The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 277: BONUS: Vacuuming in the Nude Chapters 5 & 6

Episode Date: October 28, 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 moves us. Surfing a wave or savoring the view. The ocean delights us as playful otters restore coastal kelp forests. The ocean connects us. Visit Monterey Bay Aquarium.org slash connects. Well, you did it again. You found yourself another bonus episode of the way I heard it. This is episode number 277, otherwise known as chapters five and six of my mom's book,

vacuuming in the nude. Chuck is joining me here long distance, although he doesn't have his proper microphone, so he's going to sound even tinier and more girly than usual. How are you doing today? How are you going to go? Come on. No, it can't be that bad. No, it's not that bad. Just flying blind here.

Happy Friday, everybody, unless, of course, you're listening to this on a Saturday or Sunday or some other day. All I know for sure is this is going up on a Friday. And we are so excited. You're turning my mom into a rock star. Thank you to everyone. Yes, I've received your notes on Facebook, clamoring for the next series of chapters. Yeah, I guess this is a series of chapters. We're doing two at a time. We're not quite at the halfway mark. And I don't know, Chuck. I don't want to overstate it, but is this whole little experiment officially a bona fide success?

I don't want to overstate it either, but I do believe it is the greatest podcast series of books on tape ever. honest to God, with a mouthful of marbles and sentiments like that, it really does make me sad that you don't have a good microphone. So people could just hang on to... So they're really picking this up? The people are digging it. Friends, my mom and I have both received many of your questions on Facebook asking for more details. And if I had it to do over again, I'd sit down after each of these and debrief my mom. Oh, God, that sounds awful.

If I debrief my mom, you know. what I mean. I don't know. That's even worse. Just you would talk to your mom. Just say talk to your mom. Let's leave my mother's briefs out of it. My mother and I would talk about the chapter you just heard, but I don't want to do that because I don't want to interrupt the flow of this any more than we were already doing

because we're releasing these and installments. It's too late. But whatever. Chapters five and six are coming up. You're going to love them. I will say that the questions you've posed were keeping. And when the book is done, I'll have my mom back on. and then she will answer your many prescient queries.

For now, however, I would simply like to skip the hoopty-doodle and get right to the issue at hand. Chapters 5 and 6 of my mom's amazing book, which you can now get on Amazon. It's called vacuuming in the nude and other ways to get attention. And we're going to get to that right after this. 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, 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 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. Most of the conflicts in our home were the result of books. How many times were my sons late to the table because of a book? Or didn't get enough sleep because of a book? Or negligent about chores because of a book? I heard my family's pleas and excuses in my sleep. Just one more page before I turn out the light mom, I promise. I meant to do my homework, but I had to finish my library book.

I knew you wouldn't want to pay a fine. Even my husband was famous for saying, Just one more chapter, hon, then we'll leave. It's a short one. He was also famous for monopolizing the bathroom because of a book, and still is. The truth is, I envy my husband and the sons I describe as voracious readers. Even as toddlers, the children walked around clutching their favorite books,

hoping to catch their father or me relaxing. Some books I had read to them so many times they'd been memorized. It was impossible to return from our weekly grocery shopping without a new golden book. Later, my husband and I were vigilant about the reading material in our home, knowing that it would likely be read by the boys. To this day, John can have as many as three books going at a time. When it comes to bonding with the boys, his favorite topic is his latest good read. It was one of the messages I heard over and over in my writing courses.

If you want to be a writer, you must be a reader. Not just because it helps us to understand human nature, but because we learn to love language through reading. More importantly, it expands our imagination. According to Stephen King, reading is the creative center of a writer's life. And who could forget William Faulkner's advice to writers, read, read, read, read everything, trash, classics, good and bad, and see how they do it.

Just like a carpenter who works as an apprentice and studies the master, read, you'll absorb it. Unfortunately, that was not great news for this writer. I wondered if it was even possible for a self-described slow reader to be a serious writer. slow as in I can't keep up with the captions at the bottom of the TV screen. Oh, I've read countless worthwhile books and even some fine literature, and I've certainly known the pleasure of curling up with a good book. In more recent years, I've spent hours reading and studying long-admired humor writers, but for me, reading has always been a ponderous exercise.

Could a person be a serious writer with such? a handicap, I wondered. And then there was the matter of my idyllic life. In 2002, Seabiscuit was still all the rage. As a lover of horses, I couldn't put it down. As a writer, I was fascinated by the fact that author Laura Hillenbrand had suffered from chronic fatigue syndrome since 1987 when she was 20 years old. She endured severe vertigo and exhaustion that left her incapacitated and housebound for many years.

