By Dixon Bledsoe
As a 12-year-old in San Antonio, the guitar came first with smoking a close second.
Self-taught on the guitar, he quickly became good. Hours alone gave him time to practice, experiment with different musical styles, and do what young boys do in Texas in the 30s – flirt with girls, eat great barbecue and Mexican food, and Remember the Alamo as they cruise by it in what are now classic cars. He was blessed with good looks, intelligence, humor and incomparable discipline when it came to his guitar practice.
He was 16 when his mother signed him into the Marines. For a silent film actress with aspirations of stardom, a teenage boy was an afterthought, a problem easily resolved by leaving him with his grandparents and searching for the right script. His father was never really a factor.
With 17-year-old false bravado, he landed on Guadalcanal, one of World War II’s bloodiest battle sites in the Pacific. He came back alive. Not unscathed, but alive, as malaria and the trauma of war were unkind.
He met the beauty, his true “San Antonio Rose.” They danced to Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys, and knew every word to “Faded Love.” They married in 1949 and a stunning black-haired daughter came along in 1950. A tow-headed boy in 1951 and a skinny runt in 1952. The same little boy who sang “Love Me Tender ”at age three because of good musical genes from his dad.
The husband and father, now in his 30s, worked three jobs – pumping gas, butchering chickens, and working in his cousin’s wrought iron shop, but he was restless so it was off to California. He was an ace mechanic, and later was hired as one of Lockheed’s only non-college educated engineers. An I.Q. approaching 150 helped.
Life in the ‘burbs was the “rat race,” and he wanted more for his family. Off to Oregon, where five acres in Silverton with a little farmhouse and classic red barn were a perfect fit. His guitar became more magical, and he worked in music stores to pay the bills. The well went dry the first summer, and then the Columbus Day Storm hit in 1962. A five-point buck taken at 325 yards was an easy target for the former Marine marksman, and it made the front page of the Silverton Appeal. Horses entertained the kids. There was a trip or two every summer to Crane Prairie, where the fishing was good. He laughed as the oldest boy missed his first buck standing broadside at 50 yards, as his daughter casted an entire rod and reel into the bottom of the lake, and as the skinny runt with eyes as big as saucers broke his own horse at age 10.
He opened a music store and gave a lot of lessons, and bartered when his students were broke. A minister wanted to learn only one song, so the teacher swapped six months of lessons for a home paint job. The song, Recuerdos De La Alhambra, was considered to be the third hardest song to play on the guitar, but the teacher was good and the minister left happy with the worst rendition of one of the most beautiful songs ever written. The Beatles “Day-Tripper” came out and the teen-age boys were enamored with the guitar solo, challenging their father to come even remotely close to George Harrison’s wizardry. He heard it once, asked to hear it again, and played it perfectly, with a few tricky licks added in for effect, four times faster than George Harrison did. He cringed when his youngest son swooned over Willie Nelson’s “Stardust” album, and said it would be like Frank Sinatra doing the best of Led Zeppelin.
His best students were selected to attend a workshop run by the master himself, Segovia, regarded as the finest classical guitar player in the world. The legend asked the guitar teacher’s students, “Who taught you?” When given the name, Segovia said “I would love to meet him. Your technique is beautiful.” The Silverton guitarist closed shop and raced up to Portland to meet his idol. They played guitar all night in Segovia’s hotel suite, drank more than a few whiskeys, and parted ways with an offer. The Master asked the man to teach at his school in Madrid. “I have three children in high school, a wife who loves her job, and a business to run.”
He practiced religiously, and smoked even more. He tried to quit when the good doctor said the disease was getting worse.
He met his first grandchild in 1980, his second in 1981, and his third in 1982. He loved them so much, and it was bitter sweet watching him crawl on his hands and knees playing with them as his breathing got worse. His great friend was dying of cancer and left the guitarist a 1928 Ramirez guitar, one of only four made by hand with 150 year-old cherry wood.
He made a recording of his five favorite songs for his kids, and presented it to them at Christmas, 1982. An avid reader, his daughter found him with a book in hand, resting peacefully at last after a tested life well-lived, in 1987.
At his service, his best student made the Ramirez guitar “gently weep.” His children presented the guitar to the student.
He is buried in a small family plot just outside of Poteet, Texas, near a town once called Rossville. His kids and Texas sweetheart placed his business card in a honky tonk while toasting him with Lone Star Longnecks. His grave is under the shade of a mesquite tree, because he was always complaining about the heat. His marker says simply, “Will Bledsoe. Texan. 1925-1987.”
Shortly after he died, I asked him for a sign that he was alright. A few days later, in a mall haunted by elevator music, Recuerdos came on quite unexpectedly. Coupled with the news of Segovia’s death that very evening, I knew he must be fine and the Master was showing the teacher a few new licks.
My father was not perfect, but he did the best he could. That’s what dads do, or at least try for. Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
“I thank you for the music and your stories of the road. I thank you for the freedom, when it came my time to go —I thank you for the kindness and the times when you got tough And, papa, I don’t think I said ‘I love you’ near enough.” – Dan Fogelberg, “Leader of the Band.”
