The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 273: BONUS: Vacuuming in the Nude Chapters 1 & 2

Episode Date: October 14, 2022

New York Times bestselling author Peggy Rowe is at it again—this time giving a hilarious inside look at her writing career. She has been writing all her adult life. In fact, she doesn't know how not to write—even through those years of constant rejection from publishing houses. But between her tenacity and the encouragement of her family, Peggy's breakthrough finally came at the tender age of 80. Vacuuming in the Nude is most likely her funniest prose to date as she shares her journey of attending myriad writers' conferences and honing her ability to see humor in everyday situations. Forward by Mike Rowe.

Do do do do do do do. Dumb. Well, people are still raving, raving, I tell you, about my mother's performance in the latest Pure Talk commercial. And if you haven't seen it, I encourage you to give it a look on my Facebook page and read the comments. They're hysterical. In this commercial, you'll not only see Peggy Rowe gently criticizing her oldest son for his longstanding and well-established commitment issues. You'll learn about the latest offer from Pure Talk, which includes unlimited talk. unlimited talk, text, and data for just $34.99 a month with no contracts and no commitments of any kind.

You can see why I love these guys. If, on the other hand, you have better things to do with your time, then watch my mom and me be impossibly charming together, then allow me to remind you, here, without all the cleverness and charm, that unlimited talk, text, and data on a blazing fast network for just $3499 a month really is an unmitigated bargain from an American. American Wireless Company that keeps all their customer service in this country, supports our veterans in a meaningful way, as well as the MicroWorks Foundation, and allows me to exploit my own mother in a national advertising campaign. Do what my mom did. Get yourself unlimited high-speed data for just 3499 a month at puretalk.com slash row. You can switch in as little as 10 minutes at puretalk.com slash row. Your talk.

Holy cow, it's a bonus episode. First bonus episode. We've had in a while. It's episode number 273, and it's a bonus because what you're about to hear is the forward and the first two chapters of my mother's fantastic new book, vacuuming in the nude and other ways to get attention. I'm going to read you the forward since I wrote it, and my mom will take care of the rest since she wrote everything else.

My plan is to make the entire audio version of her latest book available on this platform for free, two chapters at a time, over the next eight weeks. I wanted to do this because you guys have been incredibly supportive of my 84-year-old mother and of her remarkable 60-year journey to become a three-time New York Times best-selling author. I'm very proud of her in case she didn't know, and I'm delighted to say that she is officially the most popular recurring guest on this podcast. Thanks to you all. So I thought it only fitting to share her latest book here seems the least I can do. Here then, without any further ado, is the forward and the first two chapters of vacuuming in the nude and other ways to get attention. To John Rowe, who knew that I was a writer long before I did, and who had the courage to call me one in public, even before I was published. In everyone's life at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame

by an encounter with another human being, Albert Schweitzer. This is my mother's third book, and it is without question, her best. Conversely, this is my third forward, and it is, without question, my worst. The problem with this forward began in May of 2018 with a phone call from my mother, while I was filming an episode of somebody's got to do it. Michael, I'm sorry to interrupt your shoot, but when you have a few moments, would you mind writing the foreword for my first book? Of course, Mom, it would be an honor.

My mom's first book was a warm and funny collection of short stories about her mother, ingeniously titled About My Mother. I know you're busy, she said, but the publisher says, a forward from a celebrity will boost sales. and you're the only celebrity I know. So I canceled my dinner plans that evening,

went back to my hotel, and stayed up until 4 a.m., writing the best forward I could possibly write. I mean, really, how could I say no? When your 80-year-old mother asks you to write the forward for her first book, you have to consider the possibility that it might also be the forward for her last book. And so, I left nothing on the table. I not only raved about my mother's persistence and determination, I shared some of my own stories about Nana and offered a few observations on the remarkable mother-daughter relationship

she and my mother shared for 67 years. Modesty aside, it was a forward fit for a New York Times bestseller, which is exactly what about my mother became the day it hit the shelves. I was thrilled from my mom, but surprised by the call I received two years later while filming an episode of returning the favor. Michael, I'm sorry to interrupt your shoot, but when you have a few moments, would you mind writing a forward for my second book? My mom's second book was a warm and funny collection of short stories about my father, ingeniously titled About Your Father. Well, Mom, to be honest, my last forward was pretty thorough. I'm not sure what I can say that I haven't said already. I know, Michael, but you have such a way with words.

Just a few lines, dear, when you have a moment. What about Dad, I ask? He's got away with words, too. Your father's a very busy man, Michael. And besides, you're still the only celebrity I know. So I canceled my plans that evening, went back to my hotel, and stayed up until 4 a.m. writing the best forward I could possibly write. I mean, really.

How could I say no? When your 82-year-old mother asks you to write the forward for her second book, you can't help but consider the possibility that it might also be her last book. And so, once again, I held nothing back. I not only raved about her persistence, determination, and natural talent. I also shared a few funny stories about my dad and the many delightful idiosyncrasies that have endeared him to so many people. Now, was my second forward as good as my first forward?

No. The sequel is never as good as the original. But apparently it was good enough for another New York Times bestseller, which is exactly what about your father became the moment it hit the shelves. Once again, I was thrilled by my mother's success, but surprised by the phone call I received two years later while filming a new episode of Dirty Jobs. Michael, I'm sorry to interrupt your shoot,

but when you have a few moments, would you mind writing the forward for my third book? You've got to be shitting me. Michael! Language. I'm sorry, Mom. I'm in a septic tank at the moment. Can I call you back this evening? Of course, dear.

But the publisher is in a terrible hurry. Do you think we could get a forward from you sometime tomorrow? Again, how could I say no? If there's one thing I've learned about the entertainment business, it's to never turn your back on a winning formula. Why else would I still be hosting a TV show from a septic tank? And now, at 84 years of age, my mother's discovered the same is true in publishing.

And so, here I am, once again, sitting in a hotel room at 1 a.m. searching for something new to share about my mother's lifelong obsession with the written word, something I haven't already told you twice. Okay. How about this? When I was a baby, my mother used to write stories while she was nursing me. I don't remember this, thank God. But Mom told me recently that I nearly choked to death one morning because she had left me latched on to the point where I could no longer swallow. Apparently, she was so immersed in whatever it was writing, she forgot about the baby on her boob swelling up like a tick.

That's the essence of the woman on the cover of this book, an aspiring author who never stopped writing, a distracted housewife who imagined herself a best-selling author 60 years before she finally became one. For as long as I can remember, my mother has been armed with a yellow legal pad and a number two pencil, chronicling the world around her. To this day, she still writes everywhere she goes. Beauty salons, baseball games, state fairs, supermarkets, pool halls, and planetariums. You never know where she'll whip out her yellow pad and start scribbling.