That this writer was able to persevere and produce a bestseller seemed nothing short of miraculous. Laura Hillenbrand joined a long list of well-known authors who have struggled to overcome hardship. Margaret Mitchell once famously said, hardships make or break people. Her first husband had taken off after only four months of marriage, never to be seen again. When she suffered complications from a broken ankle, her career as a

journalist ended abruptly. So she set about writing Gone with the Wind, a little novel about the Civil War and Reconstruction. It took three years to write and earned her a Pulitzer Prize. Elizabeth Barrett Browning suffered with debilitating physical ailments from an early age, as did Ernest Hemingway. He committed suicide at the age of 57. After writing a mere 25 books, when J.K. Rowling's marriage ended and she was left penniless, jobless, and depressed, she too had considered suicide and went on to write a masterpiece. Robert Louis Stevenson, Tennessee Williams, and Stephen King battled addiction. Even the beloved Irma Bombach was diagnosed with an incurable, untreatable genetic disease when she was 20 years old.

She survived breast cancer and a mastectomy and endured daily dialysis. Dealing with breast cancer when I was middle-aged helped me to relate to others with illness. but really it was my only brush with adversity. While growing up, my greatest hardships had been living with a perfect sister and without a pony, and having to endure baseball games where my mother shouted obscenities at the umpires

and danced in the aisles at the stadium. In short, I had led a life of privilege with good health. Nevertheless, right I did, this slow reader who had never known the heartbreak of domestic discord, the tragedy of addiction, life with an incurable illness, or extreme poverty, and who had no market for her work, wrote every day. Because the writer within had no choice, there were stories to tell, stories about the people in my life, people I loved and admired,

people whose behavior I didn't always understand, and people who made me laugh, because what writer does not long to have their work read by someone, anyone, and appreciated? Two loving, supportive parents, who were my cheerleaders until the day they died, were a great asset to my writing life. They presented me with two of my earliest opportunities to share my prose on the occasions of the their 90th and 91st birthdays in 2002. On the calendar, the two events took place within one month, but on a celebration scale, they were light years apart. By the time my husband and I were settled in our condo, mom and dad had moved into a senior living facility just minutes away.

My sister and I planned a 90th birthday bash there for mom, but not all family members were able to attend. attend. I wrote the following story, so they could at least celebrate vicariously and not miss the full scope of what happened. I called my story, an affair to remember on the occasion of mom's 90th birthday. Exhausted, I pushed my mother's wheelchair through the mall and plopped down on a bench in front of Friendly's restaurant. Well, Mom, we've tried Lord and Taylor, Macy's and Hects, Let's take a break and have a sandwich. It was 2002, and mom was in pursuit of the perfect outfit for her 90th birthday celebration,

something that would wow her friends and neighbors and relatives. In years past, she'd have whipped up an original creation on her old singer sewing machine. She knew a thing or two about fashion and quality and wasn't about to settle. Her expectations were modest, something well-constructed, understated, classy, and not too expensive. She was 90, after all, and she reminded me, how many more opportunities will I have to wear a dressy outfit? The expensive dress she had tried on at Macy's had given us a rare opportunity to share some humor. Mom was usually too busy taking charge to appreciate the lighter side of things. Hmm, it's expensive, but you can bury me in this, she said, looking in the dressing room mirror.

That way I'll get my money's worth. How does it look in the back? I went out on a limb. Who cares? It's for your burial, I said with a straight face, nobody's going to see it. She smiled at me in the mirror as we shared a little unspoken humor. My mother and I were the same size, and she knew darn well there was a little. no way this lovely dress was going underground. Our tastes were different, but I always knew where

to look on those rare occasions I needed something elegant. Mom's closet never disappointed. Minutes later, she announced that she couldn't justify the expense, and we moved on. No, Mom said, glancing up at the red and white friendly sign, I have to get back to your father. Miss Ruth can only stay with him until three o'clock. We still have to have. two more big stores. Then there are a couple of smaller shops we haven't tried. Besides, I'm not even tired. She pointed the way to J.C. Penny, warning. Be careful of that bump at the entrance, Peggy. That last one nearly gave me whiplash. We had been at it for the past two hours, and I was tempted to tell her, Mom, lower your expectations a little. But when had I ever

