Showing posts with label legacy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label legacy. Show all posts

Sunday, June 21, 2020

About My Father's Business: A Father's Day Remembrance

For Father's Day, I am reposting a blog entry that first ran on September 10, 2010, on the 100th anniversary of my father's birth. I post this every few years, and this year seems to be a good year to tell it again. ~ CK

About My Father's Business



"I think the most important question facing humanity is, ‘Is the universe a friendly place?’ This is the first and most basic question all people must answer for themselves.” – Albert Einstein

Clyde Kinnaird
A friend once asked me, "What motivated your father to be different from those around him?" Certainly, that is the underlying question that motivated the essays I have written about him, and it probably influences much of my response to life. The question itself is much more effective than any specific answer that might be given. Some questions are best left out there calling to us, rather than giving definitive answers. I imagine that if my siblings were to answer that question, you would get some similarities, but many specifics would be different. So you see, any answer I give may say as much about myself and my opinions (by what I choose to remember) as it does about my father. With that in mind, I will tell you a little more about my father, "Pop," as we called him.

On Baptismal day


Clyde Kinnaird was a Baptist minister and educator. He pastored small churches in Alabama. Later on his career he became "bi-vocational" when he began teaching in the public school system while continuing as pastor in rural churches. Unlike most Baptist preachers, his sermons were more often taken from the sayings of Jesus than from the teachings of Paul. In fact, when I picture my father in the pulpit, I have a simultaneous image in my mind of Jesus teaching on the hillside. To this day, when I think of Christ, I see the teaching Jesus and the compassionate Jesus rather than the crucified Christ. I can thank my father for that image.



Pop bringing me down to the waters of baptism at Lake Martin, August 1964

After my father died in 1996, I became especially conscious of the influence he had in his own unpretentious way. When I delivered the eulogy at my mother's funeral, three and a half years after my father's passing, I said, "Both of my parents left the world a little better than they found it. That is their inspiration and challenge to those of us who remain." It is that realization that caused me to do some reflection and to ask myself what kind of influence my own life may have.

One reason I began writing essays was to put down in writing what I believe and what I value. My thinking is that it is of benefit to me to express it, and if nothing else, my daughter will have a written record of what is important to me. I wish that my father had written things down, but he was not one to write. I have two notebooks of sermons written by my maternal grandfather (whom I never met), but not a single note or letter from my father. He was not one to write things down. I have to rely on memories and recollections of what he said and did. In reality, though, memories and recollections are all that anyone has of a loved one who has gone.

Growing up in Centreville

Pop was born in 1910, the seventh of nine children, in Centreville, Alabama. He was born 45 years after the Civil War ended. My father's parents and grandparents had current memory of living in a defeated nation and an occupied territory, while at the same time being absolutely patriotic with an undeniable love for their country. Pop spent his childhood with horses and wagons, and as a young adult, he was a mechanic who worked on Model A's and Model T's. His father, "Lud", was a rough-and-tough rascal who made a living farming, running a black smith shop, driving a taxi, and serving at least one term as road commissioner. His mother was the local midwife who was known in the community as "Aunt Claudia."

Apparently, he knew early on that he would be a minister. Pop told us of an experience he had at five years of age. He said he was out in the yard playing and was overcome by an unusual feeling, or sensation. He could not fully describe it, but he said he knew then that he would be a preacher. He recalled that he ran inside and told his mother, "Mama, I'm going to be a preacher."

To me, this sounds like a mystical experience that would have been precocious at that age. The way I interpret it is that my father became aware that he was living in the presence of something far greater than himself, and that awareness was an uplifting, comforting experience. My father's explanation would probably lie in something I often heard him say, "Sometimes God gives us a little taste of Heaven just to assure us that everything will be alright." Compare this to Einstein's question, "Is the universe a friendly place?" My father would have said, "Absolutely!" A mystic like Meister Eckhart would say, "Without a doubt."

Pop graduated from high school in 1928. I once looked through his senior yearbook that a classmate had sent him late in life. I was struck by how optimistic his class was in their statements and dreams of going out into the world. I was also impressed with the good-natured humor I found in those pages. The class prophet said of my father, "Clyde Kinnaird thought he was going to be the next Charles Lindbergh and fly across the Atlantic. He hopped into an aeroplane and made it across the Cahaba River. He landed in a field, thinking he was in Paris." It was especially poignant to me as I read the upbeat messages of that class, knowing that those graduates in 1928 had no idea what lay ahead in 1929 when the Great Depression hit.

Moving On During the Depression

My father claimed that the Depression did not have much noticeable effect on his community because most people in their small agrarian town had very little money anyway. Nevertheless, I cannot help thinking that the Depression influenced the timing of my father's higher education. He did not go to college until six years after graduating high school. It must have been a call to ministry that motivated his going on to Howard College in 1934, in the middle of the Depression, without enough money to make it through the first year. Even then, at a time when many Baptist preachers had no higher education, my father completed college and seminary.

