July 2, 1989
I’ve never seen Dad so tired and fragile. It’s terrible how this last year of KVC/Atlantic has aged him. Sometimes, when he gets excited about a new musical idea, his old energy shines out briefly; but in repose, the exhaustion shows in his face and in the way he sits.
This weekend of music-making has been a good change of pace for him, but he’s worried about my imminent departure (I already changed my ticket to give us an extra day). I know he’s afraid of not finishing in time, of letting me down. So in a way, I’ve added to his burdens. And me – maniacal auteur taking precedence over dutiful son – I’m pushing him as hard as he can take, hoping that my tireless cheerfulness will somehow cheer him up.
(They’re taking out a second mortgage on the house!)