actually spoke in my mind to my mother. When I reminded her that she had a closet full of lovely custom-made outfits, her response was, Oh, your father has seen me in those old things so many times, I need something new. My father was blind and had been for ten years. Had Norman Rockwell been there, he'd have set up an easel and reached for his brushes. A senior woman pushing a wheelchair while her ancient mother pointed the way ahead like an explorer who had just spotted land, all the while being passed by energetic young people looking as if they were working on their 10,000 daily steps. After another hour of shopping unsuccessfully, Mom said, you know, I'm still not tired. Sometimes I wonder if I really do have congestive heart failure. Okay, honey, let's try those

smaller shops. In the end, she couldn't find anything as classy as the outfits hanging in her own closet. She looked at me and with a straight face said, this has been a waste of time. Well, at least we got our exercise. After a mere four hours, I pushed mom to the car, then made my way back to the wheelchair corral in the mall, making a mental note. If my mother needed a new outfit to celebrate her hundredth birthday, my sister Janet could do the honors. That evening, Jan came in from Richmond, and the following day she and I visited the party planner caterer at the retirement home where mom and dad resided. We carried a list because, naturally, mom had planned every detail. Guest list, menu, drinks, music, and speakers. Mom, we reasoned, why don't you just go with us,

You know exactly what you want. And let them think I've planned my own party? How would that look? So two dutiful, loving daughters sighed and headed down the corridor, list in hand. I had made a photo collage and ordered a tasteful arrangement of flowers. Pestell was requested, with a matching corsage. Hopefully they would meet with our mother's approval. The leading character in our birthday production would be my mom.

mother, naturally. But an essential supporting character was the birthday cake. On our list, the specifications were underlined in red, white icing, pale pink roses, and pale green leaves, nothing bright or gaudy, tasteful pastel to match the flower arrangement and her corsage. It was a lovely party, held in the elegant garden room, surrounded by tall windows, looking out on lovely bushes and trees and fall flowers. The weather was perfect, and everyone came, including a half dozen or so of mom's Virginia relatives. At the podium, I welcomed guests and introduced family members.

Then Mike shared a lighthearted poem about his grandmother. She listened with interest, nodding in approval from time to time. Scott roamed the room with a video camera on his shoulder, capturing all the action. Phil took charge of music. When he had suggested having a karaoke machine and encouraging guests to entertain as well, his grandmother turned quite pale, fanned herself, and raised her eyebrows until they disappeared. Guests were enjoying three kinds of dainty sandwiches that afternoon, along with punch and coffee when it happened. We're ready for the cake, my sister told the head waitress. What cake? The woman said, there is no cake. No cake was ordered. Well, of course we

ordered a cake. Feeling our mother's eyes scrutinizing the exchange from across the room, Jan and I were careful not to show the panic we felt. The waitress pulled a paper from her pocket and confirmed that indeed no cake had been ordered. We had talked about it, but apparently moved on to something else before actually placing the order. Oh, no. We assumed you were bringing in your own dessert. People sometimes do that, the waitress said. The room went suddenly dark and fuzzy. Conversations blurred, and the words, major coronary, ran through my mind. Fortunately, my sister was there. As the oldest, she was in charge. I'm pretty sure of that. So the buck would stop in her capable hands.

So, Janet said, putting her hands on her cheeks, you mean that not only is there no cake, but there is no dessert at all of any kind? Oh, she one of us might have uttered.

I'm sure I don't recall just who. What are we going to do? And that's when a blur raced across the corner of my vision. Two angels, actually. "'What's wrong, Mom?' my daughter-in-law Margie asked. As cousin Nancy whispered a frantic shriek, Peggy, what's the matter?

You look like you're going to pass out.' So we told them. And before we finished, Nancy asked, where's the closest grocery store? There's a food lion right across the street. Before I could finish, Nancy and Margie were flying through the door, purses in hand. I shouted after them, White icing with pastel pink roses, nothing gaudy. Our mother smelled trouble, so while waitresses scoured freezers in the various dining rooms

for leftover desserts from Sunday lunch, Jan assured her that things were fine, just a tiny glitch. Not for the first time I found myself wishing that my sister lived nearby instead of 200 miles away. A half hour later, guests had barely delved into the assortment of partially thalled leftover slices of pie when Margie and Nancy returned to the party, followed by a waitress, carrying a lovely sheetcake. If Mom noticed the bright red, blue, and green decorations on the cake, she chose not to mention it. Or maybe she was just too busy basking in tributes from friends and a slightly off-key rendition of happy birthday. I learned later that there was only one other cake available, a sheetcake with the message,

