The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 282: BONUS: Vacuuming in the Nude Chapters 9 & 10

Episode Date: November 11, 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. 

Hello, my friends. It's the way I heard it, episode number 282. This one contains chapters nine and 10 of my mom's bestselling book, vacuuming in the nude and other ways to get attention. Yes, it's another bonus episode just for you, and it's funny. Ever since I started posting my mom's book for free on this platform, two chapters at a time, people have said to me, Mike Roe, why are you giving away your mother's fantastic book for free? It's a very funny book, and she reads it so well, don't you think people would be happy to pay for it? I say, well, look, if you want to pay for it, I won't stop you. You can pick up a copy over at Amazon and read it out loud to yourself or to your family or to anyone who might listen. Or you can wait for it to show up on Audible sometime next

year and pay to listen to it over there in one fell swoop. But here in this magical place called Podcastlandia, why should you have to pay for it? When so many wonderful sponsors are standing by to support my mom's unlikely writing career. Beloved sponsors like these guys who deserve just a few moments of your undivided attention. 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 Row 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 9. Making a difference. I have the greatest respect for real working writers. I mean the ones who hustle to find a story. Pitch it. Conduct an interview and write it. Like my friend and editor, Michelle, who also writes articles for professional publications,

national magazines, and websites. She considers herself a freelancer, but I, on the other hand, have never pitched a story or had an assignment, or even a deadline. I've written stories and articles on topics that have interested me and submitted some of them to various publications.

I'd love to say that my freelance writing salary has put food on the table and paid the mortgage. But it would be a lie. If John and I had depended on my income as a writer, we'd have eaten beans and lived in a crate. It was my husband's teaching salary and good sense when it came to finances that provided our family's security. When it came to writing, the big payoff came in 2002 when I wrote a letter to the Baltimore Orioles front office about their number one fan, a letter that resulted in an invitation for my 90-year-old infirm mother to throw out an opening pitch and an Orioles game, which she would go on to describe as the most exciting experience of her life. Years later, I would write another such letter for my 100-year-old friend Mary,

who received the same invitation. She too described it as the most exciting experience of her life. knowing that my writing has impacted someone else's life in a positive way is as good as it gets. Such was the case in 2012 when I wrote the following story about our neighbor, Chick-Sirio. I called it For Gallantry in Action, the Baltimore Sun, 2012 Memorial Day. In 2001, my husband and I moved from our home in rural school. suburbia to a retirement condo. The move was my idea, but John was a good sport about it. Eventually. His main objection was the proximity of so many strangers. So much for privacy, he complained. What if they're horrible people? Have you thought about that? Shortly after moving in,

we met our new neighbors across the hall, Chick and Marguerite Serio, a friendly older couple with grown children and grandkids, just two average normal people like John and me. Or so we thought, we were mistaken. I still remember that day John came barreling through the door, reminiscent of the kids rushing in after an adventure that simply had to be shared. He had news that would elevate Chick-Sirio's status from that of nice old neighbor to superhero. Guess what, hon? Marguerite told me that Chick was awarded the Silver Star for Gallantry in action on Iwo Jima, John said. We're living across the hall from a genuine war hero. You would never have guessed that Chick Serio was a war hero to look at him.

He didn't wear an Iwo Jima baseball cap or a Marine Corps jacket or have a Semper-5 flag hanging from his balcony. A modest man, he didn't even display his Silver Star medal. In fact, when John asked to see it, Chick wasn't sure exactly where it was. Somewhere in the house, Marguerite would know, he said. Chick was an ordinary Baltimoreian in many ways, with a passion for his family, his church, and his country. To top it off, he had an appetite for steamed crabs and a 60-year-long love affair with the Baltimore Orioles. Yet he had answered his country's call.

more than 70 years ago. This was the beginning of a special relationship for John, not just because my husband was a history buff and had taught the subject, or because he had served in Korea, but because John has a fascination with World War II and an entire generation of heroes who are slipping away. Chick had a story, and as a writer,

I needed to hear it and tell it. However, we soon learned that our friend was hesitant to talk about his life in the military. It was years before I broached the subject and asked if he would be willing to share some of his stories with me. Finally, to my surprise and delight, our neighbor, now in his 90s, agreed. So one spring afternoon I walked across the hall with a yellow legal pad, a pencil, and a camera. For the next couple of hours, I sat across the room from Chick while he talked about his war. I could see Marguerite around the corner at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in the morning paper. From time to time as Chick spoke, she rose silently and refilled her cup.