Whereas my father still enters the bathroom with a book or a newspaper, my mother goes in with her pad and pencil and comes out with a screenplay or a sonnet. You never know where inspiration might strike, she says, or when you'll see something worth jotting down. My mother loves her three sons, but growing up, she never really talked to us. She interviewed us. When I came home from my first summer camp in 1975, she was waiting for me, at the kitchen table with her pad and pencil. Welcome home, she said. I missed you. Now,

tell me everything. Leave nothing out. I told her how much I love the woods and the wildlife and the nightly campfires. I told her about canoeing down the rapids, winning the archery competition, and sleeping under the stars. The faster I talked, the faster she scribbled. I told her about navigating with the map and compass and cooking the fish I caught myself in a mountain stream. I told her about the bear that raided our camp and ate all our food and the hot air balloon ride that nearly ended in disaster when we missed the power lines by inches before landing in a tree. Two days later, there was a story on my pillow called A Dangerous Walk in the Woods with a daring young protagonist whose adventures were identical to my own.

In December of that year, my father decided it would be foolish to buy another Christmas tree. Why pay good money for a tree, he said, when the woods out back are full of them? So my dad fired up the tractor, loaded the cart with axes and sauls, and led my brothers and me on a quest to find the perfect Christmas tree. What we brought home, however, was not a fir or a pine or a spruce. Honestly, I don't know what it was. It looked like a hedge with a pointy top, and it took up half our living room. I remember, Mom, scribbling away as my brothers and I were stringing lights and hanging tinsel.

I recall Christmas carols playing on the transistor radio and the smell of gingerbread wafting in from the kitchen. My dad was trying to affix the star to the top of our pointy hedge when suddenly a starling flew out from the tangled depths and bounced off his forehead. I remember my brothers and I laughing as our dog took off after the bird, barking like mad and chasing it all over the house. Mostly, though, I remember the script that appeared beneath the tree on Christmas morning, an elaborate radio play that chronicled the events of that day with individual roles for everyone in the family.

Later that day, we recorded A Christmas for the Birds by Peggy Rowe on a newfangled reel-to-reel tape recorder liberated from the AV department of the junior high school where my father taught. I'm pretty sure she still has the tape. It was this fundamental inability to distinguish between life and material that compelled my mother to write. To her way of thinking, everything was content and everyone, fair game for a future story, including the dearly departed. I recall more than a few funerals where my mom was called upon to deliver the eulogy and left the mourners in stitches. It's fun to write for dead people, she says. They're so much more appreciative than publishers.

She preferred to write about the living, however. And boy, did she. Every few days there was a new profile pinned to our refrigerator with the magnet. I recall the story. I recall the story. about a cop who still patrolled the neighborhood on horseback, and the crab fisherman who hadn't taken a day off in 30 years, and the old widower who lived down the road that was awarded the Silver Star at Iwojima. Mom's stories often appeared in newspapers and magazines, but whenever she sent them off to a major publisher

with a proposal to turn them into a book, the only thing that came back was a rejection letter. There was just no appetite for a random collection of stories cobbled together by an unknown housewife in Baltimore, unless you were my father, who preferred to read my mother's stories out loud, oftentimes, to total strangers. Pardon me, he'd say, sliding into a crowded booth at Bob's big boy, but I've got a treat that you folks won't find on the menu. He'd then pull a few pages from his back pocket and say, have you heard the latest from Peggy Row?

Most people had no idea how to respond to this kind of unsolicited entertainment, so they simply sat there, perplexed, as a short man with a loud voice began to read my mother's latest poem, play, or short story. One day, in a packed elevator, my father began reciting a series of limericks my mother had written that Sunday during the sermon. Pretty good, right? And she's not even Irish. That's the way it was. For 60 years, mom wrote hundreds of stories, the publishers rejected them all, and my father read them out loud to whoever would listen. Imagine that, if you can. Six decades of, thank you for your submission, Mrs. Roe, but not at this time. Six decades of, hey, my wife wrote a haiku on a ferris wheel. I'll read it for you. If you've read the forwards in either of my mother's previous best-seller,

you know that her first publisher was me. Back in May of 2018, I printed 10,000 copies of About My Mother and offered them for sale on Facebook, seemed the least I could do for the woman who nearly drowned me in breast milk. Those first 10,000 copies sold out in no time, and that got the attention of the big boys,

who took a closer look at my mother's work and finally realized what her husband had known all along, that Peggy Rowe is a hell of a writer, which brings us to the book you're about to begin. Vacuuming in the nude is the true story of one writer's journey. It's not an attempt to teach you how to write or how to get published, and while it is a love letter to persistence and determination, it's not a blanket invitation to never quit or always stay the course.

Staying the course only makes sense if you're headed in the right direction, and my mother has no idea where you're headed, or if your dreams align with your talents. Thus, you will not find much here in the way of advice. What you will find is encouragement. The same kind of encouragement she offered me, as I struggled for years to produce a TV show that people would watch. The same kind of encouragement my dad offered to her

with every unsolicited public reading of her latest work. When I asked my mother what she wanted her readers to take from this book, she said, I want people, especially aspiring writers, to see me as a cheerleader, standing on the sidelines of a marathon, offering them cups of cool water as they stumble toward the finish line, which is, of course, precisely how I have always felt in her company. As always, I sent my mom a draft of this, my worst forward to date, and at a very first forward to date, And as always, she corrected my spelling errors and called me to say thanks. See, she said, that wasn't so hard, was it?

Piece of cake, I said. I wrote the whole thing in half an hour. I can tell, she said. And I love the way you put so much of yourself into it. The way you mentioned all those different TV shows you work on. So clever. Well, you know what they say, Mom? Celebrity sells.

Oh, good, she said. Because my fourth book is nearly finished. And I was wondering. I love stories like this. Seven years ago, a guy named Ben Still was a musician. He had zero interest in running a food company, but he was annoyed that so much imported meat was being deceptively marketed and labeled as domestic and decided to fix the problem.

The result was a company called Good Ranchers. It's a completely honest, totally transparent meat company that deals directly with American farms and ranches and promises to deliver high-quality American-grown meat for a fair price. Today, that promise, and Ben's absolute determination to keep it, has not only propelled good ranchers into the top tier of meat delivery companies, it's fueled enormous awareness among meat eaters like me, that we have all been affirmatively deceived by policies that allow imported meat to be marketed as domestic. That's the reason I switched to good ranchers. If I'm being honest, though, I doubt that I would have stayed this long had the quality not been so exceptional.

Every single cut I've devoured from Good Ranchers has been straight up delicious, and every morsel was raised on a small American farm or ranch. Give them a try. Subscriptions are affordable and flexible. In fact, if you start your plan today, you'll get free meat for life and $40 off your first order. Just use code mic at good ranchers.com. Free meat for life, 40 bucks off your first order. Good ranchers.com. American meat delivered.

