The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 275: BONUS: Vacuuming in the Nude Chapters 3 & 4

Episode Date: October 21, 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. 

The ocean delights us as playful otters restore coastal kelp forests. The ocean teaches us how our choices impact even the deepest places. The ocean connects us. Visit Monterey Bay Aquarium.org slash connects. Do do, do, do, do. Dum! 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 Roe 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, text, and data for just $3499 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, than 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 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. Pure Talk. Well, hello friends and welcome to another bonus episode of the way I heard it. This is episode number 275, otherwise known as week two of vacuuming in the nude. and other ways to get attention by my mother, Peggy Rowe. If you're late to the party, I'm making the audio version of my mom's latest book available for free here on the podcast platform with limited commercial interruptions today. For your edification and enlightenment, I am pleased to present chapters three and four.

If you miss chapters one and two, you ought to go back and listen to episode number 273, which actually kicks off with a forward by yours truly. We are very gratified, incidentally, by the response so far. Hundreds of thousands of people have listened to the first couple chapters, and to those of you who pose questions on our various Facebook pages about something you heard in her book, we're not ignoring you. What I'll do is assemble your questions into some kind of chronology and have my mom back on before the end of the year. To respond to your questions, it'll be fun.

In the meantime, please enjoy the latest installment of vacuuming in the nude and other ways to get attention. By my mother, Peggy Row. Do do do do do do do do do. 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

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our country home of almost 40 years for a condo in a modern four-story brick building with an elevator. There were no gardens to weed, no outdoor furniture to paint, and no more domestic diversions except cooking and occasional cleaning. After we were settled, there would be time to pursue my passion, and I would have a brand new start. I wanted to scream, Here I come writing world. It was almost that simple. On the advice of my husband, and on a downsizing frenzy, I threw away those folders bulging with rejection notices. There's only so much room in a condominium after all.

Besides, who wants to clutter their new home with reminders of inadequacy and failure? I might have kept one or two of the more encouraging ones, the ones that told me my writing showed promise, but that my story wasn't a good fit for their short list. I did keep one slip from a Maryland publisher who had simply stamped my query letter with a neat circle that contained the message.

Sorry, not at this time. Try again. So efficient. No needless words or time wasted on an encouraging message to a hopeful writer. We had the choice of a condo in the back of the building that faced a field in woods or woods, in the front, with a view of neighboring condos, a driveway, parking lot, and a trash corral. We hadn't yet made the decision when our son visited from out of town and weighed in.

Definitely the unit in the front, he advised. Lots of activity. You've seen enough rabbits and squirrels and deer. You'll enjoy the change. I can see you too now, eating at the kitchen table, your eyes glued to the front window watching people walking their dogs, traveling back and forth to the trash corral, bringing in the groceries, dad sitting on the balcony and chatting, the two of you speculating about the neighbors. We took exception to his assessment of our frivolous lifestyle. We weren't nosy busybodies after all,

but his little scenario did have appeal. And in the end, we chose the front unit. And everything he had said was true. Our sunroom was a proverbial window on the world, and we spent hours speculating about the young woman across the street and the suitability of her boyfriend, an elderly couple who seemed too frail to live on their own,

and a man who seemed to wander the neighborhood aimlessly. And boy, did we know stuff, important stuff like, who didn't break down their cardboard boxes before placing them in the trash corral. Who didn't pick up after their dog? And who blew through the stop signs in the parking lot? Not that we would ever act on any of these infractions or spread tails. We were simply observers.

First and foremost, we were good neighbors. That day George slipped on ice and hit his head on the front sidewalk. My husband rushed to his aid. The morning Miss Anne was blown over by a strong gust of wind. We had just finished breakfast. John was at her side in a flash, and who could forget the afternoon Dolly tripped in the trash corral, broke her arm and fractured a hip.

When she refused to allow John to call 911, he and another neighbor put Dolly on a chair and carried her back to her unit. We found out later that she asked a friend to wash and curl her hair before calling 911. I would remind John of Dolly's story whenever he complained about me combing my hair or applying lipstick before taking our neighborhood walks.