The first thing I learned that day was that Chick Serio was not a hero. About that, he was adamant. The heroes were the men and boys who did. did not come home or who returned disabled. Six thousand of them right here in Maryland, he said. I was expecting to hear a story about a young man with lofty ideals who was hell-bent on saving his country and preserving his family's freedom. Instead, I heard a story about an innocent, naive, unpretentious young man who had grown up with his own personal hero and best friend,

his uncle Joe Marsiglia, just a year or two his senior. Chick was 20 when Joe received his notice from the draft board in 1942, and Chick was determined not to be left behind. With visions of fighting beside his buddy, he decided to enlist. When Chick's father, John Serio, saw how determined his son was, he relented and made one stipulation, join the Navy, son. You'll have a clean bed on a ship

instead of sleeping in a filthy hole in the ground. But when the two young men arrived at the armory, there was a long line at the Navy recruitment office. At this point, Chick looked at me with a boyish grin and shrugged. We figured the Marines needed men more than the Navy did, so Joe and I both signed up. When I told my father, man, I'd never seen him so far.

curious. Our friend reflected on boot camp at Paris Island where he was told that a marine can do anything. And I believed it, he said. He spoke warmly of his schooling and training at Camp Lejeune, and in time his promotion to sergeant, almost as though he were at a school reunion reliving fond memories of old friends and daring escapades. Then came the final, intense training on the beaches of beautiful Hawaii where they practiced the salt landings and had time to play some baseball. Chick paused in his story and I feared that the dreaded next chapter would not be shared, at least that day. But after a short walk, he returned and continued. Interestingly, at this point in the story, Chick speaks of his war experience in the present, as though he's reliving it instead of just

telling a story. And it feels like I'm there beside him on that long, unforgettable journey in the crowded dark hold of a ship, surrounded by an unbearable, nauseating stench of body odor and vomit. It's on the deck of that very ship that Sergeant Serio first hears the words Iwo Jima and learns of its strategic importance in the planned invasion of Japan. It's February very 19th, 1945, Chick recalls, and we're watching

from the safety of our ship in horror as the first wave of Marines makes their landing onto the island.

We see American boys flying through the air and falling onto the sand. Enemy mortars are exploding

everywhere. Chick shakes his head and I worry that the memory is too real, but he continues.

We keep watching and waiting. helpless. Night comes and we sleep. The next morning we can't believe our breakfast, steak and eggs. We no sooner finish when they tell us to pack up our gear. It's our turn. He goes on to describe enormous swells in a white sea and the hazardous rope ladders down the side of the ship and shakes his head in disbelief. Some guys, boys, never even make it to the beach.

They fall into the deep, dark water between the ship and the landing boat and drown before they can be rescued. Others break their legs and are put back on the ship. Chick shakes his head sadly and looks at me. They didn't even have a chance to fight. I glance into the kitchen. and realized that Marguerite, no longer turning the pages of her paper, is staring out the window, her coffee forgotten.

When the boats reach land, the flaps are lowered, and the seasick Marines of the Fifth Pioneer Battalion, 5th Marine Division, joined men from other landing craft running onto the black volcanic sand, littered with debris and Marines, dead and alive. I couldn't help but react at this point in the story. Oh, chick, I said, how does a person live with such memories? He told me that 67 years later he still awakens from nightmares and relives the terror of life in a succession of foxholes.

He spoke of Japanese soldiers emerging from caves, running toward him, screaming, brandishing guns and bayonets being ready to die. watching a buddy standing up beside him and being shot dead, shooting his gun blindly and knowing he killed men without feeling remorse. He spent four days of intense fighting with no chance to even remove his boots or go to the latrine. He used his helmet to soak his sore feet, then as a toilet. Chick spoke of laws in the fighting, spending quiet moments to reflect on a house in Walbrook, Maryland. taking time to remember the bustling produce stall at Lexington Market that had supported three

generations of cereos. Time to remember his first job at the age of eight, selling grocery bags to shoppers. Time to remember Mount St. Joe High School and his Italian father's advice about enlisting and knowing that he had been right. There was time to ache for family, and most of all, moments to mourn. his Uncle Joe, whom he had not seen since basic training, and who lay critically wounded in a hospital. Then came that fateful day on March 26, when his unit was under fierce attack and running out of ammunition. Acting on impulse, Sergeant Serio commandeered a jeep and drove through enemy fire to the ammo dump on the beach, shooting four enemy soldiers along the way. At the dump, a sergeant and the Major in command refused his request for more ammo. In desperation, Chick leveled his rifle at their

