The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 280: BONUS: Vacuuming in the Nude Chapters 7 & 8

Episode Date: November 4, 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. Well, you've done it again. You have stumbled across another bonus episode of the way I heard it. This is episode number 280, otherwise known as Chapter 7 and 8 of the audio version of my mother's best-selling book, vacuuming. in the nude and other ways to get attention.

If you haven't stumbled across the prior chapters of this riveting tome, I beseech you, please find them. Start at the beginning, as with most books, my mom's is even better when digested in its intended chronology. If, on the other hand, you are here on purpose and by design, we'll then settle in. The next two chapters are even better than the last two. And they shall commence.

Right after this, Do 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 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 Microwworks 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 Chapter 7 A New Frontier Elizabeth's suggestion to write a story for a horse magazine was spot on. Having been a horse enthusiast my entire life, I spoke the language with ease.

I was merely exercising a quote usually attributed to Mark Twain. Write what you know. What aspiring writer has not heard that advice. Sadly, arthritis intruded into my longtime passion for horses. When I could no longer hold a grooming brush or tighten a girth or even mount my beloved mare without leading her into the gully by our pasture fence, I saw the writing on the stable wall and found a good home for her.

After selling my first story, I was spurred on to submit to other horse publications. Pumped, I believe is the term in modern lingo. Before I knew what was happening, I was out of the starting gate and running in a field of fellow equine writers. While my old friends were playing cards at the senior center and enjoying bus trips and cruises, I was beginning a new career at the ripe old age of 66. Writing for horse publications filled the equine void in my life. I found material in the coolest places, breeding farms, training facilities, and at world-class horse shows and small country venues.

I made two and four-legged friends at the Baltimore City Mounted Police Stables, as well as polo matches, show barns, and racing stables. While I was cozying up with horsemen and taking copious notes, my husband was never far away, more often than not glued to his current good read. Even more rewarding than seeing my work in print was the the enthusiastic response from readers. John and I were at a funeral home viewing one afternoon

when I walked into the lounge where a young girl, possibly 10, was engrossed in a magazine. I perked up when I saw her riding boots and breeches. Then when I took a closer look at her reading material, my heart raced. It was young rider, a magazine that ran my stories. I recognized the cover of the current edition, the one I had received in the mail that very day.

That must be a pretty interesting magazine, I said. I'm not beyond a shameless fishing expedition. She glanced briefly at the boring old lady before returning to the magazine. Uh-huh. So does it have stories or just articles? Oh, there's always a story. That's my favorite part. I read it first.

There was more, but who can remember? I didn't tell her I had read. written that story, or that it was based on a true news story that had taken place near our son's neighborhood in South Florida. Why destroy any illusions she might have about the author wearing a riding outfit and sitting astride her horse with a laptop? I had written it after reading an article in the Florida Horseman magazine about a Belgian draft horse named Duke, who had helped clean up his neighborhood after Hurricane Wilma. It was titled, Heroic Horse Helps Hall after Hurricane Wilma. I've always had a soft spot for draft horses. My beloved old Jet had Percheron in his pedigree.

So, voila! And I couldn't resist using the names of my granddaughter's two little dogs, Jasper and Lucky. This is the short story that was being enjoyed by the young horse enthusiast. I called it Neighborhood Heroes from Young Rider, January February, 2008. Sometimes Beth told people she had two brothers, but strictly speaking, that wasn't true. Jasper and Lucky might seem like part of the family, but they were still horses. The powerful Belgians worked in the family's carriage business. Tourists love nothing better than sightseeing from a horse-drawn can. carriage, and they were willing to pay generously for the privilege. At home, sometimes Beth climbed

onto Jasper's or Lucky's broad back and joined her neighbor Kathy for a ride through the cool woods. Kathy's always bragging about the ribbons her thoroughbreds win, Beth told her parents. Their pictures have even been in the newspapers. She'd never mentioned to Kathy that Jasper and Lucky had pulled plows at their previous home. carriage horses sounded more refined than workhorses. The two carriages went out every day during decent weather, and in southern Florida, thanks to mild ocean breezes and tropical sun, the weather was almost always perfect, except during hurricane season.

Beth worked alongside her parents, harnessing the gentle Belgians and hitching them to the six-passenger carriages. That usually meant standing on a bedside. for the 14-year-old. Sometimes she even got to drive the carriages to their spot in the park, but there she had to turn over the reins to her father and mother. Tourists won't trust a 14-year-old girl to handle a big draft horse. If they don't feel safe, it will hurt business, her father said. But, Dad, they're easy to drive. Besides, they know the route by heart. It was true. The horses knew where to turn, where to pause, and what to do when the only traffic light was red.