Truth is, living in such a community was perfect for a writer. As our son had advised, we had been surrounded by nature and wildlife for decades. And now we were surrounded by people. As an observer of human behavior, well, let's just say there was no lack of material. And because the writer in me can't not write, I continued telling stories,

mostly about people and the memories they evoked, almost always seeing the humor. I was delighted by the number of dogs in our new neighborhood and came to know them by name. The following story was my first in our new home. At the time I had little hope of ever seen, it in print. Only my husband has read it. It's a lot funnier now than it was back then, he said. I agreed. The Galloping Gourmet. Day after day, I watch our condominium neighbors walk their

docile little dogs on leashes from time to time allowing them to stop and sniff, a small deceased rodent or a bug or worm perhaps, only to be quickly snatched away from the offensive, disgusting object. I laughed to myself, wondering what the owner would think of our old dog, Shim. Shim was the cutest puppy ever to chew up a checkbook or a TV remote or a rubber dental retainer. When you're adorable and affectionate, people are ever so patient while you outgrow those endearing puppy flaws. Shib came to our family at the age of eight weeks, homeless, unwanted, and of undetermined breed. Our vet described her as a tan shepherd mix, which sounded classier than mutt. This tan shepherd mix shared our country home, enjoying not only the freedom of open fields,

a flowing stream, and acres of woodland, but also an adoring entourage of two schoolteachers, three young boys, and six doting old neighbors. She galloped beside the horses, froliced with the cat, chased rabbits and squirrels, raced to the bus stop to greet the kids after school, and loved everybody unconditionally. Oh yes, but for a few gastronomic quirks, our dog was the perfect pet. Charming everyone she met, including cats and other dogs. Everybody agreed that our shim was perfection on Paul's.

That is, everybody who hadn't witnessed her disgusting, dark side. Shem had an odd concept of food, more specifically, what was and what was not edible. I've known pets who were gourmets with such a highly developed palate, they would refuse to eat all but a certain brand of cat or dog food. Princess, my friend's cat, turned up her nose at beef and chicken, eating only fish and lamb, in gravy. We once adopted a stray dog who refused to eat a bite unless she was alone.

The minute someone stepped into the room, Ginger stopped eating, lifted her head, and growled. We figured she had been abused and gave her space. And if her food wasn't room temperature, she wouldn't touch it. God forbid you should spruce up her kibble with some warm gravy or a slice of cold turkey from the fridge. Then there was Chip, my friend's elderly, temperamental Dalmatian, who would only eat food from a hand or a spoon.

I kid you not. Our shim, on the other hand, was a foodie, full grown at 60 pounds. She was a connoisseur of anything that would fit into her mouth. Aside from Dog Chow, her four favorite food groups consisted of paper, animal waste, garbage, and any small wildlife she could outrun. Her paper of choice was the kind typically found in trash baskets, preferably the bathroom trash basket, in particular used tissue or feminine hygiene products. She loved nothing better than settling down on the living room carpet in front of company to enjoy her carryout, kind of like the kids loved settling down on the sofa with a big bowl of popcorn while they enjoyed the Brady Bunch

or mash. More than once, guests recoiled in horror as my husband and I dragged shim from the room while prying open her incisors and shouting, Dad dog, drop it! Her garbage fix came from the can in the backyard, not to mention the plentiful small game in the woods and fields surrounding our home.

That was evident from her engorged belly when she had feasted on such forbidden bounty. She was relegated to her outdoor pen on those occasions, although there were times when our guard was down, and her catch of the day appeared in a steamy mound on our living room carpet. I know what you're thinking. You were foolish to allow her to run free. That's true, perhaps, but it was a different time.

A time before leash laws. We lived in the country with open spaces, horses, ponies, cats, woods, and a stream. She was a great companion on trail rides. As I've said, she was so darn lovable. Shim embraced country life and considered the horses her benefactors, and in truth, they were exactly that. Our pasture was the equivalent of a 24-7 open buffet on a cruise ship

where manure was the daily special. As far as Shim was concerned, the fresher the better. It wasn't so bad in the winter when the horse's droppings reflected their diet of grain and dry hay. It was a different story in the summer when the pasture grass was green and succulent. Of course, we discouraged such behavior, but it was a losing battle. She enjoyed all animal waste. I personally saw her devour rabbit and fox scat. Another favorite activity was cleaning out the cat's litter box.