heads and yelled, Men are dying while we're talking. The Major and Sergeant backed down, and Chick's men loaded the Jeep with ammunition. He later learned that as a result of his actions that day, A U.S. assault team was able to successfully counter the Japanese attack. Sergeant Charles A. Serio received the silver star for valor in recognition of his resourcefulness in the closing battle for Iwo Jima. As I left the Serio house that day following my interview, Marguerite followed me into the hall and told me something that was hard to believe. Peggy, Chick has never, ever,

talked about his war experience. In 70 years, she said, shaking her head. I have never heard these stories before today. I just figured he'd moved on and forgotten them. He was busy earning a law degree, then starting his own insurance agency and supporting a family of six. Anyway, thank you, Peggy for giving me a chance to finally know what it was like. I can't wait to read your story. When the story was published, my email address was included at the end, in keeping with the son's policy. As a result, the following day, my inbox was flooded with messages.

Some were for me, but the majority of them were for chick, filled with praise and gratitude for his service. Some were from strangers, others were from relatives, friends, and colleagues. The serios, like many of their generation, were not up on computer technology in 2012. So John and I invited them to our condo that Memorial Day afternoon for lunch. Chick wore his Marine uniform for the occasion. He was surprised that almost all of the buttons could fasten. After lunch, John brought his laptop to the dining room table,

and for well over the next hour, Chick and Marguerite sat transatl. fixed with glistening eyes as he read dozens of emails from admirers, as well as old friends. Chick spoke of his strong faith in the Lord that brought him through the turmoil of war and its aftermath. He expressed how fortunate he felt to have lived to see the National World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C., and to witness the resurgence of interest in all things World War II, especially movies and best selling books. Most of all, Chick was grateful that his Uncle Joe had survived his serious injuries and returned home to a full life, despite being terribly disfigured by enemy fire.

As they left our house, Chick hugged me and said, thank you. This has been the best memorial day of my life. There were actual tears all around. Like many other 93-year-old men, our friend and neighbor was feeble and bent, and still, we looked up to him. I was grateful for two things that day. The greatest generation who fought the good fight so that others could live peacefully, and the privilege of making a difference in the life of one so deserving. I love stories like this seven years ago.

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 determination to keep it has not only propelled good ranchers into the top tier of meat delivery companies, it's fueled enormous awareness among meteors like me that we have all been affirmatively deceived by policies that allow imported meat to be marketed as domestic. That's the reason I

switched to good ranchers. If I'm being honest, though, I doubt that I would have stayed this long had the quality not been so exceptional. Every single cut I've devoured from Good Ranchers has been straight up delicious, and every morsel was raised on a small American farm or ranch. Give them a try. Subscriptions are affordable and flexible. In fact, if you start your plan today, you'll get free meat for life and $40 off your first order.

Just use code mic at good ranchers.com. Free meat for life, $40 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-Haul! Chapter 10

The shorter and the plainer, the better. I'm not known for long, complex sentences like Charles Dickens or William Faulkner wrote. Not that I would presume to compare my work to theirs, not by a long shot. In general, I follow the advice of Beatrix Potter. The shorter and the plainer, the better. And Mark Twain, who said, as to the adjective, when in doubt, wipe it out. My literary references are more likely to come from Winnie the Pooh than from Homer.

The following true story was a joy to write. Simple and straightforward, it is a reminiscence with my favorite and most beloved characters. I think that Mark Twain and Beatrix Potter would find it acceptable. I know that my children will. It has lived only on my computer until now. I call it a gentleman of note. It was 1972 when the old man stood in our living room peeling off layers of clothing, the way one might peel layers from an onion.

Hat, glove, another glove, overcoat, scarf, sweater, vest, and all of its smelling of wood smoke. Our three sons stared as if Mr. Kirk were a magician hired to entertain at a birthday party juggling bowling pins in the air or pulling colored scarves from his pockets. He was probably the oldest man the children had ever met, and possibly the shortest,

as 10-year-old Michael was a good three inches taller. As they watched, mesmerized, they sniffed the air, which was oddly reminiscent of a smoldering campfire. We would learn that Mr. Kirk heated his house with a wood stove, and we came to associate him with that aura. Even in the summer his clothing seemed to exhale the odors of smoke and creosote. All right, I said, breaking their trance as the strip teas ended.

