Carolina Angel

I met Jeff Kline of the JB Kline Band in between sets at Havana in New Hope a year and a half ago. It was just a few days after I’d been diagnosed with cancer. I thanked him for his music and told him that it made me feel better in light of the news I’d just received.

A down to earth, what you see is what you get kind of guy, Jeff has been writing and performing songs for decades. There wasn’t much time to talk as Jeff made his way around the room, stopping at every table to say hello and thank people for coming out. But he took time to show a complete stranger another side. His compassion was genuine, and he shared with me a recent sadness in his own life. We agreed there’s only one direction in life…straight ahead. You just have to keep on keepin’ on.

After that I was curious to learn more about Jeff. A New Jersey original who grew up on a farm, he hit the road at a young age to follow his bliss. It’s clear to anyone that hears him perform that music is his passion. Over the years he performed with artists the likes of Bruce Springsteen, Patti LaBell, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Johnny Winter and B.B. King.

The thing that most struck me about Jeff is that all the roads he’s traveled and all the songs he’s written and performed notwithstanding, he’s still at it, writing and playing with passion wherever people will listen. Jeff is a “portrait of the artist” for our times. In some ways he reminds me of my friend Dan Smythe, a sculptor in upstate New York who passed away several years ago.

Later that summer I saw Jeff perform with bass player Kevin Joy on a grassy area outside the Lambertville public library. The library is just a few minutes from his music store over a coffee shop on Bridge Street, where he sells everything from vintage acoustic and electrical guitars to mandolins and ukuleles. He also gives music lessons, and that night he proudly performed a song written by one of his students.

Between songs Jeff talked some about a recent trip to Nashville where he hung and played with different musicians. He said he thought he was a pretty good guitar player, but hanging and playing with those guys in Nashville made him realize “they can really play.”

The high point of his performance was when he sung “Carolina Angel.” The song is about the young Jeff Kline, hitchhiking his way through South Carolina, the angel who gave him a ride in her pickup truck, and how in one sense, there are no strangers; we are all interconnected in some unknowable way.

For me, “Carolina Angel” is also about following your bliss regardless of your age. To have a dream and to be passionate about it isn’t the sole prerogative of the young. It is the domain of the young at heart. In Jeff’s case, he joyfully and generously shares his bliss with anyone who is fortunate to hear him perform, including tonight at Havana in New Hope, Pa. from 6-10 p.m. So if you’re in our neck of the woods tonight, come on down to Havana, kick back with your favorite beverage and if you’re lucky, Jeff and the boys just might play “Carolina Angel.”

Last Roundup

Ward was born in New York, but he was a Texan heart and soul. He moved to Texas in the 70s, seeking a better life. Ward found that better life here in the Lone Star State, where he eventually met the love of his life, Betty Lou.

When Ward and Betty decided to go ahead with building their home in The Hills, after his cancer recurred, I asked him if it was a good idea. After all, the Dallas-Fort Worth area has a wealth of excellent doctors and hospitals, and he and Betty would be closer to family.

But their minds were made up. They were going to follow their bliss. And follow it they did. Ward only lived in the house a few short years. But he told me on several occasions during those years that he was happier than he could possibly put in words.

The sweeping hills that run down to the lake, the sound of coyotes calling to each other in the night, and the sprawling landscape peppered with mesquite and cactus spoke to the Texan in him. He and Betty made a courageous decision in the face of what lay ahead. It was a decision that proved to be the right one. I learned from Ward that putting off following your bliss might be the safe thing to do, but it’s not always the best thing.

Obituaries are limited because they only tell the facts of a person’s life. We all have back stories that are about so much more. Each person’s back story is about how he or she lived, rather than about what they accomplished. It’s about the lives we touch on our journey. Ward’s back story is so inspiring because he touched so many people.

My brother’s greatest gift was his ability to make everyone feel special. Whether you were ten, thirty, sixty years of age, you could talk to Ward about anything, from the mundane to the most deeply personal subjects. But there were times, I knew, when Ward was smiling on the outside and crying on the inside. He wasn’t a complainer and he never wallowed, even in his darkest hour.

When breaking the bad news he’d just received from his oncologist, he was conscious about how the other person was receiving it. The day after he told me that his time was winding down, he texted Barbara and asked her to keep an eye on his brother, who he knew was struggling with the knowledge that he and I would soon by saying our last goodbye.

When our brother Rick passed away in 1998, Ward and I promised to get together each year on the anniversary of his death in Hollywood, Florida, the last place Rick lived, and take time to remember our brother. We kept our promise on Rick’s first anniversary. After that, like so many good intentions, we were each busy with one thing or another and never went back to Hollywood.

But on Rick’s first anniversary, as we stood on the beach in Dania looking out over the Atlantic Ocean, Ward related a story about a friend whose heart had stopped as the result of an accident. His friend later recalled being suspended between his mortal self, lying on the ground, and a powerful all-consuming light toward which he felt himself drawn. As he gravitated toward the light, a voice asked him, “Were you kind? Did you learn?”

On hearing those questions, he understood that it wasn’t yet his time, and that he had unfinished business. The EMTs revived him shortly after that. Of the many conversations Ward and I had over the years about the nature of spirituality, we agreed that if there is a discernible meaning of life, it is that we have compassion for one another, and that we learn from this amazing journey.

Ward learned from his journey, and he helped so many people along the way understand something infinitely important about themselves and about the universal truths that serve as our moral compass. When he passed away on Monday, Ward had finished his unfinished business. His suffering was over, and his soul was free to soar above the sweeping hills that run down to the lake, and the sprawling landscape peppered with mesquite and cactus.

Through our sadness over our shared loss, if we listen closely to the sound of coyotes calling in the night, we just might hear Ward’s reassuring voice reminding us that life is a celebration, that death is part of life, that he is now in a better place, and that as he was fond of saying, “it’s gonna be all right.”

Ward’s soul is at peace in the house of the Lord, but a part of him is still in Texas. And a part of him will always be with all those who loved him. When life’s challenges confront us and we are troubled and uncertain, we need only ask ourselves, What would Ward do?