But her father was firm. You can drive them when you're 16, not before. Jasper and Lucky worked from sunup to sundown. Beth made sure there was always fresh water at their shady parking spot. While her parents slipped home for lunch, she removed the horse's bridles and fed them a midday meal of grain. When the bugs were, were bad, she wiped them with fly repellent. It was mid-October when forecasters first mentioned a weather disturbance in the Caribbean. Tourists headed north when the hurricane warning was issued. We'd better get the horses home, said Beth's dad, even though the sun was still shining and the sky was blue. We have a lot to do. Beth knew the drill by heart. Anything that could blow away was brought inside. Shudders were placed over the

house windows and the barn windows were covered with plywood. Beth gave the horses extra hay and water. By the time they were bedded down in their sturdy cinderblock barn, the wind had blown in from the south and threatening dark clouds swirled above. There would be little sleep that night. Howling winds roared like jet fighters overhead as a driving rain pelted the house hour after hour. Beth and her parents were huddled in the laundry room with emergency supplies when a loud crash caused Beth to leap from her chair. The horses, she cried, hugging her mother. They're fine, said mom.

That barn is a fortress. I couldn't see anything outside, Dad said minutes later. There's probably a tree down. The battery-powered radio warned people to stay put as the eye of the hurry. hurricane passed. By early morning, the wind had subsided and the rain slowed to a drizzle. Destruction was widespread, and emergency rescue crews could not meet the great demand. Beth and her parents were relieved to find that their small farm had weathered the storm with minimal damage. While Beth checked the horses, her dad and mom checked on the neighbors. Beth, Beth, help! Beth rushed from the barn to see. Kathy running frantically across the wet driveway, dodging limbs and piles of debris. A tree crashed

through our stable roof last night, and another one fell across the front. We can't reach the horses and I know they're hurt. She began sobbing. We called 911 and nobody can help us. Get my father, said Beth, pointing to a neighbor's house across the road. As Kathy hurried toward the road, Beth went into action. Ten minutes later, when Dad and Kathy ran through the yard, Lucky was harnessed and ready to go. Smart thinking, Dad said, as Kathy's father joined them in the drive.

I'll get some rope to put around the trees. Maybe Lucky can pull them away from the stable. Oh, I don't know, said Kathy's dad, shaking his head. Dragging heavy trees is not the same as pulling a carriage on wheels. He can do it, Beth insisted. as they made their way to the damaged barn. He used to pull a plow on a farm, she said proudly. She patted the horse's shoulder while the men attached the rope to the back of the harness,

then to the fallen tree. Get up, Lucky, yelled Beth holding the reins. Lucky lowered his head and leaned into the harness. Beth didn't know whether to cheer or cry as his powerful shoulders and haunches strained against the weight. finally the heavy tree began to move ever so slightly at first, then was gradually pulled away from the stable. While Kathy and her father rescued the horses from the collapsing building,

Lucky, Beth, and Dad dragged the heavy tree to the end of the pasture. Then they dragged two more trees from the driveway, adding them to the pile. Lucky didn't seem to notice the loud cracking and snapping of the branches. An hour later, Jasper took over, pulling parts of neighbors' roofs and sheds from the street. A veterinarian treated the thoroughbred's bleeding wounds, saying that the quick action had saved their lives. That evening, Kathy visited the two Belgians with apples and carrots and her camera. You are super horses, you know that? she said, hugging their powerful necks. Two days later, the local paper showed a picture of Chasper and Lucky.

The caption read, Neighborhood Heroes. The day the carriage business resumed, Beth handed the reins to her dad at the park as usual, but he shook his head and folded his arms. You've proven you can handle horses. Beth smiled as she held Lucky's reins. Not everybody had the privilege of working with real life here, euros. Over the next decade, while continuing to dream of writing a book, I wrote constantly

and published more than 50 of my stories and articles, not only in horse publications, but in newspapers and mainstream magazines. Shelves that once held folders bulging with rejection letters, now held notebooks bulging with newspaper and magazine clippings of my articles and essays. Indeed, entire magazines with my stories. Stories about loved ones continue to be especially meaningful. Many of them were written for holidays. What fun remembering my grandmother in the following true Labor Day stories. I called this one,