If you could eat a steer, if you could eat a cow, don't take a chance on a foreign ranch, get good ranchers now. E-Ha! Chapter 1. Getting it right. It was 2018, and I was waiting nervously on the sidelines as the manager of a Barnes and Noble bookstore stood at the microphone in front of a packed audience. He was holding up my first published book and smiling.

Nearby, an elderly gentleman stood in an aisle between the bookshelves, holding up a camera. He looked for all the world like a proud parent at a graduation ceremony. I bought this New York Times bestseller about my mother as a Christmas gift, the manager said. But first, I sat down to read a few pages. Two days later, I had read it from cover to cover and loved every word. Then I wrapped it and presented it to my mother, who also read it from cover to cover, and she laughed out loud on every page. It's my pleasure to introduce first-time author Peggy Rowe, an overnight success at the age of 80. My mind was still focused. on his introduction as I thanked him in the enthusiastic audience. Then I smiled in the direction

of the elderly gentleman, my husband John. Overnight success indeed, I thought, as though I had sat down at the computer one day in my late 70s and decided to give this writing thing a try. The humorist in me wanted to laugh out loud, if they only knew. Long before I was a published author, I was on a journey, a writing journey, that took me along a winding road filled with potholes and detours, a hairpin turn or two, and some pretty magnificent scenery. It was a road that would have come to a dead end 20 years earlier had fate not stepped in. This wasn't the first interesting introduction that got my attention.

Some years earlier in the mid-1990s, my husband and I, were at a social gathering, when John ran into an old teaching colleague. After they exchanged greetings, he introduced me. I don't believe you've met my wife. This is Peggy. She's a writer. It was the first time I'd heard myself described in that way, and I would have corrected John right then and there. But he said it in much the same manner.

A parent might mention that Johnny had just made the dean's list. And I didn't have the heart. I waited and made my feelings known in the car on the way home. John, you cannot tell people I'm a writer. When I haven't even been published, it makes me feel like a phony. I beg your pardon, you are a writer. You go to writers' conferences, you belong to critique groups, you take writing courses, you took a photography course, and it didn't make you a photographer.

And what am I supposed to say when people ask me what I've written? Oh, I write humorous poetry for special occasions. And if you need a creative eulogy for a funeral, I'm your girl. That does not make me a writer. Hun, you've written a book. You're finishing another one. You write all the time. In fact, you should enroll in Writers Anonymous. I wake up in the middle of the night. You're at the computer. I look up from the Lord's Prayer in church. You're making notes on the back of the morning bulletin. We're in the middle of dinner. You're making a beeline to the desk.

And you're not fooling me one bit when you roll over in bed and turn on your light. I only hope you're answering a creative urge and not rating my performance. No, I smiled. For that, I hold up a finger or two. My husband looked over at me and frowned. Or nine or ten, I added. Anyway, that's what makes you a writer, John laughed. Well, that in a dusty house, a pile of ironing that's taller than I am,

and the crop of mold in the vegetable drawer of the fridge. And you can't refer to a manuscript that's collecting dust on the bottom shelf as a book. I have a folder full of rejection slips that prove it's no good. They prove nothing. Look how far you've come. Everybody loves your writing, Maggie. I've even seen your writing make people laugh at a funeral. Loved ones cannot be objective.

It's one of the things I've learned at writers' conferences over the years, and it's why my husband has always been a lousy critic. He claims to like everything I write. Whenever I complete a story, no matter what it is, John reads it aloud to me so that I can hear it and make it better. It was and continues to be a valuable age. for revision. Often he reads the same passages multiple times, without complaint, claiming to love it every time. Though he was right about my poems, more than once they had revived a party where the

guests looked as if they had inhaled chloroform, and it was true that I had brought laughter to mourners at my friend's funeral service. I couldn't believe Anne was making such an unreasonable request, and from her deathbed, no less, when she knew I couldn't refuse. Oh, Peggy, she whispered, I've put my family through hell these past three years. Would you please speak at my funeral and make them laugh or smile? I lay awake that night. How in the world do you make a grieving family laugh

when they're burying their beloved wife and mother? I reminded myself that it was humor after all, that had defined our relationship, two wives and mothers bonding over the travails of family life and laughing at our cellulite, spider veins, and vanishing waistlines. Of course, much of our girl talk had been personal, but I had years of material to draw on. I could do this.

I sat down at my computer and wrote my very best humor. At the surface, I stood between Anne's open casket and her family, seated at the front of an overflowing room. An exhausted and tearful husband, children who had grown up with my own sons, grandchildren, brothers, nieces, cousins, nephews, all waiting, tissues in hand for me to extol the admirable qualities of this remarkable woman. And so I began, hoping for some sympathetic smiles. Without notes and meeting their gaze, I saw, spoke of my friend's dying request and asked for their support. There were looks of skepticism, I wasn't surprised. When I left my administrative job in our church's preschool and assumed my

position, I explained. I was all too familiar with the challenges of the job, the committee oversight, the preacher's intrusive daily check-ins, parental expectations, and unreasonable health department demands. Not to mention the daily supervision of 13 classroom teachers and AIDS and the 100 precious angels in our care. Oh yeah, there was stress galore. And I knew from experience that sharing stories would be therapeutic, essential even to my friend's sanity. Peggy, you won't believe this, Anne had said on one of her calls. Ms. Clark came in today to register her three-year-old. After our interview, I asked her,

does Donnie have any unusual words for using the bathroom that his teachers should know about? Without hesitation, she responded, No, nothing unusual. But sometimes when he goes stinky, he forgets to push Mr. Beeper down and winkles on the wall.