One person my father admired, and who surely must have influenced him, was a retired missionary to China, Dr. Napier, who came to pastor the First Baptist Church of Centreville. "Up until then, we had not had an educated pastor in the pulpit. Most pastors would come and stay for about 18 months. By then, they would have preached all their sermons and would move on." Dr. Napier, my father recalled, would carry books with him to the pulpit and share with the congregation what scholars had written about various scriptures. "We had never had anything like that before."

Dr. Napier's son, Davie, also must have had some influence on my father. They were both at Southern Seminary at the same time and would often ride home together. Many times while I was growing up, I would hear Pop comment about something Davie Napier had said. Davie Napier went on to become a renowned professor at Yale Divinity School, a United Church of Christ Minister, and chaplain at Stanford University. Somewhere along the way, my father latched onto the conviction that education and religion were vital to individual and community development. If the Napiers did not instill the idea, they surely encouraged it.

A Career and a Mission

Pop showing my daughter
how to shuck corn
Pop said late in his career that he had essentially done mission work all his life. I think that is very true. He spent his life, by deed and example, trying to bring education and religion to the farmers, mill workers, housekeepers, laborers, and merchants of Alabama. On the one hand, I could tell that my father was often frustrated by the lack of education and the dearth of thoughtful religion among his peers. One the other hand, he demonstrated a sincere respect for people whether they were rich or poor, educated or uneducated. He brought dignity to the pulpit and to the classroom, but always related to the working class and the working poor. After all, his own family were farmers and working class people and he himself had been a garage mechanic who went off to college to "make a minister." He was never interested in moving up the social ladder. Pop considered such actions "uppity and pretentious."

He was a conservative man from the Old South who took some remarkable stands and had some progressive ideas. More important, he left his corner of the world a little better than he found it. My father understood when I left the Southern Baptists after fundamentalism had become so rampant and entrenched. I think, though, that he regretted that I was living with the same frustrations that he had lived with. I may be a little more open to change than Pop was. In some ways, maybe I am a little more tolerant, but that is only because I learned from his example of granting dignity to others and showing respect for all.

Attributes of Distinction

If I may recapitulate, perhaps I can sum up my answer to my friend's question of what motivated my father to be different from those around him:

1) He saw education and religion as two avenues for improvement. Pop had a strong commitment to continuing education and a striving toward thoughtful religion (he used to say that religion should be reasonable).

2) He believed in showing dignity and respect for every person, regardless of their social standing.

3) He believed that the Universe is a friendly place.

If I can hang on to those things from here on out, I think it would do my daddy proud.


In Memoriam: Richard Clyde Kinnaird, Sr. 

September 8, 1910 - December 18, 1996


For more about my father, check out these other posts:

Trust Yourself: A Message from my Father

A Local Hero

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Looking at 9/11 Memorials on the Day After


Each year since 2002, we have spent time remembering the tragedy at New York City’s Twin Towers that occurred September 11, 2001. On the first anniversary, I wrote a poem to commemorate that event that left its mark upon our national psyche. Garrison Keillor, in yesterday's The Writer's Almanac shared a beautiful and thoughtful poem by Charlotte Parsons titled, "9/11." 


Now, 16 years later, I wonder if we are indeed honoring those lives lost that day. I wonder if we are honoring our American ideals, In a tweet yesterday, President Barack Obama said that “No act of terror will ever change who we are.” When I look around at the state of our nation today, I can't help wondering if that is really true. Have we changed since that day when the towers fell?

We continue to launch campaigns of hate, and we fear the foreigner so much that we as a nation are threatening war on many fronts while our president seeks to dismantle hope for some of the brightest who happen to be Hispanic children of undocumented immigrants. Has terror caused us to forget who we are?

I must hasten to add that not everyone in our country is operating from fear and hatred. How we treat our immigrant neighbors, how we respond to the Islamic community, and what values we present to the world are currently being debated in the public square. While prejudice seems to be on the ascendency at the moment, we have not lost our hope for justice to prevail and for the common good to be our standard.

One of the best 9/11 commemorations that I have read is by Gary Furr, pastor of Vestavia Hills Baptist Church and blogger at The Flat Pickin’ Pilgrim’s Progress. You can read his essay here. I highly recommend it for its broad and compassionate look at what the anniversary of 9/11 means to us.

As we think on our history, our legacy, and our travails, may we always, somehow, look to the better angels of our nature, and not grow weary in our well doing.

____________________

Photo: Two women stop to read the names of the victims lost at Ground Zero (FEMA photo by Lauren Hobart, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)


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Friday, October 21, 2011

Things of Lasting Value


There are things I worry about. I worry that the only thing of lasting value the fast food industry has produced is the No. 5 plastic drinking cup. We recycle as much as we can at our house. Our city came a little late to the recycling effort. They will accept paper products, aluminum, metal cans, and some plastics (No. 1 and No. 2). They also take glass, but they won't pick it up on the curb like they do the rest, you have to drive downtown and deliver it yourself. What keeps nagging me is the amount of plastic we use that has the triangular recycling symbol, but is a number that our recycling center does not accept (e.g. Nos. 3, 5, 6, and 7). All of that then goes into the land fill.