Happy Retirement Uncle Bud. Nancy and Margie had chosen well. Mom looked lovely in her vintage silk blouse and homemade skirt and managed to stay out of her wheelchair for the entire party. When Dad told her she looked beautiful in her new outfit, she kissed him on the forehead. As usual, his face turned red. all in all it was a delightful party. Jan and I decided that if we're around for our 90th birthdays,

we'll settle for cake and ice cream. Mom's family loved reading the story. Even the ones who had attended the party, they said that I had captured Thelma, their sister and aunt, to a tea. My father had always disliked parties and could usually be found observing the action from a safe distance in a comfortable chair. The fact that he could no longer see and was still willing to be on display on the front line, so to speak, is a testament to his love and devotion to my mother. As I mentioned, my father's birthday was quite a different story. An afternoon to remember, I called it. We had scarcely recovered from my mother's 90th birthday party four weeks earlier when my father turned 91. Mom respected his request for a quiet observance. After all, she had forced him to endure a

houseful of company and speeches a year earlier for his 90th. And then again for her 90th. For the last 10 years of his life, Dad had been blind and weak from a stroke. Several days a week while mom ran errands or played a game of bridge with friends, I sat with him, asking questions like an inquisitive newspaper reporter, and taking notes as he relived his boyhood in a nearby neighborhood. On his 91st birthday, I brought him homemade chocolate brownies with peanut butter icing, his favorite, and a book of poetry. An odd choice, some might argue, for a blue-collar tradesman with a seventh-grade education who had never read a book. While mom took a well-deserved break, Dad and I reclined on twin beds, snacking on grapes and brownies.

I opened a book and began reading a passage from the song of Hiawatha when suddenly I heard his voice. I stopped reading and listened as he recited from memory, quote, dark behind it rose the forest, rose the black and gloomy pine trees, unquote. When he faltered, I resumed reading, and again, he joined. in innately intelligent dad had always been the go-to person for math problems repairs of any kind and common-sense advice but poetry never i guess i remember it from school was his explanation

it had been almost 80 years since he'd finished the seventh grade i turned the page to another longfellow poem quote Under the spreading chestnut tree The village Smithy stands Unquote Again dad joined in Again I stopped reading And he continued

Quote The Smith the mighty man is he With large and sinewy hands Unquote How incredible That I could have known This perfect father and husband For more than 60 years

And never heard him recite these poems. How touching that a 12-year-old boy had been so moved by these lines as to memorize them. Really? Teachers don't always know how they are influencing students. Until that day, I hadn't shared my own creative writing with Dad. On some level, I was probably ashamed that it wasn't good enough to be published. Oh, he knew that I had dabbled in writing, but when I told him about the book fair just weeks earlier and placed my copy of Into the Blue in his hands. He caressed the booklet, as if it were his treasured Bible, the one presented to him by the church he had attended most of his life. I opened it and read my nonsense poem on realism,

aloud, and Dad laughed. So I shared some other poems with my captive audience. poems I had written for young children years ago and put aside. Dad shook his head after each and asked, Did you really write that? When I finished, he said, they sound like poems you would read in a fancy poetry book. Maybe someday you'll write a book, hon. My simple children's poems that Brighton Dad's 91st birthday

are still among my favorites. Dad especially loved this one. I called it. I think I'll run away. I'm sick and tired of living here. My family's mean to me. I'm not allowed to dig a hole or climb high in a tree. My father hid his tools from me, the hammer and the saw.

How can I nail things to the floor or decorate the wall? My mother makes me pick up toys and brush my teeth each day and wash my hands before I eat. I think I'll run away. I'll pack some cookies in a bag, a flashlight for the dark. I'll leave my soap and toothbrush home and move into the park.

I'll take a coat for wintertime, galoshes for my feet. I won't be going too far. I'm not allowed to cross the street. John and I joined Mom and the birthday boy for supper that evening. Afterwards, Dad asked me to reread my poems and claim that it was the nicest birthday he could remember.

I had no doubt that this was the best part of being a writer. Seeing the wonder and pride in the face of one I so admired, I'd grown up in a time before parents told their kids, I love you every hour of the day. When it came to love, my mother and father used the most relevant technique employed by good writers everywhere. show it, don't tell it. And that's precisely what they did. Every day, for the 67 years I knew them.

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 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 meatiers like me that we have all been affirmatively deceived by policies that allow imported me to be marketed as domestic.