Early on our dog developed a taste for the rats and mice that were drawn to the horse's sweet feed in the tack room. She was as formidable a hunter as any rat terrier and ready to pounce the minute a bale of hay or feed barrel was moved aside to reveal a rodent. Shim greeted the farrier like he was Santa Claus and waited patiently as he clipped and filed the horse's hooves. She gnawed and devoured hoof clippings with the same enthusiasm she showed for ham and beef bones. Oh yes, the horses gave and gave where our dog was concerned, but never as much as they did on that warm June morning in 1976. The day our veterinarian gilded two colts in our neighbor's pasture

just across the narrow dirt lane. An event of this magnitude didn't happen every day, mind you, In fact, this occurrence ranked right up there with the birth of ladies' filly in the front field down by the road. Word had spread like wildfire that the Conrad's Palomino mayor was about to foal, and curious people came running from far and near to witness the miracle of Mother Nature. They came bearing apples, carrots, and sugar cubes, not unlike the wise men, who brought gold, frankincense, and myr to the baby jubes. Jesus. The gallery cheered Lady on from a respectable distance, of course, and practically cried

when she licked the veil that covered the lovely foal. They actually did cry as the cream-colored filly struggled onto wobbly legs beside her mother. And now, on this lovely June morning, our neighbors, with grandchildren and lawn chairs in tow, and fortified with bottles of beer, came to the paddock in the lower pasture to witness two colts losing their manhood. It was a show all right, and I stared with laser-like focus with shim at my side. They experienced vet, anesthetized the first colt,

and walked him in small circles until he crumpled gently to the ground. The vet was lightning fast at sterilizing the sight, making two small incisions and removing the testicles. Shim looked on with the intensity of a home plate umpire in the ninth inning of a Tide World Series game. It was what transpired next that has been seared in my memory

over these past 45 years. The veterinarian picked up the testes and casually slung them high over the fence and stream toward the gravelly adjacent shore. Shim was off like a shot, darting down the bank and across the water. John has since claimed that she caught the flying treat in mid-air. I don't remember it quite like that, but either way, she gobbled the tasty testicles to mixed reviews from the lawn chair gallery.

Then our dog stood like an outfielder anticipating another fly ball. The vet quickly reprised his performance on the second. second cold. And yes, Shem's patience was rewarded minutes later to a chorus of horrified gasps. From time to time I think about sharing this story with my condo neighbors, whose pets consider the occasional doggy biscuit the ultimate treat. Like I say, Shem might not have been the perfect dog, but we thought no less of her and counted our blessings. Luckily for us, she was a little bit not a face liquor. Shameless plug!

Long before she was Peggy Rowe, my mom was Peggy Noble, daughter of Carl and Thelma Noble. It was her father, Carl, who inspired me to pitch a show called Dirty Jobs to the Discovery Channel and later start a foundation that honored the kind of work Carl Noble did for a living, trade work, work, skilled labor. That foundation is called MicroWorks, and today I'm proud to tell you that we've helped thousands of people get the training they need to begin a career in the skilled trades. In fact, we'd love to help you. You can apply for a work ethic scholarship right now at microwworks.org. We've set aside $10 million for this year's applicants, thanks to a number of very effective fundraisers, including the one with my grandfather's name on the label. I refer, of course,

whiskey, K-N-O-B-E-L, which is now available in a variety of delicious mash bills, all of which you can peruse at noblespirates.com. In fact, if you spend 100 bucks and use code Carl, C-A-R-L, you'll get one tube of orange, bitter-infused sugar cubes for free. That's code Carl with a C to get nine sugar cubes, ingeniously engineered to make nine perfect old-fashions. every time. It's my favorite way to support microworks and my favorite whiskey to sip responsibly after a long day of interviewing people on this podcast. Pick up a bottle at noblespirits.com, k-n-o-b-E-L-Spirates.com. Soon may the noble men come to bring a bottle for everyone. One day when the waitin is done,

we'll take a drink and go. Chapter 4 Slush Pile 101 There are few activities more rewarding than time spent with like-minded people. My cousin Nancy takes every opportunity to paint in the great outdoors with other plenair artists while an instructor looks over their shoulders. Son Scott, my fantasy enthusiast, has enjoyed gaming and sci-fi fantasy conventions. My friend Pat spends time with her quilting and stitching groups whenever she has a chance.

For me, it's writers' workshops and conferences. The writing community has inspired me to write better. I've been encouraged to write every day, which is easy. It's being sidetracked from writing that's frustrating. I've learned to allow myself to write poorly. The important thing is to get it down. The real writing is in revision. I've been told to study writers I admire.