I also worry about all of those plastic chairs. We have a few in our back yard. What worries me is that every spring and summer, I see tons and tons of them for sale. I see them at the grocery store; I see them at KMart, Walmart, and Home Depot. They are everywhere. Since I know they get kind of junky looking out in the weather, and since I see so many for sale every year, I worry that there must be hundreds of thousands of them going into the trash, headed for some landfill. You know they will be there long after our civilization is but a blip on earth's timeline.

I worry that even though my family recycles what little our center will accept, there are many many more houses  on the block where recycling doesn't seem to be on their radar (at least I don't see a recycle canister at every home. I also worry that with all our effort to recycle, industry continues to spew out plastic products.

When I was a kid, growing up in the 1960s, we weren't very environmentally conscious. On the other hand, we were much more geared toward recycling. Milk came in glass bottles, which you would put out on the front porch when they were empty. The milkman would pick them up when he brought your next delivery of milk. Soft drinks were glass, and every soft drink machine had a rack to place your empties. If you got your drink at the store and were leaving with it, you put down a deposit on that bottle (which you could get back if you returned the bottle). We also used more paper, which is biodegradable. Paper cups, paper straws, paper bags. Of course I guess you could get into that argument of paper vs. plastic -- are you going to cut down a tree or pump out some petroleum -- and which is worse? Still I worry about all of those styrofoam cups and plastic straws going into the garbage, heading for a landfill.

Will we be able to get a handle on our non-biodegradable trash? I worry about things like that. I also wonder what we'll be remembered for in the ages to come. Will we be remembered for our music and art? Will we be remembered for our scientific achievement and technological advancement? Will we be known for the strides we have made toward freedom, liberty, and equality? Or will we be remembered for all that plastic we left behind?




Thursday, March 31, 2011

When an Estate Sale Becomes a Memorial Service

Touring the Estate of the Late Harry E. Tibbs while Contemplating Life and Death

I went to an estate sale last Saturday at the residence of the late Harry E. Tibbs. Dr. Tibbs was well known in the academic and music community. His talents as a church organist and college music professor were legendary. Touring his estate turned out to be a reflection upon a life well lived.

Items for sale at the estate included a lovely grand piano, bookcases, fine china and works of art that the professor had gathered from around the world. I had gone to the estate sale looking for a pedestal dining table, which was not to be found. What I did, which is usually what I do when I come upon an estate sale, was to tour the house and consider what the deceased owner’s life must have been like.

Over a year ago I went to an estate sale in a nearby neighborhood. Though the house had obviously been in a state of disrepair for some time, as I wandered through the house and adjoining garage I kept repeating to myself, “Here once lived a craftsman!” I saw so many tools and items to be used in making all kinds of things. At that sale, I ended up buying a small red metal tool box filled with an assortment of tools. I also bought a slab of black marble, probably the remnant of some counter top project.

On this day as I toured the Tibbs estate, I marveled at the view overlooking the city from the mountainside of that upscale Altamont Road residence. Two stories and a full basement were filled with artifacts that spoke of a full and elegant life. In addition to the piano, fine china and art work, there were wine racks, kitchen equipment, a vast array of cookbooks (including one on medieval cuisine). There were many scholarly books and classical recordings.

I found three items to purchase:
  1. A hardback copy of the Viking Portable William Blake.
  2. Machlis’ The Enjoyment of Music, a comprehensive reference book that had a library card holder labeled, “Dr. Tibbs Reserve.” It had apparently been in use at the university library for Professor Tibbs’ students to use. The card inside contained the dates and signatures of the last students to check out  the  book.
  3. A CD of various classical Christmas music recordings.
I spent exactly five dollars. As I left the estate I said to myself, “My death will definitely be less complicated than that of Dr. Tibbs.” That is what I tend to do at estate sales – I treat them like a funeral, contemplating the life of the deceased while at the same time reflecting upon my own life. Self assessment seems to go along with respect for the dead.

As I left the estate, I got into my Ford Ranger and put in the CD I had just purchased. Though it was the end of March and a bit warm, the weather was gray and overcast with a slight mist. I turned on the AC and for about 20 minutes listened to some of the finest classical Christmas compositions and imagined it to be a December day.

Contemplating the passing of a remarkable man and considering my own brought to mind a poem I had written almost 30 years before when as a young man I had tried to broach the subject of my own demise:

                     I Shall Go Quickly 

                     I shall go quickly from this world
                    With traces left behind;
                    As a fragrance lingering
                    To be dispersed by the wind;
                    As an image upon the retina
                    To fade as new sights are seen.

                    Today, mine is a slow and steady gaze.
                    I stand still before the flow of creation
                    Pulsating joy and wonder in stillness of thought.
                    Today I linger in the greenwood and listen,
                    But I shall go quickly from this world,
                    With traces left behind.

                    11/82                                Charles Kinnaird



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