Those Lazy Days of Yore before women started working. The Baltimore Sun, Labor Day, 2013. I was in the doctors waiting, room when I overheard a jaw-dropping conversation between some young women. I've been too busy to take my break, complained a receptionist, sitting at a computer and sipping from a Starbucks cup. Thank God it's Friday, said another young woman carrying a stack of folders. A third, who had been scheduling appointments, put down the receiver and said,

The weekend can't get here fast enough for me. I'm just going to veg out. Then came the part that made my jaw drop. I really envy my grandmother and my great-grandmother. Can you imagine not having to work? They got to stay at home all day while their husbands supported the family. Yeah, said the one who was looking forward to the weekend. The good old days.

Those women really knew what leisure time was. According to the National Bureau of Labor Statistics, women did not begin working in earnest until the mid-20th century. Can you believe that? Apparently the only labor my grandmother experienced in the early 1900s was in the front bedroom where she gave birth to six children and slept her way to the top rung of the domestic ladder, the hussy. Grandma Daisy was one of those lucky women who didn't have to work.

While her husband was away on a commercial fish boat earning a living, she lolly gagged around the homestead enjoying her brood. Thank God she had the occasional chore to save her from a life of endless tedium. By the time those girls behind the desk arrived at work in the morning, Daisy had already gathered hen's eggs for breakfast, lop the head off a rooster, and raked chicken manure for her garden. Then the leisure began in earnest. as she pulled on her high rubber boots and made her way to the backyard vegetable patch.

She threw down her hoe from time to time and ran into the house to investigate screaming, extinguish fires, or wrestle sharp scissors from toddlers. Then it was back to hoeing weeds, dispatching poisonous snakes, and picking tomatoes. On wash day, she pumped water from the well, heated it, scrubbed clothes in a metal wash tub beneath the apple tree, and then pegged them out on rope stretched across the lawn. Hulling water from the well, wood from the shed, and slop buckets to the outhouse weren't really work. After all, it wasn't as though she was being paid. She was merely filling the empty hours until women could officially begin working. There was no glass ceiling in the world of Daisy's daily domestic drudgery. She had risen immediately to the pinnacle of her domain.

I couldn't help wondering how my grandmother might have responded to the young women at the desks. She might have agreed with them. Ers was, in fact, a labor of love. Daisy had been right where she wanted to be. Even if there were no pension checks or gold watches or golden parachutes at the end of her working years. There were six grateful, productive children who shared a common goal, to give their hard-working widowed mother a well-deserved and peaceful retirement. And to think, I had considered myself a working woman, albeit one who came home to a dishwasher, a microwave oven, a washing machine, and a dryer. Silly me. Happy Labor Day. Next time you feel like you're working too hard, think about your great-grandmother.

After this story was printed, I received an email from a reader, though I can't recall her name. The essence of her message is etched in my mind. I love your writing, Mrs. Rowe. Your stories make me feel good. I cut them out and save them in a scrapbook I call My Happy Book. Whenever I'm feeling sad, I take it out and read one of your stories and feel better. Thank you, Mrs. Rowe. Please keep on writing. There is no better way to relive memorable relationships than through writing.

Like much of my other work, the following Mother's Day story was written well before it was published. I had my own children in mind at the time and made sure they all received a copy. I called it All your mother wants today is you. The Baltimore Sun, May 13, 2018. A recent national survey concluded that the most popular Mother's Day gifts are flowers, apparel, and gift cards.

Huh, how could we get it so wrong? I'm reminded of one woman's response when she was asked if she knew when Mother's Day was. Mother's Day is any day my children call me. There's only one thing your mother wants on Mother's Day, and that's you. Talk to her. I speak as the mother of three sons who, for years, communicated only when it was necessary. You need to sign this permission slip, Mom.

I'm in the concert choir, Mom. I need a tux. I need the car Saturday night. Can we have pizza tonight? set aside an hour and call her, especially if she's a senior like me whose sons have moved as far away as they can get and still live in the USA. When you call, ask about her arthritis and cover the receiver when you yawn. Let her complain about unreasonable Aunt Grace and take her side, even if you know Aunt Grace is right. Ask how her Mahjong game is and turn the page of your morning paper quietly as she tells you in excruciating detail. Tell her something about your job

