Toasting at the end of the line: Neighbors gather to remember ‘party on two legs’
Brent George sings “End of the Line” on neighbor Angela Amorin’s rooftop deck. Photo by Zaydee Sanchez (ZaydeeSanchez.com)
Two Saturdays ago, as the sun set and strains of a guitar faded away, a woman called out to her neighbors. “Let’s raise a glass to Bob Kelley,” she said, toasting to the memory of the neighborhood’s favorite man from Wildomar.
Kelley’s daughter Linda Ruby smiled. In a socially-distanced twist on their customary block parties, her neighbors had gathered to celebrate her late father.
“It was almost a bit like a memorial to me, and made me feel so good,” Linda said. “It was just astounding.”
On March 30, Robert Kelley Jr. died of the novel coronavirus, at 89 years old, not far from the Riverside County home where he was living with his daughter and ex-wife.
Wait. Ex-wife?
You can hear Linda smile about that, trying to find the right words. Her father, she said, had a few important, loving relationships across his long life.
He had three daughters with his first wife. In his second marriage, he inherited four more children. And he insisted on making sure his blended family spent time together on family vacations, piling the kids into a station wagon and towing the brood (as well as a ski boat) out to the Colorado river.
As a civilian, Kelley owned a tool and die shop in Santa Fe Springs. But as a retired sailor in the US Navy, Kelley’s happy place was the water.
While his kids floated down the river in inner tubes, Kelley would get another adult to drive the boat while he did ski-bys, splashing the kids with his wake. “This was back in the days before children were bubble-wrapped,” Linda said.
The river patrol didn’t see it that way though. On one of those trips, a patrol boat came by, dressing Kelley down: “Sir, you could’ve hurt one of those children,” the officer protested.
Kelley took a look back to the kids, then to the officer. “Well, I’ve got seven of them,” he deadpanned.
Linda laughed telling the story, and may have laughed back then. But the officer, she said, didn’t, handing Kelley a citation.
He was that kind of guy — a deep sea fisherman, a passionate square-dancer, and a party on two legs. Occasionally he’d combine those interests, throwing massive fish fries for his square-dancing friends with the 100-pound tunas he’d catch on trips to Mexico.
“Most of my neighbors knew him because I’d have a big, annual New Year’s party,” Linda said, including almost all of her broad family, “along with 75 of our closest friends.”
No heroics
About two years ago, when piling medical issues began to complicate his life, Bob moved into his daughter Karen’s house in Wildomar, alongside his ex-wife, Kathleen Thomason.
Bob and Kathleen met on a blind date, growing up in Los Angeles. He was living in Echo Park, and she went to Hollywood High School. Both were transplants to California: Bob a Texan, Kathleen from Pennsylvania. They married when he was 20, and she was 19, and though they eventually split, they remained friendly.
Karen was their primary caretaker, but Linda would spend at least a week each month helping out. That’s what family does.
Then, in early March, as the novel coronavirus was rearing itself in the country’s collective consciousness, Karen got the flu.
Or that’s what they thought, until it dragged out and she got herself tested for COVID-19.
One by one, the family got sick: Bob, Kathleen and Linda alike.
On March 24, Bob was so ill that an ambulance was called for him. Once he was confirmed to have the disease, he was placed into isolation.
He was adamant: He didn’t want any heroics to keep him upright. No intubation, no ventilators, nothing.
“It was really hard, because with COVID patients, there’s no way to hold their hand,” Linda said, her voice tightening. She couldn’t get into the hospital. The only way the family could speak to Bob was by telephone. He could hardly talk back though; he was already straining to breathe.
The only thing the family could do was come together and pray, so they did — by conference call.
When Bob died six days later, it was on his terms.
Before long, Kathleen was hospitalized as well. Like Bob, she also refused “heroics;” she was already a tough case. She has chronic lung disease.
Then, after four days in the hospital, she was released. She’s still recovering, fighting off a case of pneumonia. Linda calls her a miracle.
Linda Ruby, with her husband Paul, listens to a musical tribute to her late father, Bob Kelley. Photo by Zaydee Sanchez (ZaydeeSanchez.com)
The celebration
When Linda’s neighbor Angela Amorin heard about Bob’s passing, the wheels in her head turned, and she called Linda: why not have a party in Bob’s honor, as best as they could?
Linda didn’t hesitate: Bob, after all, was a party unto himself.
On April 11, musician Brent George set up on Angela’s garage-top deck, and began strumming his guitar. He’d known Angela for years, and was honored to play a few songs to memorialize Bob, though he’d never met him or Linda.
“Our introduction was from our vantage points — her on her balcony, me on my post on the deck of Angie’s house,” Brent said. “I was looking over my right shoulder, with the sunset to the left, and saw her, with her long, silver hair flowing.”
Brent played songs from his wheelhouse. Like Bob, Brent’s a Texan by birth, and he’s got a penchant for classic rock that tells a tale. He played a set that touched on a few of his favorites, including The Beatles and The Eagles.
He closed with “End of the Line,” by the Traveling Wilburys,
The Wlburys, with Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Roy Orbison, George Harrison and Jeff Lynne, were a rock supergroup with a folksy bent. Despite its title, “End of the Line” is brightly chugs along like a steam engine, ending with optimism:
Well it’s all right, riding around in the breeze
Well it’s all right, if you live the life you please
Well it’s all right, even if the sun don’t shine
Well it’s all right, we’re going to the end of the line
Bob Kelley, later in life, posing next to a huge catch. Photo courtesy Linda Ruby
“The way Angie talks about Linda, she’s a life-liver; I don’t know if she was at Woodstock, but she probably should have been,” Brent said. “She herself is this strong, beautiful presence.”
Linda thanked Brent, with a simple note, handing it to him over the fenceline.
The party, as unusual as it was — with people wearing protective equipment and staying on their own property — was wonderful in its way, she said. It sated her for just a bit; her family, sprawled across the country, is champing at the bit to honor Bob Kelley; photos and memories are still filtering into her inbox.
But his final party, she said, will probably take place where he was happiest: deep sea, where he loved the water, and where she believes they’ll scatter his ashes.