“Finding a partner’s not something you can just decide to do,” he said, “but there’s nothing stopping you from making a home for yourself.”

I rubbed my thumb against my fingers. “No money.”

“That’s not necessarily an insurmountable problem.”

“Easy for you to say.”

He shook his head. “No, I think I’m being reasonable. You’d just have to change a few things in your life.”

“You mean like get a regular job? I think I’d go insane.”

“No, I was thinking more of working with the marketable skills you already have.”

I gave him a blank look.

“Your music, dummy.”

“My music.”

“Look,” he said. “I know how you feel about recording and putting together a permanent band and all of that. And I’m not saying you should compromise your ideals. But if you want some of the things that money can buy, like a place to call your own, then maybe it’s something to think about. You already accept money when you’re busking and from these pickup gigs you do. It’s not that big a stretch to recording and selling a CD, and doing some touring with a band to promote it.”

There was a time when I heard that a lot, but considering how vocal I could be against the idea, my friends pretty much stopped bringing it up years ago. Now it was only something I’d get at a gig from strangers, caught up in the excitement of the moment. I honestly didn’t think about it anymore.

I’d wanted to at one time, when I first got into playing in the early seventies, but it hadn’t been feasible back then. Celtic music wasn’t particularly popular in those days. There was no Worldbeat, no Pogues. The Chieftains were barely known outside of Ireland. A group like the Incredible String Band, one of the earliest proponents of mixing musical genres, weren’t on most people’s radar. So a recording company wouldn’t get excited about recording some kid who played fiddle on street corners and in bars. And I sure couldn’t afford to pay for it myself.

I still couldn’t, but it was different now. These days I knew a half-dozen people who recorded everything directly into their computer. I’d done session work for any number of folks with real studios. They’d all offered, at one time or another, to help me out if I was ever interested in laying down some tracks.

“Maybe I’ll think about it,” I told my brother.

“Okay, that’s new,” he said.

I smiled. “Don’t get pushy.” Then, before he could press me any further, I changed the subject and asked, “What’s that you’re reading?”

He knew what I was doing, but let me get away with it.