Kennith Hayes Coates. A name most of you have never heard. His siblings called him K.H.; his wife called him Ken and I called him Granddaddy. He was a prince of a man.
He was a quiet, reserved man. Not much of a talker. He was one of the kindest men to ever walk this earth. He was a man of high integrity, compassion and intelligence. He valued order over chaos; peace over strife; love over hate and truth over deceit. He was cut from the same cloth as Atticus Finch.
I have thought a great deal about him lately. His 107 birthday would have been this past week.
He enjoyed smoking pipes. He always smelled of sweet tobacco and peppermint. He had a collection of pipes which he proudly displayed. Different pipes for different moods. Some were ornate, some were carved, and some were plain. They were displayed in a round wooden carousel on the coffee table in their small living room. It is funny, I think he enjoyed sitting in his favorite recliner simply holding his lit pipe more than he did actually smoking it.
He enjoyed fishing, specifically bass fishing. He did not own a boat, but that did not slow him down. He would stand on the bank of a lake for hours, casting, then reeling … casting, then reeling. He had the patience of Job. He would wear a straw hat, Bermuda shorts, collared shirt, dark mid-calf socks and lace-up loafers. Not the most GQ of apparel, but very practical and perfectly my Granddaddy. He never once came home empty handled. Today he might be called a fish whisperer.
He taught me to fish. For me, it was a hit or miss proposition. But anytime I caught a fish he would beam with pride. Regardless of the size of the fish, if I caught it, it was the “best” fish in the batch and would always be the fish that tasted the best at supper.
He enjoyed gardening. Every year he had a vegetable garden. He grew okra, tomatoes, green beans, eggplant and squash. He always wore coveralls when he worked in the garden. I am not sure why, but if he walked through the house with coveralls on I knew he was going out to “tend” the garden. The vegetables he grew were delicious. I was well into elementary school before I understood vegetables could be purchased at a grocery store. I thought everybody had a “vegetable patch”.
The only thing my Granddaddy ever financed was the family home. He paid cash for everything else. He did not see the wisdom in purchasing things on credit that would not increase in value. He taught me everything I know about finances. He believed one measure of a man was not only how well he could provide for his children, but for his grandchildren. I, at times, have made the mistake of not following his financial advice; which I always regretted later.
He was not a huge sports fan, but he was a faithful follower of the Atlanta Braves and the Dallas Cowboys. Which was not surprising since they were both considered “America’s” team at the time. One of my memories is watching the Cowboys play Sunday afternoon football. I can remember we would look as the scores of other games were posted and we would talk about how mathematically those scores could have been made. Touchdown, extra point, two-point conversion, field goal, safety. Whoever came up with the most possible combinations would win. It was great fun. I looked forward to every Sunday.
He was a church deacon. I remember going with him to the church many, many Saturday nights as he prepared communion for the next morning. There was a kitchen in the basement of the church. He would carefully pour Welch grape juice into the tiny communion cups and put them in the large refrigerator in the kitchen. The next morning he would arrive at the church early and place the cups in the holders around the altar and cover the altar with a solid white cloth. The congregation would go to the altar in small groups, kneeling and taking a cup of juice and a communion wafer. I remember being fascinated by this whole event. At the time I did not understand exactly what it represented, but I did understand it was special due to the care with which my Granddaddy prepared it.
He had a tiny work space off the one car garage of their home. He kept this space impeccably neat and orderly. He used re-purposed clear baby food jars for storage of his screw and nails. The lids of the jars were nailed to boards that were mounted on the wall. To access the contents of the jar you unscrewed the jar, took what you needed then re-screwed the jar to the lid. Every screw driver, hammer, wrench, and plier had a specific place and could always be found in its place. His lawnmower, as well as every shovel and yard tool, was thoroughly washed after each usage and always looked brand new.
He always had a pocket knife in his possession. He used it for a multitude of things. He would cut fishing line, tighten loose screws and open packages. But most frequently he would use it to cut a slice off an apple and eat it. I never saw him eat an apple any other way. I am fortunate to still have that pocket knife.
He loved Tabasco. He made sure there was always a bottle on the table. I remember how tickled he was when I found miniature bottles of Tabasco. He thought it was grand he would be able to take Tabasco with him when he traveled or went to a restaurant.
He worked for one of the largest refined petroleum products pipelines in the United States. He retired after 40 years and was given a gold watch. I remember him receiving the gold watch and the look on his face. He had a look of pride in a job well done. Afterwards the watch was displayed on his dresser. From time to time I would see him pick it up, look at it, holding it gently in his hands. I often wondered what he thought in those moments.
The only point of contention I can remember between he and my grandmother was he would drink one beer every work night before bed. He would be in his pajamas, with his back against the sink and I would hear “pop”. He always kept the light off and drank a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I later learned my Grandmother had demanded he drink in the dark, so I would not “see” him drinking a beer. When he retired, this practice stopped. To my knowledge he never drank another beer, to the incredible relief of my Grandmother.
I was 28 years old when my Granddaddy died. I remember taking some of his clothing and putting them in several Ziplock bags, trying to save his smell. It was effective in the short-term. Often when having a bad day or needing advice in a particular situation I would take one of those Ziplock bags, slowly open it and take a deep breath. Once my brain recognized that familiar smell, a sense of peace would come over me.
Kennith Hayes Coates was a prince of a man and my knight in shining armor. Maybe I will get his pocket knife out and eat an apple in his honor.