That's the reason I switch 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-Haw! Chapter 6 At last.

Hi, Peggy, it's John. Your mom tells me you've been published in the Saturday evening post, our longtime minister and friend said. I had to call and congratulate you. Don't I wish, I said. I was a winner in their Limerick contest, that's all. Five lines that describe a cartoon. It's not a big deal.

Still, your Limerick must have been better than hundreds of others. Hang in there, Peg, one of these days. church friends were especially supportive and always asking where they could read my work. It's still on my computer, I'd tell them, smiling. From time to time, I would write a letter to the editor of the newspaper. If it was published, church ladies would cut it out and bring it to Sunday school or Bible study or the women's circle meetings, where they would read it aloud to the group. It was 2003, and my mother was constantly on the prowl for

bragging material. She lived in a retirement community with over a thousand residents, and having a daughter who was published in a real magazine would give her a nice competitive edge. None of her friends' children were successful writers. Not that she wasn't already proud of me. I was just a child when she first explored the possibility of my becoming a writer. Apparently I was famous for my somewhat fanciful stories. Peggy has an active imagination she would tell people. When I was in the first grade, I was invited to tell stories after lunch. Every day I stood before 20 to 30 kids and made up a story off the top of my head. Mom and Mrs. Harris and my teacher were church friends and enjoyed many a laugh over those stories

after Mom was reassured that they were pure fiction and not family secrets. Later, when I would come into the house after a day of rounding up cattle on my pretend horse, I would share my incredible experiences with my mother. Instead of telling me to quit lying, she would smile and say that maybe I would be a writer one day. A few months earlier, I had taken Elizabeth's advice and written and submitted a short, humorous story for an international horse publication. As time passed, I forgot about it and began writing articles and short stories to submit to other horse magazines. And then came that morning when I sat at my computer and learned that I had actually sold my first short story. As I've said, I'm not partial to phrases such as the heavenly angels

sang the hallelujah chorus, but I did call my mother, my biggest cheerleader, even before I told the children. Morning the loss of my father after 70 years of marriage had left her depressed, and I was anxious to share some good news. She didn't mind one bit being awakened at 6 a.m. Her silence, upon hearing my news that morning, was louder than any praise, and I knew that she was catching her breath. Oh, honey, Mom said when she had found her voice, I'm as proud as punch. Are they going to pay you? Will they print your name on the story? Did you send them a picture? You should always do that. Being published didn't seem real until that day the magazine, along with a check for $50, appeared in our mailbox. It was Wednesday, March 3rd, 2004, to be exact, and you'd have

thought we had won the publisher's clearinghouse sweepstigs. It was finally the beginning of my professional career. I was 66, and for the occasion my husband and I pulled out all the stops and celebrated at the Golden Corral for the Early Bird Senior Special. It seems like just yesterday, John sitting across the table reading my story aloud from time to time laughing as though he were reading it for the first time and reaching over to squeeze my hand ever so gently. Of course, He had already read it aloud to me so that I could hear how it sounded before sending it off. It looks so official in print, with a picture even,

and my name at the top just beneath the title, Competition. Seeing my husband holding a magazine containing my story validated me as a writer somehow. People were paying money to read my fictional story about a teenage boy with a crush on a horse-crazy girl. John smoothed the page carefully as he read, reminding me of the way Dad had caressed into the blue from the book fair.

I felt that if I never sold another story, it was okay. My mother was proud, and my kids were happy for me. John claimed to be not a bit surprised, but you could tell it was a big deal. We'd been at the Golden Corral 20 minutes and hadn't even gotten in the buffet line. A friend advised me to open a bank, account in my name.

Earning your own money will make you feel independent, Peggy, she said. Give you some self-worth, and John will have a new respect for you. I smiled as though I might take her advice, but I knew better. That might work for some couples, and that's fine, but for us, all that we had was ours. As for respect, no problems there either. Here is my first ever published story that was responsible. for our humble, though joyous celebration. I called it competition.

Horsy Humor, Fiction by Peggy Row. Horse Canada, 2004. Amanda Kellerman is a knockout. I've been trying all year to get to know her, but all she ever talks about is her horse. Last month, she came to school with a nasty bruise on her upper arm. When I asked her what happened, she said, My horse has a sweet nature, but sometimes he's a little temperamental.