One has only to look at my bookshelves, to know that I've taken that advice. It's fun to hear successful authors talk about their office walls being papered with rejection notices from the early days. Author David Sedaris wrote every day for 15 years before he was published. Even J.K. Rowling had her share of rejection letters. When we were finally settled in our new condominium, John offered to drive me to the day-long book fair that was sponsored by Random Hens.

house, where I would probably be hearing the usual encouraging words. Remember, the only difference between a published writer and an unpublished writer is persistence. Believe in yourself. Do not give up. One presenter at a previous conference had added as an aside, but don't be delusional. Whatever that meant. On the morning of the book fair, I awoke early with a sense of exhilaration. kind of like that day I had learned that our youngest would be graduating from high school after all. And like the day our college student put aside his Dungeons and Dragons Playbook and Black Jacket with the Gold Fire Breathing Dragon, put on a school t-shirt and picked up gulp, a textbook.

At 62, I had traversed that black abandoned mine of rejection and cancer and was ready to be a serious writer. The sun had broken through the clouds, and I was finally taking charge of my life. They had a saying at the support group that we all tried to live by, Don't sweat the small stuff. I liked the new me.

After years of being a pleaser, I now had the guts to say to friends, no thank you, I've sat through my last home party. Life is too short. and I don't need one more piece of Tupperware or jewelry or kitchen gadget. Things had fallen into place at home as well. The boys were on their own. My husband was immersed in a life of volunteerism,

and I had come to terms with reality. I would never be as slim as my sister, or as domestic as Martha Stewart, or as prolific as Irma Bombbeck, with 15 books and 4,000 newspaper columns. And that was okay. It was 2002, a decade filled with promise. I was glad that John was driving me to the day-long conference

as it was 40 miles away and I dislike highway driving. Applied with reading material and snacks, my patient husband took me to Carroll Community College. After a goodbye hug in the lobby, he wished me well and headed off for a walk around the spacious campus. Random House had also sponsored a poetry contest. Winners would be announced at the end of the conference, and their poems would be published in a magazine.

I knew that my silly little poem would never measure up to those strife-filled, angst-laden, sentimental, syrupy sweet poems that are so popular. It didn't have words such as wispy clouds, ethereal glow or tremulous tormented souls. I didn't stand a chance of winning, but it was fun to get back in the groove. The presenter at this conference was a young editor from a major New York publishing house, one where I had submitted my book manuscripts unsuccessfully.

Slim, stylish, and business-like, she spoke fast and had a persistent dry cough the kind I get a day or so before coming down with a bad cold. Her topic was the perennial how to get. published. And the room is filled with hopefuls, most of them young, but some middle-aged and older like me, busily taking notes that would hopefully lead to a publishing contract. Her message was simple. If you are going to send a manuscript, always specify a particular editor by name in your submission, and get the recommendation of an author represented by the house. Otherwise, your manuscript is destined for the slush pile, she warned, without a trace of sympathy.

At previous conferences, presenters had looked us square in the eye and told us, some of our greatest finds have come from the slush pile. Let me tell you about something we call pizza slush night, the young woman said, with a maniacal gleam in her eye. On the last Friday of the month, all editors are required to attend pizza. It's a slush night, where we gather around a long table with pizza and soda. On the floor at the end of the table is the slush pile. She held out her arm, indicating a height of about four feet.

Our goal is to address each of the submissions in that pile by the end of the evening. It's an assembly line, and here's how it works. The first person on either side of the table takes an envelope, opens it, and passes it along to the next, who removes the contents. The next person puts the cover letter and S-A-S-E on the top and passes it on. In the end, a rejection form letter is put into the S-A-S-E, and it is sealed. The original envelope and manuscript are dropped onto a discard pile at the other end of the table, unread, unless the sender indicates he wants his manuscript returned and has included a large, self-addressed, stamped envelope.

That requires an extra step in the assembly line. Here, the young presenter paused for laughter. There was none. As she concluded her presentation in a room that seemed devoid of oxygen, the only other sound to be heard was her hacking cough. If shock and dismay had an odor, the stench would have been overwhelming. I thought of those dozens of carefully prepared book manuscripts I had printed and carried to the post office, like a naive child sending a letter off to the North Pole and settling in for the long anticipated Christmas morning.

