I’m an imperfect copy of an imperfect father Adopting his failures Mimicking his weaknesses Poorly duplicating his better qualities His virtuosity in music His confidence with women His tenacity in publication
We shared the joy of teaching A love of words and music A sharp wit and curmudgeonly air A familial void The absence of each another Over too many years
I’m an imperfect copy of an imperfect father Yet I must self-acknowledge My few qualities, the ones he lacked As a racer As an engineer As a responsible man
Stephanie’s instrument was recorder so from the outset it was evident we needed a harpsichord. My experience with music told me that if you had the instruments, the musicians would appear, a kind of magic. So if you had a guitar, for instance, everyone with an illusion of being the next Bob Dylan or Cat Stevens would show up in your living room. Given our new interest in Baroque and Classical, best would be to dispose of the guitar. I passed it along to my daughter Gretchen. She at nineteen was visiting Spain for the first time. She fell out with a bartender named Pedro and smashed my guitar over his head.