The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 154: OCCASIONALLY--Quarantined Edition

Episode Date: March 31, 2020

Mike was the keynote speaker at the last large gathering in the United States before the country officially closed for business. His job? Shaking hands--with over a hundred thousand people. Now, after three weeks of self-isolation, he'd like to tell you about it. And then, read a very funny story from his mom's new book.

This is the way I heard it. Hey, guys, it's Mike Rowe. This is the way I heard it, the only podcast for the curious mind with a short attention span. How's it going? Me? Oh, I'm fine. Quarantined, I am here at my kitchen table, as I have been for the last two and a half weeks or so. Quarantined, isolated, sequestered, sheltering in place.

Call it what you will, I dare say many of you can relate. Strange days indeed. I thought on the podcast today I would talk to you candidly about some of what's happened in my world over the last couple of weeks. Many of you have kindly inquired as to my health and well-being and that of my mom and dad as well, who are in their mid-80s. They are in the at-risk group and they are very much on my mind. In fact, I thought today I would rather than read you a mystery, as is my want, my want. I thought there's enough mystery in the world right now, right? What is this thing exactly? When does it end? How do we kill it? How do we beat it? When do things go back to normal?

What will the cost ultimately be? There's so many unknowns people are wrestling with right now. It seems to me a mystery is not exactly what the country needs to hear. So instead, I'm going to read you a story from my mom's new book. The book is called About Your Father. and other celebrities I have known. And when I told my mom I wanted to do this, I said, which story do you want me to read from your hysterical new book?

And she said, oh, read them the one about the funeral home. Only my mother. My mom and dad, being elderly, go to funerals every week. At least they have been for the last decade or so. And she's written a story called Not Our Turn, which I want to share with you. Full disclosure, I guess you could say my mom is sponsoring this podcast, although there'll be no money. But her book is supposed to come out in two weeks, and I feel terrible for her because it's a really funny book. And through no fault of her own, it's going to hit the shelves at the height of the coronavirus at a time when there will be no one standing in front of those shelves.

So I called the publisher, and I said, hey, can we make some copies available in advance? This is the kind of book that I believe the country would benefit from having in its hands right now. And the publisher said, okay, so as of now, we can ship copies of About Your Father anywhere in these United States. If you like the story, go to About Your Fatherbook.com. Pick up a copy. Anyway, I am going to read you that story, but since so many of you have asked what I've been up to here of late, I'm just going to ramble for a couple of minutes, if you don't mind. It's a very strange time for all of us, obviously.

But for me, I can tell you that until the last couple of days or so, I was pretty sure I had the virus. I didn't have any symptoms, but I was the keynote speaker at a four-day event, the last major event held in the United States in Las Vegas. I flew there on the 9th of March to be the keynote speaker at the Construction Expo. The Construction Expo is held every three years. It's one of the biggest conventions in Las Vegas. And 130,000 people come from all around the world. And the people there that are the exhibitors,

are the manufacturers of construction equipment. So I went in with Caterpillar, as I always do, but there are many other companies. Tarex is there and John Deere and Kamatsu and Volvo and all of them. It's a massive gathering. And had it begun 24 hours later than it was scheduled to begin, it would have been canceled. We were right on the cusp of the great shutting down. And we couldn't shut it down after it started. We had to see it through. But I just don't know that I have the words to describe how surreal it was being there. Caterpillar had built this stadium, you know, a small stadium with thousands of tons of dirt in the stadium they brought in. So all of their equipment could be demonstrated. And I would take the stage in the stadium once an hour, you know.

and I would tell stories from dirty jobs and I would answer questions. And, you know, mostly my job at these things is to shake hands. Can you imagine? It was so weird. Like every 10 feet is a Purell pumping station. And we're constantly bombarded with these messages about how important it is to wash our hands. But we hadn't really gotten the memo yet at the Construction Expo. Like the word went out that a fist bump would be here.

appropriate or that weird elbow tap. But nobody had put a full-on moratorium on shaking hands. And let me tell you something. When a construction worker stands in line to meet the dirty jobs guy, when he or she gets up there, they don't want a fist bump. They want to shake my hand. By and large, these guys, they want to grip my hand with their enormous mitts. And then they want to put their other hand on my shoulder. And then they want to grip and pull. They want to pull my arm. out of my socket. And so that's really what I did for four days. I stood there shaking hands, went on stage, told some stories, and then when I came off stage, I would check my phone. And that's how I learned that the NBA was canceled. And then an hour later, the NCAA.

And then the next day, the National Hockey League. And then the day after that, the Masters. And then every single thing on my personal calendar for the next three months, every appearance, shoot, every production, all of it. It literally went up in smoke as I was entertaining, we're trying to be entertaining, to 130,000 people who had come from around the world to shake my hand at this event where everybody really just kind of pretended that the world wasn't closing down around us. That's how I spent the 9th of March through the 13th, on Friday the 13th, I left my hotel in Vegas and the concierge said, well, I guess this is it. And I said, what do you mean exactly?