But no unusual words. There was actual laughter, and I silently thanked God. I told them about another call from Anne after she had gone into the three- and four-year-old's room and discovered a child taped to his chair with yards of masking tape. Another child had a strip of masking tape across his mouth. As teachers, we laughed together because we were well aware of the temptations. But as administrators and mothers, we were horrified

and arranged for an immediate staff refresher course in classroom management and disciplinary strategies. I told Anne about my unforgettable first day on that same job and the warm welcome I had received from two-year-old Stacy, who looked me square in the eye, gritted her little teeth and screamed, I hate you, poopy face! And there was wide-eyed four-year-old Eric, who had looked at you. at his teacher in wonder and innocence and exclaimed, Miss Jean, you have big boobies. Then, over exceptionally loud laughter, I said,

Miss Jean is here today if you'd like to introduce yourself. I had considered saying you'll recognize her, but that seemed a bit too on the nose, as it were. I was glad I had spoken to her beforehand. I like to think that my friend, reclining on a pillow of satin nearby, was comforted by my final gift that afternoon, as chuckles and laughter filled the air. I couldn't remember a time when I had found laughter more comforting. In the end, Anne's unreasonable request was a piece of cake, especially when compared

to the memorial service of an old college friend, when Bill's family asked me to say a few words, I considered refusing. What does one say about a man who had been unfaithful and verbally abusive to his wife, my close friend of many years? I made the tough decision and agreed. Then faced the writing challenge of a lifetime. Instead of addressing Bill the husband and his shortcomings,

he did, after all, have children who loved him, I spoke of Bill the friend, who had visited me in the hospital through the years to show his concern, who had shown up at our door with a pot of soup when John and I were both ill, and who had helped us to mourn at my parents' funerals, shedding genuine tears of compassion. The only humor of the day came after my talk when mutual friends quietly complimented me on my editing skills. Thinking back, my husband had a point about me being a writer. It had become my life. And it was almost a curse. When I wasn't at my computer, I was reading books on the

subject or thinking about a story. I woke up in the middle of the night to jot down an idea or to finish an entire chapter. I wrote when my arthritis was aching. I wrote while waiting for a colonoscopy. Oh yeah. I wrote when I should have been dusting or cleaning out the refrigerator. And no, I've never written during moments of passion, please give me some credit, though I can't guarantee you that my mind wasn't outlining a story. If I'd had credentials in journalism, I could have been a decent reporter. I interviewed everyone I met from the used car salesman who told me about a test drive that ended in a carjacking at gunpoint, to an undertaker who spoke of a client who had chosen to be buried in her valuable full-length mint coat so that her greedy daughter-in-law wouldn't get it.

The truth was, I had come a long way from that timid woman who would rather clean a crusty oven than share her writing. Just as a butterfly emerges from a cocoon and discovers the wonders of nature, I had emerged from the shadows and discovered the true reward of creative writing, which is, of course, sharing. One presenter at a writer's conference actually told the class, sharing your work isn't important. The important thing in writing is to feel fulfilled. As my husband would say, hogwash.

For sure, personal fulfillment is important. But writing is a two-way street. A conversation. What is the point of a story or a poem if it is never heard or read? If it doesn't move, entertain or inspire someone, if it doesn't enlighten or comfort someone, and on occasion even horrify or disgust someone. It was the early 1960s when I discovered the joy of writing and sharing.

I was fresh out of college and teaching third grade in the Baltimore County Public Schools. It was long before I thought of myself as a writer and decades before being published. My class was about to begin a unit on animals, and I had decided to introduce it with a poem. What better way to spark the children's interest and imagination. So I began searching through poetry books. Meanwhile, my husband and I were taking a walk through the woods behind our apartment when we came upon a box turtle, and voila, I had my introduction. The problem was, I needed a poem more visual than the ones I'd found in books,

So I sat down and wrote my own. I called it turtles. With a live box turtle moseying across the floor at the front of the classroom, I read my original poem aloud to rave reviews. What was meant as motivation for the students had a surprising result. The children's enthusiasm for my poetry was the motivation I needed for further writing and sharing. My epiphany happened on the school playground at recess the day I came upon a group of my girls chanting my poems from memory while jumping rope to the rhythmic rhyming meter. It was better even than seeing a bonus in my paycheck, although my husband might not see it that way. One of their favorites was turtles. Turtles. Turtles are pokey wherever they go. They carry their houses. That's why they're so

slow. When playing on grass or crossing the street, they're dragging their shelter on four tiny feet. And when they get tired wherever they roam, they're lucky to have their own mobile home. If raindrops should fall when they've gone to town, they don't have to wonder if windows are down. When leaving for school or shopping at stores, they don't have to bother to lock their front doors. Sure, turtles are slow, but you would be too. if you had to carry your whole house with you. It didn't take me long to realize that little boys pay close attention to and willingly memorize,

irreverent, nonsensical, and even rude poetry. So I happily accommodated them with a reading language activity to their liking, perhaps a science unit on health. Nutrition My neighbor Tom eats bugs and worms and bark from apple trees. You'd think he'd get a stomach ache or catch some bad disease. One day he chased a little frog that hopped into our yard. He caught it, stuffed it in his mouth,

blinked twice, and swallowed hard. My sister said she saw him eat a tiny, shiny rock. One morning, he took off his shoe and ate his smelly sock. Last summer on July the 4th, he ate at a cherry bomb, then took off like a rocket ship, and now we can't find Tom. I'm not sure I could get away with using my original homespun poetry in today's structured, transparent classroom environment, no matter how enriching. Though I'm confident, they inflicted no harm on my captive audience and taught me the true joy of sharing. The ultimate reward comes when the writing we share makes a difference in someone's life. When this someone is your seven-year-old son,

it's all the sweeter. It was the early 1970s, the afternoon Scott came home in tears, threw his books on the sofa and declared, I'm never going back to that school. My teacher yells like a banshee all day long and she spits when she's screaming. I can't stand it. I was aware of his teacher's reputation.

Indeed, the entire school knew that she was at the end of her teaching career, as well as at the end of her rope, and she was struggling to hold on until the end. She reminded me of an old herding dog who, after a long, devoted career, turns on the sheep he is meant to guide and protect and is forced into retirement. After that day I did two things. I began volunteering in the classroom once a week and encouraged other mothers to do the same. It somewhat lowered the decibel level in the room

from that of, say, a running motorcycle engine to that of normal conversation. My most rewarding solution was a humorous poem I wrote to share with the sweetest, smartest seven-year-old ever. While she's screaming on the outside, Scott, I told him, you just think about this poem and laugh on you. the inside. It was our little secret this short poem, until now. The Banshee. When I was in the second grade, my teacher loved to scream. Just inches from my face, she'd shout. Her volume was extreme.