You boys can get started on your homework now. I'll call you when it's time for your lesson. Phil, you'll be first right after me, so don't go far. On his way from the room, seven-year-old Scott put his head back, inhaled deeply, and said, We haven't roasted marshmallows in a long time, Mom. Can we build a fire tonight? This musician had come highly recommended by a friend whose children were taking piano lessons. My half hour of instruction was always first,

so that I could start dinner while the others took their turns on the bench. My husband's lesson was last. He promised to get home from work in time. You'd have thought I had asked him to sit in on the lady's sewing circle instead of on a piano bench for half an hour once a week. You'll be setting a good example for the boys, I told him. You know, a guy thing. Not that there wasn't some eye-rolling,

but in the end, John agreed, especially since Mr. Kirk charged a measly dollar-fifty, per lesson. Anyone else would have charged three times as much. But then they wouldn't be in their upper 80s. So Thursday afternoons I drove the five miles to pick up our teacher. And for the next two and a half hours, our family took turns sitting beside him and playing the pieces we had practiced. The $7.50 was well within our budget. And it took no more effort to prepare dinner for six than it did for five. Although I always fixed something special, including a homemade dessert, Mr. Kirk was a bachelor. I wasn't new to piano lessons. I've had a love-hate relationship with the instrument for as long as I can

remember. In my first book about my mother, I described in great detail how my unreasonable mother forced me to take lessons. She had dreams of her daughters playing at church functions. and was in seventh heaven the Sunday my older sister filled in for the organist. For six years, I trudged to the Elmwood piano studio every Tuesday afternoon and humiliated myself for an interminable half hour. Though she seemed an ancient relic at the time, my teacher was probably in her 30s or 40s. Patient and motherly, she sensed from the get-go that I was hopeless when it came to the piano.

I avoided practicing with the same intensity I avoided the neighborhood bully, and she could tell. Each time I begged to quit the lessons, Mom's default response went into overdrive. Piano lessons will give you an appreciation for music, Peggy. Someday you'll thank me. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. She repeated it so often I heard it in my sleep. Getting on my mother's good side was as simple as learning to play an easy selection, from our church hymnal.

Nothing put mom in a good mood like a good old-fashioned hymn. I might have lacked technique, but I played with feeling. Resentment. Mothers are smart. Years later, her prophecy would be fulfilled when John bought me the brand new Kimball piano that now resided in our dining room by the stairway. Our three sons stabbed at the keys from time to time and became proficient at chopsticks,

while I played Christmas carols and simplified arrangements of classical music. Nowadays, they can probably be found in a book titled The Classics for Dummies. My performances were peppered with mistakes, which made me regret squandering the years of lessons, as well as my parents' money, which I had argued at the time

would have been better spent on a pony. And now I had an opportunity to make up for those lost years. My weeks revolved around Thursdays. I spent every spare minute practicing until even the dog shook her head and trotted from the room. I was never far away during the children's lessons, stepping around the corner with a mixing bowl in my hands, or a tea towel over my shoulder to listen to the clipped conversations or a short passage tentatively played by young fingers. Like my mother before me, I dreamed of my son's one day playing Beethoven. Mr. Kirk was patient, pleasant, and perceptive. Speaking slowly in a deep, gravelly voice,

and without a trace of frustration, he said to seven-year-old Scott, just ten more minutes, young man, and then you can get on with your homework. To which Scott replied, oh, I finished my homework. I'm building a dam at the stream. Poppy built one there when he was my age. Then he went swimming. Clever Mr. Kirk turned a few pages in the book and chose a simple tune for Scott's next assignment. He played it as Scott listened.

It was called the babbling brook, and I never once had to remind my son to practice it. My favorite part of each lesson came at the end when our teacher moved from his chair to the bench and introduced our new assignments, playing them flawlessly. It was like a mini-recital. Mr. Kirk was nearly as entertaining at the dinner table as he was at the piano. Week after week, he regaled us with stories of growing up on a dairy farm, milking cows, cleaning the barn, and pouring pure cream over his morning cereal.

Today they say that cream is bad for you, but it did. didn't seem to hurt me, said this octogenarian, who still enjoyed excellent hearing and vision. His stories were fascinating the first few times we heard them, but there were only so many stories, and eventually we knew them by heart, and could have finished any one of them after hearing the first sentence. The gratification I had hoped for in my children's musical accomplishments was never realized. But their kindness, week after week, as they listened patiently to our old teacher's stories, pretending they were hearing them for the first time, was a source of pride. My husband's lessons lasted only one month, as he claimed his fingers were not made for the keyboard.

Mr. Kirk was understanding and not surprised. Adult fingers are not as flexible as children's, he told John. especially when they haven't played the piano as youngsters. John coped bravely with his disappointment. Eventually, I was the only row who looked forward to the lessons and who practiced faithfully. That said, our children benefited immeasurably from Mr. Kirk's tutelage. I'd like to think he gave our youngest a better understanding of history.