It seems this sweet-natured horse bit her while she was tightening the thing that goes around his waist to hold the saddle in place. Not that I blame him. A week later, Amanda came to school on crutches. I overheard her telling a friend that while she was brushing dried mud from her horse's belly, he showed his appreciation by kicking her legs out from under her. a sign of gratitude in horse talk apparently. I realize that if I'm going to get to know this girl before her temperamental horse does her in, I'll have to learn to speak her language.

So I get a book from the library called Your Friend the Horse, or some such nonsense. It's deadly dull, but I read enough to learn a few horsey terms. I figure it might help me get my foot in the stable door. Monday morning, there she is at her desk in home room, looking prettier than ever and still in one piece. This is where I impress the heck out of her. So, I say casually, is your horse a stallion or a gelding?

Amanda looks at me as though she's never seen me before. Cordy is a gelding. Stallions don't make good pleasure horses. They're too aggressive. I try to remember another horsey term to throw at her, but I'm busy trying to imagine what Cordy might do to her if he were aggressive. Do you like horses, too, she asked me? Who doesn't like horses, I lie.

But I'm involved in football right now. Football is so violent, she says, frowning. I glance at the fading bruise on her arm and laugh, thinking she's making a joke, but she isn't. By the way, I say changing the subject, Cordy is an unusual name. It's short for cordial. I always thought that cordial meant friendly and good nature,

but it must have another meaning, bloodthirsty or murderous, just then Amanda drops her notebook, and it flaps open on the floor. I look down and notice the slipper on her right foot. Oh, that's nothing. Cordy accidentally stomped on my foot last night when I was feeding him, she explains.

No broken bones, just some bruising and swelling. Hmm. Maybe she's having second thoughts about Mr. Temperamental Sweetness. This is my chance to step in, so I pick up her notebook and see a drawing on the inside cover, a big red heart with the name cordial printed in the center. What am I missing here? I decide to go out on a limb. Uh, would you like to get together sometime?

Sure. And she smiles that beautiful smile. You could come over to my place on Saturday. I'll introduce you to Cordy. He doesn't usually like guys, but maybe you'll be an exception. If he likes you, you can help me groom him. Then we could shovel manure together. The bell rings, so I hand her the notebook. Ah, I'll see you later, I say, and head for my seat. It's hard to concentrate while I'm staring at her long, wavy ponytail. A guy just can't compete with a horse. Then suddenly it comes to me. Who needs horsey phrases? I'll just sneak up behind her in the hall this afternoon, and in a sweet-natured temperamental way, chomp down on her arm. Then I'll kick her on the shin.

Yeah, that'll work. By tomorrow morning, my name will be in a red heart on Amanda's notebook. Mom had a manic expression when she asked to borrow the magazine for a few days, as some of the church ladies would be visiting over the weekend. I knew it was destined for a coffee table where it would be the center of attention. As proud as she was, though, my ultimate writing gift to my mother was the article published in Guideposts magazine when she was 93. It was about her devotion to the Baltimore Orioles, and the day she threw out the opening pitch.

That magazine traveled the halls of her retirement community in the pocket of her rascal scooter like a treasured companion. I regretted that my parents never realized the full impact they had on my writing life, not to mention the parade of interesting characters who had marched through my childhood. Relatives, friends, and strangers gave me a window into human nature and the self-awareness that is so essential to writers. Looking back on the summer, Little Mary came into my life is embarrassing. I saw her as a nuisance, an intrusion.

and a threat to my position in the family for sure. Writing about the summer of 1945 has not only revealed my childhood character flaws, but has given me a brand new appreciation for two parents who walked the walk. I call this story the longest summer. My mother made the announcement as she cleared the dinner table,

making it sound as though it was no big deal. By the way, Miss Ella has to go to the hospital for a while, so little Mary is going to spend a few days with us. This didn't seem unusual. Someone coming to stay with us wasn't a big deal. It seemed there was always somebody, mostly relatives, using our spare bedroom. Except that Miss Ella wasn't a relative, just a church friend, and she and Mom had never seemed particularly close. I should have been suspicious when Mom and Mary came through the front door the next. next day with two big suitcases for just a few days. I'd seen the girl around Sunday school before,

but at seven years old, I hadn't paid much attention to the little five-year-old. I definitely didn't remember her being so pretty. Mom took me aside. Peggy, we need to be especially kind to marry. She's never been away from home before, which meant she'd probably act like a little sister and follow me around. But that was okay as long as she didn't mess with my dog and my stuff. What's a few days when the whole glorious summer lay ahead? She'll sleep in your twin bed so Janet can help keep an eye on her and make her feel at home. Mom said, you can have the spare bedroom with the big bed all to yourself. You'll be like a guest. Won't that be fun? Wait a minute. sleep alone?