He was, well, we're at 3% occupancy right now. We were at 98 the night before. And the same is true, of course, for every hotel on the strip. All the restaurants were shutting down behind me as I left. The Starbucks closed as I walked up to get a coffee on my way to the airport. My flight was canceled. Caterpillar, in an act of extraordinary generosity. He scrambled the troops and got me a private flight back to San Francisco,

but the airport closed right after we landed. It was like walking across ice, you know, and thin ice and hearing it cracking behind you. I got home Friday night, the 13th, and I sat down at my table, and that's really where I've been trying to figure out since then. how to how to keep half a dozen people employed, how to keep working on the shows I'm working on. And it's really been very strange. On the one hand, I'm too distracted to write the kind of stories that I normally do for this podcast. On the other hand, we figured out a way to keep shooting returning the favor for Facebook. And tomorrow, the Discovery Channel called and said, look, can we do an episode of After the Catch? What would that look like now? That companion show I used to do for Deadliest Catch, which is so strange because here we all.

are all in the midst of what appears to be the deadliest catch. All of us in the same boat, if you will. So anyway, that's what's going on in my life. I self-quarantined and then the state made it official and obliged me to shelter in place, which I would have done anyway. If I got it, I was asymptomatic. If I got it, I'm no longer contagious. I don't think I got it. I don't think I had it at all. But I'll be hunkered down here in the bunker for the foreseeable future. along with, I think, the rest of the country, doing my best to do whatever version of this podcast comes out. Anyway, that's what it sounds like when I free associate for nine minutes. I hope you didn't hate it, and I hope you enjoy the story I'm about to read for you right now. I don't know that it's

entirely appropriate, but then again, neither is my mother. She wrote it. If you like it, her book is available right now. It's called About Your Father. And you can pick up a copy at About Your Fatherbook.com. The story is called It's Not Our Turn. It's Not Our Turn. It's not our turn. And I certainly hope it's not yours either. This is the way I heard it. Dear Mike, I'm still recuperating from the flu, and in my downtime, I came across a lovely picture on the internet of an elderly couple sitting on a green hillside looking into the sunset.

It was an ad for a funeral home, and I said to myself, hey, that could be dad and me. Then I got to reminiscing over our exciting, albeit abbreviation, career in the world of television commercials. From Kimberly Clark and Viva paper towels to Lee jeans to promotional campaigns for Discovery's dirty jobs and CNN's somebody's got to do it. We've had a ride for sure, not to mention the recent Fell Pro Gaskets commercial with appearances on returning the favor. What fun we've had working with our kid, even when we got paid only in steamed crabs. So I'm thinking maybe you could use your considerable pull in the industry to get us another commercial, for a funeral home, perhaps. It's a subject on which your father and I have a

great deal of expertise. We've spent more time in funeral homes than in doctor's offices, and that's saying something. As a matter of fact, we know all the staff at the local establishments, and they know us, kind of like how the people on Cheers knew Norm and Cliff. I recently had an interesting encounter with the owner of a funeral home we were visiting for the first time. While your father was busy reminiscing with some old teacher friends, I wandered back to the office and peeked through the door. I love engaging people in conversation, especially those with interesting jobs. It must have been a slow night because the woman smiled and waved me in. You don't ordinarily expect funeral directors to look so happy, probably out of respect for the

grieving. We chatted for a minute, and when I learned that she was the owner of the establishment, I said, I imagine you've had some interesting experiences through the years. She got up and closed the door, as though she was about to divulge some dirt on a corrupt local official, or maybe describe some new embalming procedure. But it was even better. Boy, did I get an earful. I heard about a feuding family that came to blows right there at the foot of the casket, holding the deceased. They practically knocked it over, she said. One of the guys ran outside, and I was afraid he was going for a weapon, so I called the police, the stations right across the street.

They showed up in riot gear with tear gas and everything. We had a good laugh, and when we finished, she launched into a story about a deceased woman who hated her two greedy daughters-in-law. She left directions in her will to be buried in her full-length sable coat, so they wouldn't get it. It was worth a fortune. We had to hire a security guard for two days. We laughed some more, and I knew I would be making notes on the way home,

so as not to forget the stories. Like your father says, another week, another funeral. They're always sad, of course, but at our age, they're often a celebration of life. Twice, we had two funerals in the same week. As we were leaving the viewing, your father shook his head and sighed. Sometimes, I feel like we're in one of those documentaries, Mike narrates, for the Discovery Channel. We're in a herd of migrating wildebeest, crossing a river in the Serengeti, and the crocodiles are ravenous. Then he turned to me and said,