and your friends. Above all, don't be in a hurry, not today. You have a lot to atone for. Look at all those years your poor mother had to impersonate Perry Mason to learn what was going on in your life. When you won a music award in middle school, she had to hear about it on the streets. And when you got the highest SAT score in high school? She had to learn about it at your graduation. And imagine your mother having to hide her surprise, inquire the Sunday morning her fellow Alto said, did you ever think that our children would be dating each other? And it looks serious. Celebrating Mother's Day is easier if your mother lives nearby. Does she have a car? Wash it. Does she have a garden? Weed it. Does she attend religious services, go with her. Let her show you off. Better still, arrange with your

workplace for a take your mom to workday, unless of course you're a crab fisherman on the Bering Sea, or a test pilot, or a gynecologist. Then you should probably stick with a bouquet of daisies and a box of Whitman's cream centers. The closest I ever came to taking my mother to work with me was when she stopped by our house in the morning on her way to the office. Typically, the front door would open, and she would observe me hard at work during my job, reading to three little boys on the sofa, all of us still in pajamas.

After her typical greeting, my, it must be nice to have all your housework done. She tore through the downstairs like a minesweeper, picking up a puzzle here and a stuffed animal there, tucking toy trucks and cowluck. Boots under her arms on her way to the playroom. As she deposited the toys, she could be heard mumbling, there. Now that wasn't so hard, was it? Minutes later, she kissed her three grandsons and disappeared, prompting astute observations such as, what's housework, mommy? Celebrating my mom on

Mother's Day back then was easy. An invitation to a neat, orderly house with three clean grandsons, an attentive husband and a well-cooked meal. Once a year it didn't kill me, and it won't kill you either, I promise. It's never too late to honor a loved one through writing. This brief Father's Day tribute in memory of my dad remains one of my all-time favorite published short pieces. I called it the best gift dad ever got.

The Baltimore Sun, June 19, 2000. There was nothing complicated about Father's Day in my family. My mother bought my father a gift, and I presented it to him. Something practical for a hardworking man. A shirt, a modest tie for Sundays, some big white handkerchiefs. Dad was never without a big white handkerchief. Never French cologne or Italian loafers or gold cufflings. not for my father. And God forbid he should open up a box and find a gold chain necklace or bracelet.

The only jewelry my father ever wore was a watch with a leather band. When I was old enough to shop, Old Spice was my standby. Dad always acted surprised, even though the shape of the bottle was a dead giveaway. To this day, the familiar smell of Old Spice reminds me of my father. One year I gave him chocolate-covered cherries his favorite. He took one and passed the box around the room. It came back empty. The next time I gave him two boxes of chocolate-covered cherries. Dad was happiest when he was making someone else happy. I was 15 when he converted an old chicken house into a first-rate stable and fenced in a pasture so that his obsessed daughter could have a horse. The first time I rode my horse in a show was on father's day.

May, 1954. Dad bought a hitch, attached it to his work truck, and we borrowed a dilapidated wooden horse trailer from an old friend. While my father rebuilt the rotted floor and repaired the sagging tailgate, I scrubbed manure stains from my horse's gray coat and shined his hooves. I won a yellow ribbon that day, my very first, for a third place finish in a class of a dozen horses. Afterward, I handed the ribbon to Dad and said, happy Father's Day. He told me it was his favorite gift ever. I still have that ribbon, and I expect I always will. It's in a box stuffed with horse show ribbons. On the top, wrapped in a big white handkerchief. I love stories like this seven years ago. A guy named Ben Sanchorchiff. A guy named Ben Sussie.

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 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 cow, Don't take a chance on a foreign ranch, get good ranchers now. E-Haw!

Chapter 8 In My Head John and I were guests at a wedding that was more highly produced than a movie. The bride was a friend's granddaughter we barely knew, and the groom had been touted as a brilliant young certified public accountant. He looked to be about 16. The affair took place in a community hall, where the photographers and videographers outnumbered the wedding party.

Or at least, I think they did. It's hard to be certain as camera tripods obscured our view of the ceremony. Why are we here? My husband whispered. I don't know these people. I feel like an extra on a movie set. I apologized again and explained that I couldn't get out of it. The dinner will be good, I promised.