She shrieked and yelled from nine to three. Her voice was terrifying. Her eyes bugged out, her lips curled back, and then the spit came flying. I feared that I would drown that year. Saliva filled the air. I kept a towel inside my desk to dry my face and air. She really didn't have a clue, that screaming, spitting teacher, a student's never going to learn from such a fearsome creature. I decided John was right. If working in a garden every day growing vegetables or flowers makes one a gardener, and if reading a book every week makes one a reader, and if running a few miles a day makes one a runner, then I was a writer, published or not. I had certainly done my homework. I looked forward to Tuesday evenings and hanging out with fellow writers the way a school

kid looks forward to Friday afternoons and playing with friends. A professor from a recent creative writing course at the community college had invited four students to join him in a critique group. For a couple of hours a week, we sat around a table at the local Barnes and Noble cafe, drinking coffee, and reading our work aloud. Not only did I experience the power of positive critique and benefit from the group's ideas, I grew comfortable with criticism and learned when to ignore it and follow my own instincts. My most valuable critique ever was the result of ignoring the advice I had heard in writing courses and at writer's seminars through the years. Don't ask family members to read your writing. They love you, so of course they want to love

your work. You will not get an honest assessment. And didn't I know it? That didn't stop me from sharing my first book, a middle grade novel with my young granddaughters. Three-year-old Jessica listened while building with Legos, putting a puzzle together or coloring a picture. Then there was Katie, who had been an early reader. I remember the Christmas she was four

and read a children's picture book allowed to my sister Janet, a career first grade teacher. She's memorized it, of course, said Janet. No, she really reads, I said. So my sister turned to the glossary in the back of the book and asked Katie to read the list

of vocabulary words, which she did perfectly. Now seven, Katie sat beside me, captivated, as we took turns reading about a nerdy young boy who wanted nothing more than to be left alone with his books. I religiously avoid lofty phrases such as, my heart soared, or the angel sang, or the sound of a heavenly choir descended from the clouds. That said, when it was time for dinner or bed, and my granddaughter pleaded, Oh, grandmom, just one more chapter, please? Well, I'll just say that such reactions brought overwhelming joy to this grandmother and writer. So much so, in fact, that I began sharing other age-appropriate writings with my homegrown mini-focused group. One evening, as Jessica lay

asleep in the next bed, I sat beside Katie and read aloud my latest short story. When I finished, my granddaughter gave me a concise critique. I like the story, grandmom, she said, but you need to put the good parts closer together. A seven-year-old had just told me that I needed to lose the parts that people skip and keep only the good parts. It was great advice that I've applied to everything I have written to this day. Who knew that putting words on paper could be so rewarding? And who knew that putting words on paper could bring such heartache? Shameless plug!

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Soon may the nobleman come to bring a bottle for everyone. When the waitin is done, we'll take a drink and go. Chapter 2. Playing the game. My husband doesn't call me Pollyanna for nothing, as I'm famous for seeing the positive side of things. Ask anybody who knows me. It's a trait that came in handy while raising children and teaching. There was that afternoon many years ago, for instance,

when Mike and Scott brought their 18-month-old brother Phil to the back door to show off their artwork. work. Look what we did, Mommy, Mike said proudly. It's our creation. From the wild cherry tree, Scott added, giggling. My precious toddler was covered in creepy, crawly caterpillars, his nose, ears, hair, arms, legs. I could easily have screamed very loudly. But as Phil was giggling, too, I could see the humor and simply reminded them, caterpillars go poopy, you know. That's okay, one of them said. We'll wash him off in the stream.

And no, that did not happen. Then there was that day some years later when 10-year-old Skippy looked me in the eye and said, I don't have to listen to you. You're not my teacher. You're just a substitute. Instead of getting angry, I was able to smile sweetly and say, you know what?

You're right, Skippy. You don't have to listen to me. You go on down to the office now and listen to Mr. Royston for a while. But even Pollyanna had her limits. With two unpublished manuscripts collecting dust on the shelf and enough rejection slips to paper the walls of our church sanctuary, Pollyanna had left the building. In college, I worked hard and followed the rules

by attending classes on time all the time, completing assignments and studying for tests. and my hard work had been rewarded with a degree and a teaching career. I had played the game equally as hard at my writing craft and hoped for similar results from the publishing world. In the early 1980s, years before email submissions, I wrote exemplary query letters, tons of them, all adhering to the publisher's strict rule,

no simultaneous submissions, which meant sending to only one, one publisher at a time, though I knew plenty of writers who didn't comply. I followed formatting guidelines faithfully, wide margins, double-spaced lines, 12-point black type on the whitest of paper, sent off in a neatly addressed manila envelope, including an S-A-S-E, self-address-stamped envelope. My submissions had everything but a blessing from the Pope. I knew what it was to walk to the mailbox day after day for months, with hope in my heart and a prayer on my lips, until that dreaded rejection notice appeared, only to repeat the process with another publisher and another and another,

and doing my crying in private. The defeat was that personal. Nowadays, with the advent of electronic submissions, the process is way more civilized. A writer can send off a query or article or story in an email before breakfast and be in tears before lunch. Ah, progress. So after years of disappointment, I showed them, I quit the discouraging process and stepped away from writing altogether. It was time to move on, opening one more envelope with a rejection slip bordered on masochism. For two years, with my book manuscripts languishing out of sight in a drawer, I stayed away from writing, turning my attention to gardening with houseplants on every window sill,

flower beds, and a vegetable garden that attracted rabbits and deer from neighboring zip codes. I took a knitting course at the local high school and made caps and mittens and Christmas stockings. I took a quilting class and immersed myself in cutting, piecing and sewing fabric. I made a quilt for our bed, one for each of our three sons, and one for the dog's bed, all the while mentally composing articles for horticulture publications as well as quilting

and stitching magazines. And then, Bates stepped in. How well I remember that day in 1997 when a letter appeared in my mailbox I would happily have traded for a dozen rejection notices. the results for my annual mammogram. I was 59, and rejection was suddenly no longer the most dreaded word in my vocabulary. It had been replaced by an entire dictionary of terrifying terms, needle biopsy, ductal carcinoma, surgery, radiation, depression, and cancer support group. Writing two children's books was but a fond, yet disappointing. memory with the writing community a thing of the past. The surrounding darkness was reminiscent

of an abandoned coal mine we had visited when the kids were young. There was complete lack of light, palpable, isolating, debilitating. The humor had evaporated from my world, and there was nothing to look forward to. One evening, son Mike visited, and I tried to explain what it felt like to be me. I have no control over my life, I told him. Mom, he said, if you have ever had material dropped in your lap, it's now. You're a writer. Sit down and write about this chapter of your life. How do you feel when you wake up in the morning?

How has it affected Dad and your relationship? And while you're at it, find some humor. You can do it. Look at me, Michael Rowe, I scream. Do I look like somebody who's going to sit down? and write a funny story, I can't even think, much less right. But he was having none of it. Think about the people you love. Do it for Dad. Do it for Scott and Phil and me and your granddaughters. Write it for the thousands of women out there who have had a similar diagnosis,

people you'll never meet. You don't get it, Mike. I can write it and I can make it good, but I can't get it published, and I can't take the rejection. But you wouldn't know about that. It saps your self-confidence, your self-worth. And then he had the nerve to laugh right in front of his mother who had cancer. Mom, I'm a performer. I'm in show business. I've done freelance work.