My older sister and I had always shared the front bedroom, waking up to the cheerful morning sun pouring through two big windows. But can we keep the door open? And the hall light on? Can Topper sleep with me? Yes, yes, and no, he'd be on your bed in a flesh. The mother of all cardinal rules in our house was, No dogs on the furniture, no exception. Not that Topper didn't sneak onto the sofa when Mom wasn't around,

but he was smart enough to jump down when he heard her coming. Of course, that was no assurance he wouldn't end up in the doghouse anyway after Mom checked the cushions for his body indentation and felt around for a warm spot. So it began, the summer of sharing my home and my family with royalty and her precious little teddy bear. The writing was on the wall that very first evening at dinner when the string beans were passed. No thank you, Mary said, as though a kid had a choice in our house.

I don't like green vegetables. Mommy doesn't make me eat them. I had to chuckle to myself. This was going to be fun. You had to hand it to my mother, who had no wide-eyed, eyebrow-raising dramatics. She simply smiled and placed two beans on Mary's plate. No one is going to make you eat anything dear, but it would be nice if you would just taste them. They make you strong. There's a good girl, she said, reaching down to Mary's lap and giving Teddy a pat on the head. Who was this serapy stranger wearing my mother's checkered apron?

Certainly not the same woman who spooned mountains of spinach and brussels sprouts onto my plate, expecting me to eat every last leaf. There was more of the same the next morning. And what would you like for breakfast, honey? I was reminded of the book my mother read to me when I was Mary's age, the little princess, where servants just couldn't do enough for the child who wanted for nothing. Meanwhile, my breakfast was plopped in front of me like Topper's bowl of kibble was plopped on the floor beneath the sink.

My mother's camera was never far away, usually in her apron pocket. You'd think Mary was her only child, and she had to document every fascinating moment of her childhood. Click. I couldn't remember ever being photographed eating vegetables or a breakfast waffle. Oh, well, just a few more days. At night I could hear my 11-year-old sister and Mary talking in the bedroom next door. Sometimes Janet even read a story aloud as Mary hugged Teddy. She couldn't do a night.

for her royal highness, introducing her to bubble bands and teaching her to play simple tunes on the piano while mom peaked around the corner. Click. Janet even allowed her to tag along when friends came over. It was Janet and Mary, Mary and Janet. Click. But I didn't care. I had my dog and my horse. I can still see her sitting at my sister's feet in the evening looking every bit like Rapunzel as Janet brushed and braided her long blonde locks, instead of playing 500 rummy with me. Click. She used to brush my hair when I was little, like I was her doll. Not that I would sit still for it now. To make matters worse, this five-year-old was so darn sweet and good, just like the princess in the story. Of course, it was all an act, with her never running through the house or screaming or getting bubblegum stuck in her hair.

It wasn't normal. I felt as if I could have run away from home that summer and not been missed. That is, until the wet dishes piled up with nobody to dry them, and the garbage spilled onto the counter, with nobody to carry it outside to the can. Huh, when dog droppings littered the backyard, I guarantee you there'd have been a search party. And suddenly, it was July, a whole month later, and guess who was still with us?

And even more adored by her subjects, if that's possible. Her Royal Highness was now up to four-string beans and a whole tablespoon of spinach. The night she ate one measly Brussels sprout, you'd have thought she had discovered penicillin. There was that much praise. The evening mom served asparagus. She conspired with my sister ahead of time.

Mmm, mom, these little spears taste so buttery, Janet raved. I'd love them. It worked. Mary ate one whole spear. Click. My mother knew what she was doing all right. Like our church's choir director, she was our leader, determining when we were too loud or needed to move along faster or slow down.

She established the mood all right and prompted us when it was our turn to carry out a task. When it came to the 4th of July, I didn't even mention the big parade downtown. My father was no longer a fan. For the past two years, he had refused to take us saying, I don't want to get tied up with the parking and all that parade traffic. I should have known better. All of a sudden it was, say, hon, how about we take the children downtown to the Fourth of July parade in the morning?

I couldn't complain about this one. Parades were the best, with all those lovely horses, even if the princess was our reason for going. Dad had been right about the traffic and the crowds. We had to park blocks away, then maneuver along the curb to find a spot where we could see the action, except for Mary, of course. She had the best seat in the house, high above everyone else,

on my father's shoulders, where I used to be, back in the days when I was young and cute. Click. I thought back to when I was Mary's age, and my mother fell down the steps and broke her foot. I had been sent to stay with Aunt Cornelia, where I was homesick every minute of the day. My father came to visit me evenings after work.