When the couple kissed, I expected someone to clap one of the, those slate boards together and yell, Take one. That was a mere overture to the main event. At the reception, the wedding party burst through the doors, performing choreographed dance routines. I couldn't take my eyes off the young groom as he cartwheeled across the floor to the head table

like a Cirque de Soleil performer. I must have stared off because John looked me square in the eye and asked, Okay, where are you now, Maggie? My husband knows when I'm in my head, as he calls it, when I've seen or heard something that sends my mind on a free-wheeling excursion through time to some long-forgotten character or event. It can happen anywhere, even at a wedding reception. I couldn't wait to get home to my computer to tell the story of another CPA

who had cartwheeled his way through my childhood in quite a different manner. As with much of my writing, the story of Mr. Brand has not been shared until now. I called it a touch of class. Who knows why some characters cross our paths barely noticed, while others leave an indelible impression. Perhaps they come into our lives during a more sensitive time when we have a heightened awareness. Perhaps they're out of the ordinary.

Mr. Brand was one of those people. Seventy years later, I can still see him clearly. I was a child when my parents engaged the services of Mr. Brand. To me, he was Mr. Sunday, always dressed like my father when he was on his way to church. That's how certified public accountants dressed back in the 1940s, just to sit at the dining room table and reconcile the books. This particular CPA graced our home twice a year. And boy, do I mean graced.

One day when my mother and I were looking through the Montgomery Ward catalog, I pointed and yelled, Look, it's Mr. Sunday. It was a picture of a distinguished man with a sprinkling of gray hair, wearing a business suit and carrying a small brown leather suitcase like the one Mr. Brand carried. The first time I met him, I asked if he had brought his lunch, the way my big sister carried her lunch to school every day. He opened it and showed me.

It smelled like my father's new shoes, and there was no food, just some papers and pens. Typically, Dad would hang around to greet Mr. Bran in the morning before leaving for the job in his freshly laundered khakis and neatly ironed work shirt before he had a chance to get his fingernails dirty. I could always tell when Mr. Bran was coming. or Paul, as my parents called him, there were tell-tale signs. Our house was usually spotless, but on those days, I could see my face reflected in the dining room table. That's where he would pour over mom's books, with her beside him to answer questions. The morning sun reflecting off the silver service on the buffet was enough to burn your retinas.

I'd learned that phrase from a story in my sister's weekly reader about people in some foreign country who go blind from staring at the sun. If all this wasn't enough, my mother's outfit was a dead giveaway. She'd show up in the kitchen that morning in a pretty dress. On a weekday, when she wasn't even going out. A hint of Chanel number five followed her everywhere, kind of like the sickening stench that followed our dog around after he rolled in something dead.

Chanel number five was mom's scent of choice when she and dad went out with their hoity-toity lion's club friends. My mother was the bookkeeper for my father's electrical contracting business and she knew from the get-go that there was more to Mr. Brand than his auditing skills.

I could tell by the way she crossed her legs while they were working, lifting her toes high in the air and waving them about like she did before standing up to address the women's auxiliary at church. Oh, yeah, this man was straight from a catalog and brought a touch of class to our modest home on Leslie Avenue. He was not the sort of man mom would have run into

in the small fishing village where she was raised. He was more like the men she might run into in the books she devoured, men of refinement and culture. I had my own reasons for looking forward to Mr. Sunday, his visits, although I wasn't allowed to call him Mr. Sunday or Mr. Catalog or even Paul. That wouldn't be proper. And when it came to proper behavior, my mother had high standards. I made it a point to leave my backyard virtual pony and come into the house mid-morning when Mr. Brand and mom were settled at the dining room table with the books in front of them.

and maybe a serving of fresh apple strudel and a cup of coffee. Mr. Brand had confessed on his first visit that apple strudel was his weakness, so naturally it was ready and waiting on the days he was expected. Whenever I came through the door, our CPA would rise from his chair and bow toward me as though a beautiful princess had entered the room instead of a kid wearing cowboy boots and a Dale Evans fringed skirt.

I was careful not to shoot off my cap pistol in the house, lest my mother's eyebrows shoot upwards and disapproval. That would be a perfect example of improper behavior. Well, hello there, young lady, he'd say with delight, as though he'd been waiting for me all morning and now his life was complete. And how are we today? He always smelled like Daddy when he and Mom were going to a Lions Club affair. On one visit, Mr. Sunday smiled at me, opened his brown suitcase, and reached inside.