Rejection is my middle name. I haven't told you about all the auditions. had that ended in rejection. Just write your story for now, and maybe someday you can share it and make a difference. So I did. And I was grateful that my son had the grace not to tell me to stop thinking about myself. I survived the treatment and spent two years in a cancer support group making new friends and losing them, feeling angry, feeling fortunate, feeling guilty, and journaling. And journaling, every step of the way, with humor and optimism when possible. At the end, I wrote my story. And years later, during Breast Cancer Awareness Month, October, Mike published it on his social media

page. It was read by millions who left thousands of poignant and heartwarming comments. I called my story, finding the humor and making a difference. The people in my story were real, though I change their names. The wellness community is now Hopewell Cancer Support in Baltimore. Certain events in our lives are unforgettable. The birth of a child, the death of a parent, an anxiously awaited telephone call from the doctor. Even now, decades later, I still remember every word.

My husband handed me the phone as I sat up in bed. I had the pathology from your surgery, Mrs. Rowe, said the doctor. I tilted the phone so John could hear. It's good news, he said. John and I exhaled and exchanged grateful glances as I ran my fingers over the white bandage protruding from the top of my nightgown. It was a ductal carcinoma, and we got good margins.

My secretary will give you an appointment to remove the stitches next week. We'll have a chat then. Bring your hubby along. After making another appointment, we said goodbye, and John returned the phone to the kitchen with a spring in his step I hadn't seen in weeks. Hey, hon, get that medical dictionary from the bookcase I called out to him,

reaching for my robe, and realizing that for the first time in days, I felt hungry. John leaped through the pages. Dr. Carcinoma, Dr. Carcinoma, Dr. Carcinoma, Dr. Dr. As he read, I listened, stunned. At the age of 59, I did indeed have breast cancer.

We looked at each other wondering what the good news was. The following week our question was answered. The good news was that I'd had my regular mammogram, the picture that exposed a small tumor before it could breach the walls of the milk docked and spread. We caught it in the early stages, the doctor said. Days later, an oncologist explained that Aaron cancer cells might have broken away from the tumor. It just takes one small cell, he warned, and prescribed 30 rounds of radiation just in case. No big deal, we told ourselves. It was less

traumatic than chemotherapy. During that first session, lying flat with my arm resting over my head, a purple grid was tattooed onto the target area. The following week, after the incision had healed, I pulled on a wrinkled blue gown and lay on a table in the cavernous treatment room while technicians manipulated a monster machine. When it was positioned just above the grid, they told me to lie perfectly still, then scurried away, taking refuge behind a bunker at the back of the room. A red light flashed, a loud buzzer sounded, and the linear accelerator droned. I tried not to think of the doctor's warning of possible dizzards. damage to my heart, lung, and other healthy tissue. It was over in no time for that day. The next day, same drill, flashing light, deafening, beeping buzzer, scurrying texts.

It was the London Blitz, and I was left alone on the streets with the lethal rays while technicians disappeared down into the bomb shelters. Two months was an eternity not to shower or use soap. Clothing felt like medieval chain mail over the painful, persistent, seeping red rash. I checked off the treatments on a calendar. On day 15, swallowing became difficult, and I decided to discontinue the radiation. The oncologist strongly warned that doing so would render the current treatment ineffective. Once famous for humming cheerfully around the house and a perpetual smile, I began crying for no apparent reason. The smallest challenge tried my patients,

and my husband found himself living with a stranger who flew into a rage at the least provocation. Through tears, I spoke with a nurse practitioner at the radiation center. You're suffering from depression, she said, and mentioned the name of a cancer support group. Oh, I don't need a support group, I told her. I have family and supportive friends.

You say you're always close to tears, you're angry, and your behavior's irrational. That sounds like depression. It was true and uncharacteristic of me. Here you go, she said, handing me a brochure. The wellness community is an amazing place. Believe me, nobody understands you like other people who are going through the same thing. Give it a try. I put the paper in my purse and forgot about it.

until the following morning when my husband made a ridiculous, unreasonable suggestion. You should get out of the house and take a walk on such a beautiful day, hon. So naturally, I did the only logical thing. I picked up a salt shaker and hurled it at his head. Thanks to quick reflexes John ducked in time. While he was hiding the kitchen knives, I made an appointment. On Tuesday afternoon, I found myself of the wellness community sitting with a group of seven strangers, adult men and women, young and old, from opposite ends of the economic spectrum, all struggling to cope with the stress of living with cancer. I had no way of knowing then just how dramatic my introduction to the group would be.

Our leader, a compassionate, experienced psychotherapist, kept the conversation flowing, as well as boxes of tissues and chocolates. I hadn't yet spoken when I helped myself to a piece of Whitman's candy, then stood up and carried the box to Bill, who was lying on a sofa with a pillow beneath his head. Still recovering from his latest round of chemo, the middle-aged man had been met at curbside with a wheelchair that day. I was holding out the box of candy when I suddenly tripped over Bill's shoes. As chocolates fell onto his face and neck, I fell awkwardly onto his body with my hand in an unfortunate place. Appalled, I shot to my feet, fearful that I had inflicted mortal damage on this poor suffering soul. Oh, I'm so sorry, I said.

Bill casually rolled a soft center chocolate from his chin into his mouth. chuckled and said something along the lines of, Believe me, it was my pleasure. This is the first time I've smiled in days. The group laughed along with Bill and me, and when it was my turn to speak, I shared my cancer story. I finished with a salt shaker incident,

hoping I wouldn't be judged too harshly. Oh, that's nothing, Carol said. I threw a plate of sausages at my husband the other morning for no reason at all. When I recalled tears of frustration over a painful radiation rash and trouble swallowing, Betty told us about breaking down in the grocery store

when she couldn't find her favorite cereal. Annie told us about trying to open the driveway gate that very morning. I pushed. And when it wouldn't budge, I laid my head on my arm and sobbed until my husband came to my rescue. So out of character from me, she said,

shaking her head. Later in the session, when the leader brought in a bowl of seedless green grapes and headed for Bill, he held up his hand and said emphatically, I want Peggy to deliver mine. Over the following months, I was buoyed by members' courageous optimism and saddened by their despair. Nobody gave advice or told someone else how they should feel. I felt like a fraud, sharing my limelight with people in the latter stages of the disease and suffering from the devastating effects of chemo.

When I heard there was a waiting list for Tuesday afternoons, I offered to drop out and make space for someone more deserving. But our leader convinced me that my presence was important to the group dynamic. Please stay, Peggy, she urged. Each person brings something special. Your sense of humor is a breath of fresh air. And so I continued on, long after my treatment, ended and our kitchen knives were returned to the drawer. Long after my burning radiation rash faded

and I could resume showering. Long after I could swallow normally, I supported my Tuesday family. I was embarrassed the day Nadine shared an intimate story with us. Since my chemo and hormone treatments, something really strange has happened, she said, whenever I sneeze, I have an orgasm. I wasn't sure if she was serious, but we all laughed, and I asked her if she had reported this to her health care provider. Maybe they can do something for you, I suggested with an innocent expression. Oh, I will, she said, when I get around to it. There was more laughter. The following week, as we were celebrating her birthday with cake and ice cream, I handed Nadine a small gift.

