Burning for Rodney

Rodney Brown smoked cigars.  I know this about my grandfather because I have faint memories of him as a child.  He would have a big Churchill in his mouth as a layer of smoke sat in the TV room of the house on Cromwell Hill Road in Monroe, NY.  I know it because my dad told me that when he got caught smoking cigarettes as a kid he was forced to smoke one of his dad’s cigars.  I know it because of the few things left to me from him – through my dad – is his humidor, a beautiful wood box, a retirement gift from the New York State Police.  That heirloom sits on my dresser, full of ticket stubs, cards, old photos, and memories from my life.  Also on my dresser is my humidor, the one Lisa got me as a present for battalion command. 

I smoke the occasional cigar.  Usually I enjoy a glass of bourbon with it.  It is, admittedly, the most machismo thing I do. 

Tonight I sat in the cool Kuwaiti night enjoying a cigar. As tendrils of gray smoke floated away from me I thought about Rodney.  Perhaps I channel him just a bit when I smoke. Rodney, a gruff, old, cantankerous man who was in World War I, served in the State Police for thirty years, and ran the family business until he died. 

I'd love to talk to him. I have no idea what we’d talk about if we could but I am sure we’d do it over a cigar and a drink or two.