I came close to dropping my favorite platter the day I stepped into the dining room where Phil's legs were swinging freely beneath the piano bench, as he asked nonchalantly, Did you know Jesus, Mr. Kirk? The old teacher smiled and said, Oh, no, Jesus lived a long time before I was born, son. But I did hear Rachmaninov played the piano in person many years ago. If our kindergartner was impressed, he kept it to himself.

During one lesson, he said to Mike, you have an extraordinary ear, young man. That statement, once he realized the meaning, gave our shy 10-year-old the confidence to participate in school music programs. Of course, Mike would never be as gifted as Mr. Kirk, who had perfect pitch. The kids loved testing their teacher

by having him close his eyes and identify the note they played. They could never fool him. Once, when Mr. Kirk was a teacher, in the kitchen as Scott played a wrong note, he called out, That's F, natural, son. I loved our teacher's sense of humor almost as much as his musical talent. When the doorbell chimed, he paused mid-sentence to say,

E.C. Major Third. And one day during my lesson, before the children had returned from school, he got up to use the lavatory. He was about 10 feet away when I heard him, Toot. Without missing a bead, he said as if to himself, D-flat, I think. We didn't speak of it, but both of us had smiles when he returned. I was making progress with pieces such as Moonlight Sonata and Mozart's Piano Sonata in C Major, but only the easy passages,

and dreamed of accompanying our choir in the church sanctuary, or at least entertaining old friends at a party with a Scott Joplin medley. The fact that I was nervous playing for Mr. Kirk was perplexing, but not surprising. I had a history of being nervous when playing in front of an audience, even family. I couldn't blame my teacher, as he was always positive and encouraging. The very same pieces I had played to perfection that morning were tentative and filled with errors as he sat beside me. Sometimes it was as though I had never seen the music before that moment. It's called performance anxiety, he explained, nodding sympathetically.

And it's not unusual, especially in adults who haven't performed before audiences as children. One Thursday I sat at the piano before my lesson as Mr. Kirk used the nearby bathroom. While waiting, I played my two assigned pieces perfectly, as I had done. on the preceding days. That was lovely, my teacher said when he rejoined me. After making some suggestions concerning dynamics, he had me play the pieces again. I can only say that a stranger coming into the room

would have assumed I had developed sudden onset paralysis of the fingers. It was that bad and discouraging. Alas, it did not improve, and it seemed my future in performance wasn't to be. When the children's interest waned, I imagined my mother watching from her window with a smile on her face as I hunted them down like fugitives at lesson time, screaming. Piano lessons will give you an appreciation for music. You'll thank me someday. We took lessons until Mr. Kirk developed health issues. His passion for music and his very presence affected all of us.

and I've never regretted my family's year-long keyboard journey together. It did indeed contribute to my children's appreciation for music. I've been reminded of it frequently through the years. Like the day John and I shopped at Phil's second-hand bookstore to the accompaniment of Vivaldi's Four Seasons playing in the background, or the day I climbed into Scott's pickup and the speakers blared Beethoven's minuade and G major, Oh, Scott, I said, I always dreamed you would play Beethoven for me one day. And who could forget that episode of Dirty Jobs,

where Mike claimed a massive pipe organ in a Philadelphia church, then proceeded to play a few measures of a favorite classical piece. The only three measures he knew most likely, but fans were impressed. I occasionally play simple hymns for our church's evening events. The friendly group adjusts their expectations. and continue singing when I lose my place. They chalk it up to nerves and rightly so. During the COVID-19 quarantine,

church friends have been impressed by my Zoom accompaniments. I don't tell them my secret that I practice endlessly, then pre-record the selections on my keyboard. When the time comes, I sit on the bench with the computer camera behind me, push the play button, and move my hands over the keyboard with confidence. Not once do I land on the wrong key. Somehow, I think Mr. Kirk would approve.

The ocean delights us as playful otters restore coastal kelp forest. The ocean teaches us how our choices impact even the deepest places. The ocean connects us. Visit monterey Bay Aquarium.org slash connects. If you're a maintenance supervisor at a manufacturing facility, and your machinery isn't working right, Granger knows you need to understand what's wrong as soon as possible.

So when a conveyor motor falters, Granger offers diagnostic tools like calibration kits and multimeters to help you identify and fix the problem. With Granger, you can be confident you have everything you need to keep your facility running smoothly. Call 1-800 Granger, clickgranger.com,

or just stop by. Granger, for the ones who get it done.