I sat on his lap and cried the entire time, and when he could bear it no more, he took me home with him. How come Mary's father never comes to see her? I asked my mother. I thought you knew, my mother said, speaking in a low voice. Mary's father died last year. He was sick for a long time. I guess I didn't tell you. I was coming to terms with something akin to pity and perhaps even a touch of guilt when a scary thought popped into my narcissistic little brain. What if Miss Ella died? Like the father of the little princess in the story.

Only instead of Mary going to live in an orphanage, my parents are not. adopted her, and she came to live with us forever and ever. Adopting an orphan was just the sort of thing my parents would do. I have a good idea, Peggy, my mother said the following morning. It's a beautiful day. The sun is shining and the birds are singing. Why don't you take Mary out back and introduce her to your horse? You could teach her to ride. She was talking about my pretend horse naturally.

a cushion on top of the poles that supported the backyard grape vines, some clothes lined for rains, and some old purses for saddlebags. We had no place to keep a real horse, even if we could afford one, or at least that was the story repeated over and over by my parents, like the refrain of a never-ending hymn. My mother named him Cordy after the Concord Grapes that covered his body in the summer. unlike real horses who shed their coats in the spring Cordy shed his grapes and leaves in the fall.

A horse! Mary screamed, jumping up and down. I didn't know you had a horse. I never rode a horse before. Where is it? She took my hand, like I was her new best friend. And together we went to the backyard by the alley where I helped her to mount my pretend horse. In a few weeks the grapes would ripen and Mary's clothes and legs would be stained purple.

She sat there for a moment jiggling the reins before asking quite possibly the dumbest question ever. How do you make it go? I shook my head in disbelief and was about to tell her to drop a coin in the slot and push the button when I saw my mother lurking about with her, you know what?

Click. He doesn't move, I said, trying to sound patient. in case. He's an imaginary horse. Like your teddy is an imaginary bear. Teddy doesn't grow or bite you or hibernate in the winter. Cordy doesn't move. You have to use your imagination, Mary. So I told her about riding the prairie and rounding up steers on a cattle drive. But really, this five-year-old had no more imagination than the wooden picnic table a few yards away. You almost have to feel sorry for somebody like that.

Almost. It's hard to feel sorry for somebody who steals your bed and your family, not to mention ruining summer vacation. The greatest betrayal of all came in August. Mary had been with us so long that even Topper forgot she was just a visitor, and I worried again that her mother had died, and I'd be stuck with her forever. I awoke extra early that morning, and on my way to the bathroom,

I looked into my old bedroom awash in cheerful sunlight, with the occupants sound asleep. That's when I saw him, my pal Topper, asleep on my bed beside Mary. Her hand draped over his back as Teddy lay forgotten, face down on the floor. I gasped quietly, resisting the urge to scream, Instead, I ran down the hall from my mother. Look at that, I whispered with all the indignation I could muster. I bet she fed him a cookie.

I looked up at Mom. Surely, the palace roof was about to fall on her royal highness. But instead, my mother ran to her bedroom and returned with, click. Then she reminded me that Mary would soon be leaving for home. It was music to my ears and couldn't happen soon enough. I thought about calling my dog, but was afraid that if he awoke now and saw my mother while he was on the bed,

he would die of fright. When the long-awaited day finally arrived, my sister and I carried Mary's suitcases to the car and rode along. Miss Ella, very much alive, greeted us at the door, but had eyes only for her daughter. She wrapped her arms around Mary and cried, and cried some more as they sat together on the sofa, rocking gently side to side.

Neighbors and a relative were visiting, so we didn't stay. But as we were leaving, Mom handed Mary a photograph album. This is for you, Mary, she said. You can show Mommy what you've been doing all summer. Look at this picture, Mommy, I heard her saying before the door closed behind us. Peggy showed me how to ride her horse. He's imaginary, like Teddy. Oh, I changed Teddy's name to Cordy.

I skipped to the car, noticing for the first time the sunshine and music from the birds and feeling truly grateful that Miss Ella was alive. When you manage procurement for multiple facilities, every order matters. But when it's for a hospital system, they matter even more. Granger gets it and knows there's no time for managing multiple suppliers and no room for shipping delays.

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