my future wife whom I had yet to meet, was at the same event. Beannechtai na feile Padraig!