It reminded me of the way a magician I saw at the carnival reached into a big black hat. Only instead of pulling out a white rabbit, Mr. Brand pulled out a horse figurine, which he presented to me with a little bow. token of my regard, Miss Pagy. It made me giggle when he talked like that, and mom too. Surely, there was nobody more proper than Mr. Brand. A gentleman to the core. I think even Emily Post, the etiquette authority my mother was forever quoting, would have been impressed by our Mr. Brand. I was a teenager by the time we moved to the farm, where there was plenty of room for dad's expanding business as well as my real horses. Now when Mr. Brand came to audit our books,

he and Mom worked in our basement office. Thanks to my father's construction skills, it was state-of-the-art 1954, with wood-paneled walls, linoleum flooring, and an acoustical tile ceiling, plus fluorescent lighting and a black telephone. Mom referred to it as the terrace office, because it had an outside entrance from the driveway. But it was still in the basement, which I had once referred to as the cellar. And boy, I never did that again. Big mistake. Sellers were damp and filthy with dirt floors, apparently.

Except for the gray hair, which had spread considerably, our CPA's appearance never altered over the years, nor did his formality. He still set a high bar for redact. refinement, that's for sure, dressing like Chet Huntley and David Brinkley on the evening news, and never speaking casually or using slang. If you'd seen him in public, you might have assumed he was one of those diplomats who knew how to speak French. Mom still treated him like royalty. And even after she found her calling in real estate, she cleared her schedule to spend the day with Paul when he came to audit the books. I was returning from school.

one day as mom was showing Mr. Brand to the door. I heard her tell them that our business was thriving just in time to support two big horses and my sister's college tuition. I look back on Mr. Brand's fall from grace with bevoldermint. I learned of it quite suddenly at dinner one evening along with my father, who was equally shocked. It was on his second or third visit to our state-of-the-art basement office after he and mom had spent much of the day working together on the books. It would be his final visit. I was engrossed in my own life, but this was momentous. In retrospect, my mother had been quiet at dinner that evening, until dad asked, how did things go with Paul today, hon, as he lifted a piece of succulent beef

from his homemade vegetable soup and placed it in a saucer. He was shaking ketchup onto the beef when he stopped and looked up. Is everything all right with the books? I was trying to imagine Mr. Brand shaking a ketchup bottle when it occurred to me that my mother wasn't answering Dad's question. A few seconds later, she replied, Mr. Brand behaved improperly today. She said it in the same way she might have said

Peggy was suspended from school today with a mixture of disappointment and disbelief. Now my mother was not one for spreading maliciously. rumors or even speaking of unpleasantries. I had learned the do-not-gossip rule years earlier. It always ended with the same lecture. If you can't say something nice about someone, don't say anything at all. So naturally, her statement about Mr. Brand got my attention as well as my father's. Are there problems with the books? Dad asked. Mom put down her soup spoon, smoothed the napkin across her lap and looked at Dad. Paul asked me to go out with him today. What? You mean,

on a date? And then my father made a big mistake. He laughed like he just made the funniest joke ever. He invited me to go out to lunch with him, to a restaurant, just the two of us, alone. And then dad made his second big mistake of the day. Oh, hon, he didn't mean anything improper. He just wants to repay you for all the coffee and strudel you've served him through the years. That's all. It was nothing personal. I'm sure of that. He smacked the bottom of the ketchup bottle innocently as mom stiffened and set her jaw. After staring for a few seconds as if trying to decide if this was sound reasoning or the ultimate insult. She said in her outside voice, It's inappropriate. I'm a married woman. He's a married man. It wouldn't be proper.

And that was it. My mother said no more on the subject. She'd never been one to take me into her confidence, ever. So my teenage brain was left to speculate. And speculate it did. I didn't mention the obvious. that if Mr. Brand had impure thoughts or even intentions, a secluded office would be the place to act on them, not a public restaurant. Had Mr. Brand behaved more inappropriately than my mother let on? Had this paragon of refinement misread her attention to him through the years,

lost his balance and fallen from his perch on that pedestal of propriety, causing my mother's flight of fancy to crash? Or had my mother hoped for something more from him, something a little more daring, perhaps. Was she secretly disappointed that he didn't make a pass at her? Of course, I could be overthinking it. She was, after all, of an advanced age in her 40s. It was a cliffhanger, to be sure. Like the soap opera's mom used to listen to on the radio,

each episode leaving her suspended and wanting more. I never saw Mr. Brand again, and my mother never spoke of him. He hadn't lived up to her Victorian standards of behavior. And that was that. Or so we were led to believe. Years later, when Mom disapproved of my boyfriend, whom I would go on to marry, I was tempted to say, well, he might not be as classy as Mr. Brand, but at least he didn't ask my mother for a date. I refrained. Mom wasn't known for her sense of humor. If you work in university maintenance, Granger considers you an MVP

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