It isn't much, but I hope it brings you pleasure, I said. as she unwrapped the small can of black pepper and laughed until ginger ale bubbled from her nose. Do not open that here, I warned her, shaking my finger. Once again, laughter erupted from the group. We cheered when someone's blood count improved, when an MRI confirmed no new tumor growth, and when Judy dawned a new wig. The Tuesday afternoon when 35-year-old Sandra sashayed through the door with her newly grown hair and sporting and outstanding pair of newly reconstructed breasts, we ooed and awed and and celebrated with two round cakes, each with the Hershey's kiss in the center. There were unspoken prayers for Carol as she traveled to far-off hospitals for experimental treatments and mourning when those

treatments failed. I shed genuine tears of grief at Bill's funeral and was outraged when Doris's husband announced that he could no longer cope with her cancer and left her alone. A year and a half after joining the support group, I shared with them how cancer had changed my life. I talked about the harmless cough and stiff neck that sent me racing to the doctor, and I told them about an embarrassing trip to a specialist. I woke up one morning and noticed the swelling on either side of my nose, I said. I was convinced that my cancer had returned. My doctor referred me to an E.N.T. The same one who had removed our children's tonsils. During the examination, he peered at me over his glasses, and in a fatherly, Dr. Marcus' well-be impersonation,

said, I'm going to be honest with you, Mrs. Rowe. I braced myself, some rare type of rhino cancer, undoubtedly, leaving me horribly disfigured before I would finally lose my struggle. Then he put his hand on my arm, and with a twinkle in his eye said, In all my years of practice, I have never seen, nor have I heard of, a case of breast cancer metastasizing to the nose. The group left along with me. On my final visit to the wellness community, a full two years after joining, I shared the story of the rare cancer on my hand.

The suspicious white streak on my knuckle had appeared one even, after my shower, and by the following morning was surrounded by redness and swelling. My GP referred me to a surgeon. In a sterile theater, wearing a mask and gown, he removed a foreign body from my hand that was roughly one-half-inch in length and looked to be wooden. My husband brought it home in a jar, examined it under a magnifying glass, took a picture of it beside a toothpick and pronounced it. The most expensive splinter in the history of medicine. When company comes, John shows it off like it's the Hope Diamond. Yes, sir, he says, the golden spike. At the end of my cancer ordeal, I put my story aside and returned to my small writing group.

I had missed my two buddies, Donna and Elizabeth, both fine writers, unfailingly supportive. Still, writing was an uphill climb. After cancer, everything else seemed frivolous. One weekend, Elizabeth and Donna drove to an out-of-town writer's conference. On their return, Elizabeth handed me a magazine. Peg, the editor of this horse publication is looking for stories. You speak horse, and you're so good with short stories. Why don't you put your novels aside for now and concentrate on shorter pieces, to submit. I agree, said Donna, that story you wrote about your scary childhood dentist is hilarious.

People will love your humor. Give it a try, pay. What do you have to lose? They were right, of course. I had survived my cancer ordeal, just as my seven-year-old son had survived his banshee decades earlier. The risk of rejection paled in comparison. So I climbed back on my horse and began writing every day.

day, short stories and essays, lots of them, without knowing if they would ever be read. While I was at it, I composed a nonsense poem for a contest at an upcoming book fair I'd seen advertised. But I still wasn't ready to submit my work to publishers. Not yet. In truth, I was merely satisfying my addiction to storytelling. What fun it was moving the small bits and fragments of stories around like puzzle pieces, looking for the best fit and experiencing the satisfaction of an interesting tale. I came across the story about my scary childhood dentist that Donna had referred to. It was one of the first short stories I had written and was as much about my mother as it was my dentist. She was the mother who was always in charge,

the mother who had reacted to my cancer diagnosis in a predictable manner. Peggy, she said, you do not have cancer. You just have some calcification, that's all. You're going to be fine. I knew she needed to believe that. I also knew that she cried as she walked across the lawn back to her house. Donna was right. The dentist's story had enough humor for a Carol Burnett skit,

even if it was a tad on the dark side. A winning smile. If my mother said it once, she said it a hundred times. Peggy, your best friend is your toothbrush. If you take care of your teeth, your teeth will take care of you. Then she'd flashed me that winning smile, showing a row of perfect white teeth without one filling. I was treated to a similar pitch at the dinner table

when faced with a dish of hot, steamy turnip greens, kale, spinach, or collared greens. They were always served with the side of sage wisdom. Teeth and gums love leafy green vegetables, Peggy. I grew up on them. I'm here to tell you that not even a puddle of melted butter on top could make those disgusting greens tasty to a kid. But it wasn't as though I had a choice.

Not that I ever actually chewed them, thank God for cows, and the milk that could wash the offensive food, down the gullet without chewing. And forget dessert, unless we had company, or it was a special occasion like somebody's birthday, because as everybody knows, sugar causes cavities. My mother must have known what she was talking about because trips to the dentist were rare, except for the occasional childhood checkup where she stood beside the chair beaming as Dr. Neiman praised my dental hygiene and pronounced me cavity-free.

Mom would put her head back and sniff, taking all the credit. Once on the drive home, we passed the Paramount Theater where the name Errol Flynn was on the marquee. I heard her say as if to herself, hmm, Dr. Neiman reminds me of Earl Flynn. And then I turned that magic age of nine

and was deemed old enough to go to the dentist by myself. Instead of accompanying me and standing beside the chair during my checkups. My mother took to dropping me off at the front steps like I was the daily newspaper. Then she'd drive to the shops a block away and I'd meet her afterwards at the Acme or Woolworths. Of course, after a lecture about crossing Belair Road at the traffic light.

That's when my trips to the dentist took a decidedly dark turn. Instead of engaging in cheerful conversation with mom, Dr. Neiman and his assistant Marilyn joked with each other like I wasn't even sitting there between them. Next thing I knew, Errol Flynn was announcing that I had a couple of cavities and would need to be numbed so that I wouldn't feel the drill. He said it in the same casual tone as saying

it's a beautiful day, as though it were a rite of passage and no big deal. I must have looked alarmed because his friendly assistant patted me on the shoulder and said, it'll be over in a second. And then we just wait a few minutes while it gets numb. I'll do one today and you can come back next week for the second when the dentist said. Hold your horses, I wanted to say, no way, uh-uh, you've made a mistake. I don't get cavities.

I brush my teeth. I eat kale and turnip greens and spinach. I didn't know which was worse. The pain of the needle, the sound of the drill, the numbness of my tongue and lip, or knowing I'd have to tell my mother that I had two cavities. I was left alone while the Novacane performed its magic, but I always knew where Dr. Neiman and Marilyn were, as I could hear them chuckling and whispering somewhere behind my chair.

