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On a Monday in March—St. Patrick’s Day, 1986—I met again with Father Zogby, and he invited me to a dinner party that evening at the West Side Jesuit Community, on Ninety-eighth Street.

Graham, who had his ninety-eighth birthday yesterday, might be annoyed at the comparison, but he sounded not unlike the Vermont Senator Bernie Sanders, the runner-up Democratic candidate, when he wrote, “I am convinced that regardless of the outward appearance of prosperity within the corporate life of America today there is present a form of moral and spiritual cancer which could ultimately lead to the country’s destruction unless the disease is treated promptly and the trend reversed.”

My friend Si Lewen, the painter, died three months ago, a little shy of his ninety-eighth birthday.

In 1820, three of the four bands into which they have been for a long time divided resided on the banks of the Platte and its tributaries, with a reservation on Loup Fork, on the ninety-eighth meridian.

The Eighth and Ninety-eighth British regiments, the Nova Scotia Fencible Infantry, with a battery of Artillery and a company of Engineers composed the Garrison of Halifax.