According to the dictionary, a octogenerian is someone between the age of 80 and 89, I had not earned that label yesterday, but today, March 20, 2018, I can claim the title, having come into this world on March 20, 1938. The earliest memory I have is the birth of my baby brother who is three and one-half years younger than I. I also remember when we thought my dad was going to be drafted and would have to fight in World War II. I remember a soldier uniform that I was photographed in during the war. I remember Madam and Lady, our cocker spaniels. I remember thinking that, so far as time was concerned, that I would be satisfied to live to the year 2,000, the turn of the century. I remember being in love with Miss McCrary, my second grade teacher. I remember fearing my 7th grade teacher, a man whose name I cannot remember. I remember that, when President Roosevelt died, Mother came out and delivered that news as I played on the swing set in the back yard. I remember learning to eat spaghetti by holding my nose. Now that I have reached this senior age, how do I feel? I feel great although I creak and groan at times, especially after standing for any length of time. I feel grateful to have passed the 2,000 mark eighteen years ago. I make no prediction regarding how long I will be around, but I will be ready to meet my Maker when the time comes.