When it was over, Marilyn reminded me not to bite my numb lips, and I left. My mother's reaction to the news was disappointment and dismay, initially. Then she squinted her eyes and wondered, Peggy, are you sure you're brushing, top and bottom, inside and out? Then she accused me of sneaking candy. The following week as the dentist drilled and filled the second cavity, there was more of the same, numbing, giggling, whispering. Six months later, there was another cavity with two more needles

and longer to wait for numbing, with moaning behind the chair. I was just an innocent kid, but I wasn't stupid. I confided in my mother after witnessing some affectionate behavior between Errol Flynn and Miss Congeniality. Oh, you're mistaken, she said.

He's in the Lions Club with Dad. He's a husband and father, for goodness sake. His wife is right upstairs in their apartment. Do not spread ugly rumors like that, Peggy. With more approaching appointments, there were nightmares. The trepidation began in earnest when I entered the tall two-story house, my heart pounding like the hoofbeats of a thoroughbred, coming down the stretch at Tumonium racetrack. Every detail of those visits is etched in my memory, the way Daddy's name was etched in his bowling trophies, the stark waning room with a faint odor of disinfectant. The row of

wooden chairs reminiscent of the Greyhound bus terminal where we picked up visiting relatives and the table with neatly arranged magazines, as though a person could enjoy reading, knowing what loomed on the other side of the office door. It was the enormous oak grandfather clock in the corner that dominated the waiting room, the long pendulum swinging back and forth, back and forth, ticking off the minutes and bringing me closer to that Armageddon our preacher talked about. It was like that clock on the wall in the movie High Noon, bringing Gary Cooper closer to the treacherous outlaws committed to finishing him off. The office door would eventually open like I knew it would, and some poor, bloodied,

numbed soul would hurry to freedom. A minute later, Marilyn would appear. with her full red lips, thick glasses and large facial pores. Are we ready for the doctor? She would ask, all bubbly like it was my turn on a carnival ride, the carnival ride from hell. I wanted to scream and run for the hills. But I'd only have to face my mother, who could be as scary as any dentist.

It was the 1940s, long before child-friendly dentistry with colorful uniforms, patient bibs with frolicing puppy dogs, happy music in the background, and spinning mobiles hanging from the ceiling to take your mind off the gruesome business at hand. It was also a time before fluoride in the water, high-speed drills, x-rays, and second opinions. An appointment could go on for hours, because when it came to my treatment, Dr. Neiman had carte blanche. He could cut the nose right off my face and my mother would say, well, you're the doctor, Mr. Flynn.

Ah, I mean Dr. Neiman. There was always a cavity requiring Novacaine and multiple jabs. I had a nickname for him which my parents said was disrespectful. Maybe if you come with me like you used to, Dr. Needleman won't find the cavity, I told Mom. But she had already reconciled my plight with the fact that I had soft teeth. teeth like my father. Needleman had pulled all of dad's teeth two years earlier. I was 10 years old that day I saw my dentist, reach out and grab his assistant's rear end the way you might pluck a ripe peach

from a low-hanging branch. Surely I was imagining things. I had, after all, just been jabbed with three needles filled with enough Novacane to stop a bull elephant dead in his tracks, and my eyes were teary. All I knew was, one minute Dr. Neiman was on my right, removing the needle from my mouth, and Marilyn was on my left, filling a small paper cup with water. And the next, my dentist's hand was grabbing his assistant's bottom and pulling her backwards across the floor, like he was reeling in the catch of the day. I didn't dare look, but I can tell you there was a lot of commotion behind me, squealing and giggling, like when my teeth.

teenage sister and her girlfriends had sleepovers. I sat, frozen, as though the novocaine had gone straight to my brain, rendering me deaf, dumb, and blind. I wondered if Mrs. Needleman ever dropped into the office, unannounced. Like most 10-year-olds back in the 1940s, I wasn't good at grasping lust and letchery. Besides, these two medical professionals look every bit as pure as the driven snow. He in a spotless white coat and she in a starched white uniform and polished shoes. It pained my eyes to look directly at them when the bright light was on. It was a lot to process. Dr. Neiman was a lion for Pete's sake. One thing I was sure of, Daddy would never treat mom in such a way. Yet this woman was all giggly and didn't seem to mind at all. Like I said, it was a lot for an immature 10-year-old to

process. Suddenly, a pointed nose, round glasses, pencil-thin mustache, and dark, slick back hair appeared just inches from my numbing face. Here's the weird part. He was panting like my old dog after chasing a rabbit on a summer day. Except that, nearer, Needleman's tongue wasn't hanging out, or at least I don't think it was. It's hard to remember. Perhaps he was having a major coronary event like my parents' old friend Glenn, who had played baseball in 90-degree weather at a church picnic and been carted off in an ambulance. I didn't know what Errol Flynn looked like. But as far as I was concerned, my dentist was a dead ringer for the villain who tied the girl to the railroad tracks in the Saturday afternoon

serial at the Paramount Theater. Just wait right there, he said, his voice all raspy. It'll take a while for you to get numb. We're going to get a little office work done while we're waiting. With that, they were gone, a whiteout and a blizzard blowing into the adjoining room to do some office work. some very noisy office work, if only my ears were as numb as my face. Oh yeah, my childhood dental experiences had all the elements of a good horror story. It wasn't quite marathon man, but there was pain, dread, suspense, and the scariest of villains. I never told my parents about this episode that had escalated to such a frenzied climax. But I do know that had it been a movie, it wouldn't have made it onto the short list my mother deemed suitable for her daughters, a list that banned the Three Stooges.

By the time I turned 11, I refused to return to Needleman's office. I had a theory that Novacaine was responsible for my less than stellar school performance. But of course, my mother wasn't buying it. When I became a teenager, Mom got a job as Secretary. bookkeeper in a dental office, and our family switched to that practice. The first time he examined me, my new dentist shook his head. My, my, you've had a lot of work done, Peggy. Who was your dentist? When I told him, he groaned, ever so quietly. One afternoon in high school, while waiting for the bus with my friend Jeannie, the subject of teeth came up. I made the comment, I had the worst dentist in the Oh, no, you didn't, she said, I did. We swapped horror stories about unnecessary fillings and needles and the behind-the-chair and backroom escapades. Our dentists were one and the same, of course.

Jeannie's father wasn't a lion, and their family left the practice long before we did. Her parents had a more heightened sense of humor than mine, however, and had come up with a nickname of their own after hearing their daughter's stories. Dr. Drill and Phil. I was naive for my age, and it would be a while before I fully appreciated the humor.