William J. Blackshaw

Amy's Rememberance

I had the privilege of being at my dad’s side for the last 2 weeks of his life. My mom and siblings and I were given the priceless gift of being able to be with him as he made his gentle transition. Looking back now, I see that daddy approached his death with the same amazing spirit in which he lived his life. He never lost what made him so quintessentially himself.

In the final weeks and days, Daddy would regularly call us to his bedside with a story, a joke or a memory. He gave us instructions…”don’t forget to remind your mother to play the piano”, or “make sure I have a catholic mass” or “remember to call my old friend Joe”.

He told us how proud he was of each of us, never neglecting to give all credit to our mother. He reflected constantly on the good life he had lived, the good fortune he had to meet our mom, and told anecdotes of his life adventures and his many many loyal friends.

He was steadfast, courageous, and never, even at some of the lowest moments, lost his wit and sharp intellect. His love of music and poetry never ceased, his Irish eyes brightening as we showered him with songs, poems, violin and piano concertos.

One evening after a touching and boisterous celebration of Bill, he leaned over and whispered to me “who wouldn’t want a send-off like this?”

Daddy, thank you for all of your gifts. I love you. See you round.

Amy Blackshaw
November 3, 2007

My Father Was An Artist - Annie

My father was an artist, and saw the world through those eyes – through music and books and photography and poetry. It is where he found his most profound emotions. The narratives of his stories and his connections to people were related to those things – his father reading him Robert Service poems, my mother playing him Bach and Beethoven as they were falling in love, Neil Young and Arlo Guthrie on the 8 track in a souped up van on one of the many road trips he took with his seven kids and wife.

The Latin masses he heard so many times as an alter boy that he could recite and sing them in the dark, as he did in the middle of the night recently from his bedside for my sister Amy and I. The room was dark and his eyes were closed as the words flowed out of his mouth, deeply, melodically, his hands moving up and down, left to right.

He never let you forget that the world was a fascinating place. Just listen to this stanza he would say while rewinding a tape to a particular moment he loved. Or listen to the way this sentence was composed, he’d say, before launching into a recital from whatever book he was reading that day. He would point out to me photographs that moved him – look at the way they used light and shadow, or the interesting was they framed the image. He loved originality.

He was an information junkie. There was no subject that did not interest him. He could talk to either senator or janitor. He always found a way to connect with someone. Whenever he would visit me I would find stacks of books throughout the house next to the various chairs he would sit in reading for hours at a time – old history textbooks, poetry anthologies, radical political tomes and scores of magazines.

As my father lay dying, I thought about all of the history, all of the stories that would die along with him. I thought about the dying off of his generation, the people of history that have seen the greatest changes take place in the course of just one century. I mean, my father lived during the time when one still bought ice off of a horse drawn cart.

He saw the world through the most tremendous changes and it gave him a perspective that I and scores of others, never grew tired of listening to.

He also showed me what love was – the way he loved my mother was passionately, loyally and with so much devotion. And although my father had an adventurous and exciting life in the 40 years he lived before meeting my mother, he told me that his life did not really begin until he met my mother.

These are the things that I will miss the most, and the greatest legacy he gave to each one of his children and grandchildren. His are the eyes that I will continue to strive to see through. His are the ears I will continue to strive to listen through – to keep both eyes and ears wide open to all that is most beautiful on this earth and I will keep praising them, and praising him.

Annie Blackshaw, November 3, 2007

Dad, Me, and Glenn Gould: Gina Blackshaw Remembers

I met my Dad when I was almost five years old. He is the reason for my deep love of music. He was this fascinating, worldly man. He had this modern city apartment and something called a HI-FI stereo. One day I had the adventure of talking to him on the phone, not a common
practice for a five year old in the 1960s. There was a piano playing
in the background. It was a beautiful piece I later learned was Glenn
Gould's version of Bach's Goldberg Variations.

Up until that time, my experience with piano music was of my Mom
playing Christmas carols; show tunes, or Italian Opera. Always LIVE
and in-person. So, naturally I assumed the background music at my
Dad's apartment was also LIVE. I was even more captivated by his ability to play the piano while talking on the telephone. I asked my Dad how he was able to do both simultaneously. He said it was easy
because he was playing with his TOES. For many years afterward I believed this to be true. I felt especially lucky to know the only man in the world who could play the piano with his toes.

As the years passed, the Goldberg Variations were my special connection with my Dad. In fact, I didn't like to share my listening experience with anybody else except my Dad. It just didn't feel the same. When I would play the piece without him, I would plug my self in to earphones so it was all encompassing.

A few days ago, when I was in Pasadena visiting my Mom and Dad, I had this compelling yearning that woke me up at two in the morning. I knew we didn't have much time left together and I wanted to have one more experience with my Dad and Glenn Gould. So, I ran downstairs and found  Dad was wide-awake, softly conversing with my sister Annie. I asked him if he would like to share a musical surprise. At his okay, I put my ipod's ear buds in my Dad's ears and pushed play. It was such a special moment! There was my Dad, fully enveloped in the Goldberg Variations, quietly humming the notes. And then, as my sister and I watched, Dad raised his arms and started playing the piano notes in the air. It was one of the most the most mesmerizing encounters I'll ever witness. I'll have this vision with me forever. This particular piece of music will always be sacred to me. It represents a full
circle of life for my DAD and me.

Julie Blackshaw Recollections of Dad

When I was 10 years old, a man named Bill Blackshaw came into my life and transformed my world from black-and-white to bright rainbow Technicolor. From the moment we met, I adored my Dad. He stepped into the role of being a father quite easily – with his combination of playful humor, gentle guidance and unbreakable loyalty and love. 

Over the years, Dad and I grew to be friends. We met for coffee, shooting the breeze for hours – about politics, current events, music, history, travel – you name it. Dad always had something interesting to say. 

During the hard times, Dad was available at a moment’s notice – to help with the kids, or to do an errand, or simply to listen. I will miss his friendship beyond words. 

 Two legacies of Dad stand above others for me. In a conversation with my daughter, Dad asked, “Jessica, why do we learn?” She responded she didn’t know, to which he advised, “We learn so that we can teach.” 

Truly, Dad was a consummate learner, never without a book or magazine in his hand, on his nightstand, or in his lap. When I finished college, I left my textbooks on the shelves in my bedroom and Dad read through just about every one of them – really read them, with underlining and notes in the margin.  

But Dad was equally a teacher – eager to impart interesting tidbits of information,

or read his favorite poems,

or teach his kids to develop a black and white photo,

or to ski,

or make scrambled eggs,

or clean a toilet like they did in the army,

or saw planks of wood for a backyard clubhouse. 

A yearning for knowledge, coupled with an enthusiasm for sharing all that he loved – that was the hallmark of my Dad.

But the most precious gift Dad gave to me, and all of us today in this church, was his open and generous heart. His was a heart that never ran out of love, and one that was always ready to forgive. Dad never wasted time on grudges. He could erase anger or hurt feelings seamlessly with a gently-placed joke or reassurance. And he always had room for one more friend. His loyalty and love for his family was fierce. It defined who he was, and guided every decision he made. It will be an inspiration and comfort for me for the rest of my life.

Dad, thanks for gracing our lives with your wit, your spirit and your love. We will miss you dearly.

Julie Blackshaw, November 3, 2007

 

 

Remembering Dad