I thought of the form rejection letters that had filled my bulging folders, the ones that told me, after careful consideration, your story isn't the right fit for our needs. The ones that encouraged me to keep writing when in reality, my manuscripts were destined for the slush pile. The wasted paper, ink, postage, and trips to the mailbox and the tears. Just that morning in another class, an editor had assured us, a rejection means that your work simply isn't what that editor or publisher is looking for at that time. Another said, a rejection means that your story isn't ready.

It needs more work and time. After all, you don't want your writing out there if it isn't the very best it can be, do you? Imagine years later seeing your inferior work on the shelf and feeling embarrassed. It was a loss of innocence for sure and too much to comprehend, all from a presenter who had ignored the primary rule for writers' everywhere. Know your audience. My cruel side imagined the hacking editor at home the following day with laryngitis. I felt as though I were trapped in an episode of the Twilight Zone. And when the feeling returned to my legs, I fled the room with one aim to find my husband and escape.

I had attended my last conference. There was no new advice, no pearls of wisdom I hadn't already heard. It meant nothing. What's wrong? John asks, springing from his chair in the lobby. You look like you've just witnessed a bludgeoning. Worse, I said, I'm ready to go. Why? What happened? I'll tell you on the way home. What about your poem? The poetry contest. Not interested. It's probably in a trash can somewhere. Look, I drove 40 miles to get here. That's 80 miles worth of gas, and we're getting our money's worth. Come on, hon, I'll go with you. With a heavy heart, I took his hand,

and together we made our way to the Random House Media Center, where we were stopped at the door. A man looked at my name tag, smiled, and handed me a magazine called Into the Blue. Congratulations, he said. Your poem made me laugh. John and I looked at each other. I might have shivered just a little, and then made a beeline to the closest chairs where we opened the magazine.

Sure enough, there it was, in the humorous poetry category, an international contest with hundreds, maybe thousands of entries. And my silly little poem was a winner. The MC spoke, then asked the winners to come to the front one at a time and read their poems. John and I listened as writers in the serious poetry category shared their work. Ernest, sincere, sentimental writing, sometimes deep, and not always easy to follow. When it was time for the humorous poetry category, I told my husband there was no way I was going to get up in front of all those writers to read a poem that could have been written by a junior high student.

But of course, my chauffeur had other ideas. You know what this means, right? he asked. Yep. It means they are going to clap politely when I'm through and roll their eyes. John, you've heard their kind of poetry. It's in another class. Hey, the judges liked your poem. You're a published author, hon. Look at this magazine, published by one of the largest houses in the world. Now get up there and read your silly poem, with feeling. 80 miles worth. I made my way to the front of the room, holding into the blue.

I thanked the sponsors and told the audience that my poem was unlike the others. It rhymes, I said, laughing, and it's pure fantasy. And then I read my silly poem with feeling. 80 miles worth. Too real. My husband is an artist. His work has great appeal. Though objects in his paintings are frequently.

too real. Our walls are filled with artwork. It's hanging everywhere, but sometimes it's so lifelike it gives me quite a scare. A landscape scene with oak trees hangs near the hallway door. Each fall when it gets chilly, acorns litter the floor. A still life's in the kitchen, a bowl of grapes and cheese. For some strange eerie reason, it draws fruit flies and bees. He painted me a rooster. So it comes as no surprise that now we never sleep late, it's with the sun we rise.

His portrait of Houdini once hung behind his chair. It disappeared last winter, just vanished in thin air. A watercolor folk art gives our foyer atmosphere, a barnyard scene with cattle, some pigs, some sheep, a steer. The cows are grazing calmly, The calves are full of pep.

Next time you come to visit, be careful where you step. There were chuckles as I read, then laughter, and finally, applause. My writing had never drawn applause. Afterward, other writers asked me to sign my poem in their books. The laughter and applause stayed in my head for a long time,

kind of like a favorite tune you can't stop hearing. In fact, I could still hear it. at the Bob Ebbin's restaurant where we stopped for a celebratory dinner on the way home following the day-long roller coaster ride. But we didn't linger over our meal. I kept thinking about the magazine Elizabeth had brought to me. I had to get home and write a horse story. When you manage procurement for multiple facilities, every order matters.

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