Anniversaries

The heat wave broke last week; at one point, the “feels like” temperature was 107 degrees--somewhat uncomfortable, even to summer die-hards.

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When I was a kid, my parents’ house did not have air conditioning. My room, on the second floor, was a literal hot mess on scorching days. I would eventually get some sleep, with the help of several whirring fans; and in case I got thirsty in the night, my father always left a Dixie cup of cranberry juice on the hall table. He did this every night, no matter the season.

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My father, R.H. Rentner, smoked cigarettes most of his life--Kents was the brand. My mother, Mary Rentner, did not smoke, and never hassled my dad about it. They were a team, and supported and loved each other.

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My father smoked many cigarettes when he told me that I was adopted. Looking back on that conversation, I hope that smoking gave him some level of comfort during that horrifically uncomfortable conversation. I will always remember the blue cigarette smoke coming from the end of his cigarette as he told me the truth. The truth, in fact, was that they were my “real” parents, and always had been; I started to realize that biology meant nothing compared to love.

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Home from college for the summer in the early 1990s, I smoked pipes and cigars in the backyard of their house. My parents were a little surprised to find out that I smoked, and of course I didn’t smoke inside, but there was little criticism from them. I was an adult, after all.

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In later life, my dad gave up Kents. I was working in a tobacco shop by that time, and tried to ease the agony of quitting by bringing home some non-tobacco Ginseng cigarettes. They did seem to help. He said nothing negative about my working in a smoke shop; it was my job, and he supported what I was doing.

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My mom passed away in 2001, and my dad died about 18 months later. They were married to each other for 58 years.

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I still work in a smoke shop. In recent years, I have dipped into Twitter (and Facebook, a different story) and talked with people all over the world. My parents never went online, and never used a computer. Yet, if they were still around, I would try to sit down with them and my iPhone, bring up Twitter, and point out some of my close Followers. “Look!” I’d tell my folks. “In a way, I know these people. I feel closer to some of them than people I know in real life. And folks, I also got the courage to start blogging again, thanks to their friendship.” And they would shake their heads in wonderment, not really understanding, but grateful their son was helped.

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So we wrap up July, and summer heads to a long close during August. We go on, we tweet, we blog. We remember.

Thanks, R.H. and Mary, my real and only parents.

Thanks for giving me my start, and for teaching me.

Thank you.

Happy Anniversary.

R.H. and Mary Rentner, July 31, 1997