Guess it wasn't our turn today. How about a crab cake? Your father's a philosophical kind of guy. Our church offers a funeral luncheon for its members. It's a wonderful event that's so much warmer and more personal than in. a restaurant where everybody stays seated and you feel rushed. I usually take my baked bean casserole. In fact, some people call me the bean lady. The dish is probably better suited to outside picnics where there's a little breeze. But if the weather's nice enough to open the windows,

they're fine for indoor funeral lunches. Naturally, Dad and I have become accustomed to funeral home protocol over the years, the sign-in sheet and memorial cards, the casket, flowers, family, friends, pictures, and of course, digital slideshows. A section of our closet is designated exclusively for funeral clothes. I wear a dark pair of slacks and shoes with a jacket that has a little color in it. No shocking pink or fire engine red, of course. It is, after all, a somber atmosphere. Not that your father strictly observes. subtle colors. He's more of a come-as-you-are kind of person. The day he removed his jacket and revealed a porky pig necktie, I felt light-headed. But Dad shrugged and said, hey, it's a

celebration of life. Nothing says celebrate like a dancing pig. Am I right? I have to pick my battles with your father. I'm always careful to turn off my phone before I enter the funeral home, especially if there's a service and process. I learned that lesson from my cousin Nancy. At my father's funeral, she thought her phone was turned off when she put her purse on the floor beneath the pew. But during the solemn eulogy, it rang.

She picked it up, dropped it, and the darn thing vibrated out of reach. It traveled all the way up to the next pew while playing two verses of Yankee Doodle. Nancy could barely hold up her head. at the luncheon afterward. But relatives tried to make her feel better. Cousin Strawn said, Nancy, that was a perfect selection. After all, Uncle Carl was a Yankee who came to Virginia to ask for Aunt Thelma's hand. Even my mother tried to comfort my cousin. Well, Nancy, your Uncle Carl did have a

sense of humor. He would have laughed. Even so, I never want to be in that position. I usually sign the guest book as soon as we arrive. Then we make our way to the casket. One always speaks softly as a sign of respect. I always try to be positive in my comments. Oh, doesn't she look nice, I'll say. Or she looks so natural as though she's just napping. Your father thinks I overdo it. Jeez, Peg, he says, by the time you leave, the family expects her to sit up and sing a chorus of everything's coming up roses. Your father can be sarcastic. So I reminded him of the time he tried to find something nice to say about old Tom when he finally passed. To his credit, he didn't mention that Tom had died in the arms of another man's wife. Instead, Dad looked at the family with a straight face and said, boy, that Tom

always had a lot of energy, didn't he? When he added, yes, sir, Tom lived life to the fullest, right up to the climax. I had to cover my face with my handkerchief. Anyway, Mike, that's how it used to be at funeral homes, somber and respectful, except for the occasional dancing pig. But now, visiting a funeral home, in the words of your father, is an absolute crapshoot. Thanks to you and your career, we never know what to expect anymore.

The first time we experienced the Mike Roe effect was at peaceful destinations, after an old childhood friend had passed. I hadn't seen the family in years. Dad agreed to accompany me and was signing the guest book when we heard the scream. Things were subdued when we entered,

so I assumed the scream was someone's extreme expression of grief and angst. Look, it's Miss Peggy, a woman yelled, rushing toward me with open arms. It was my old friend's daughter. We just love, love, love your son, she said. She was followed by a brother. brother, and then the widow. People stopped their conversations and watched, as for the next half

hour, the family relived their favorite episodes of dirty jobs, recounting them to us as though we had never seen the show. Not that it isn't fun to hear people proclaiming the genius of our eldest, but really, in a funeral home? When a grandson said, did you see the one where Mike was crawling through the sewers and a roach ran down his pants? An elderly aunt laughed so hard she spit her dentures out, had an asthma attack, and had to be carried to a chair, and given her inhaler. When dad and I left, without even making it to the gasket, we were followed to the door by family and friends, still laughing and talking about our terribly clever son. Well, that was weird, I said. Yeah, but at least we left them in good spirits. How about it?

a crab cake. Leave it to your father to put a good spin on it. That was nothing, though, compared to our experience at tranquil alternatives, another funeral home. Ordinarily, we go to the 3 to 5 p.m. visitation, but had decided on the 7 to 9 p.m. this time, in hopes of seeing some old college friends. We hadn't seen the deceased since school days. He'd been a pompous kind of guy, always had to be the center of attention, and from what we'd heard, he hadn't changed through the years. Even now, his golden urn stood on an altar with a spotlight on it, surrounded by what looked like a victory garland wreath. Things were tranquil, with soft music in the background. We spoke to the family and reconnected with old friends.

But, thanks to a dirty jobs marathon that day, tranquil alternatives was about to become a little less tranquil. From the corner of my eye, I saw the wheelchair moving in our direction. Hey, I know you. You're Mike Rose parents, aren't you? Guilty, your father said, as he usually does in that situation. The elderly gentleman applied his break and lurched to his feet, saying in a gruff, booming voice, well, I just saw your boy on television. He was standing in shit up to here. He drew an imaginary line across his chest, then broke out in hysterical laughter. He was joined by others, and just like that, the seal was broken with everyone discussing the details of your most disgusting jobs. The golden urn, no longer the center of attention, had become an insignificant prop in the laughter-filled room,

as I imagined a swirling dust storm of ashes within. When we left, your father observed, oh well, I guess it wasn't our turn today, hon. You fancy a crab cake? Anyway, no pressure, Mike. But if you ever do get an actual agent, we're still available to do a commercial and willing to work for food. Love you. Mom.