The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 284: BONUS: Vacuuming in the Nude Chapters 11 & 12

Episode Date: November 18, 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. And here we go with episode number 284, the way I heard it. Otherwise known as chapters 11 and 12 of vacuuming in the nude and other ways to get attention, as read by the author, the one and only, Peggy Roe, or, as she was once known, Margaret Noble.

Many of you have asked when the author, formerly known as Margaret Noble, will join me for another chat here on the podcast to answer a few of the many hundreds of questions concerning the book she's been reading here every week for your edification. I would say probably a week or two after the last chapters are posted, which should be sometime early in December. Don't hold me to that. the author formerly known as Margaret Noble is terribly busy and hard to pin down these days, but I'll see what I can do. In fact, I'll ask her this weekend. I'm headed to Baltimore to help

celebrate my parents' 62nd wedding anniversary and my dad's 90th birthday. More on that later. For now, here is the author, formerly known as Margaret Noble, with two more chapters just for you right after this. 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 tech. and data for just 3499 a month with no contracts and no commitments of any kind. You can see why I love these guys. If, on the other hand, you have better things to do with your time than watch my mom and me be impossibly charming together, then allow me to remind you here, without all the cleverness and charm, that unlimited talk text and data on a blazing fast network for just 3499 a month really is an unmitigated bargain from an American wireless company that can,

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. You can switch in as little as 10 minutes at puretalk.com slash row. Chapter 11. A critic indeed. Every writer needs a brave critic, someone who's not afraid to tell the truth. Your ending is weak, or your plot is thin, or it needs to be funnier. It's hard to imagine my journey without Mike, listening, laughing, and cheering me on. The fact that his very public career is also the

source of endless, entertaining material has been the icing on my literary cake. The following story is a perfect example. I call it Roadkill, the dirty parents. My husband and I were watching Dirty Jobs reruns one Saturday when the Roadkill Cleaner episode came on. Instead of grimacing, as we normally would, we exchanged glances. The way people do when they share a naughty secret. It was one of the earliest episodes and like most viewers, John and I were sickened by the sheer volume of carcasses on highways. There was an upside, of course. As with most stories on dirty jobs, this episode reeked of educational opportunity. In fact, my husband had often claimed that viewing all 300 episodes of dirty jobs is the equivalent of a three-credit

college course. As always, our son came away from this job with an appreciation for the workers who pick up an average of 1,000 animals, mostly deer, possums, and raccoons from Ohio roadways in one year. Without this crew, highways would be impassable. Who knew? And through it all, their sensitivity toward animals remains intact. Mike demonstrated that it's a job requiring a strong strong back and an even stronger stomach. Shortly after the episode aired, our son sent us a gift. Actually, he forwarded a gift to us that he had received in the mail. And no, it wasn't a carcass from the road. Not exactly. It wasn't Mike's first dirty jobs gift. We've saved some of them through the years, the ones that haven't drawn flies or grown mildew or rotted and stunk to high heaven.

Like the little pots made of cow manure from a dairy farm in Connecticut. The little pellets of owl vomit wrapped in foil. And something from a goat, possibly cheese or soap. Of course it could have been worse. We held our breath after he worked with worms and maggots and were afraid to go to our mailbox after he castrated sheep. In contrast, we had high hopes when we saw our sun in an opal mine. No such luck.

Anyway, his gift arrived in November. Four identical placements, sturdy and well-made, with a large photograph of what initially appeared to be a Rorschach inkblot. They were mostly red in color, but as we stared at it, two ears gradually emerged. Then an eye came into four. focus and a leg. Oh yeah. It was a picture of roadkill all right, a rabbit in a former life. Perhaps one of the thousands of animals picked up from the stretch of road where he'd spent a day.

It was hideous and offensive, of course, and John said something like, I guess we should be grateful it's not the real thing. I stuck the placemats in the bottom desk drawer along with my lovely courier and Ives prints and put them out of my mind. What did our son expect me to do? Serve lunch on them to my old teacher friends, with an entree of rabbit cacciatore perhaps or a tasty bunny kebab? But of course, the worst was yet to come. A humorist looks at the world around her and sees the humor. It comes naturally. The challenge is in revealing that humor to others in writing. And the funny thing about humor is that sometimes it isn't immediately obvious.

Sometimes it requires a distance and perspective and a knowledge of the backstory. This is situational humor and it's great fun to write about. The Hairy Part Every December, John's amateur theatrical group, 20 or so creative funny actors and stage crew, along with spouses from all walks of life, gathered at the spacious home of one of its members. There, we celebrated that year's successful theatrical productions

with a covered dish dinner, sparkling conversation, liberal libation, and a game called Yankee Swap. It was the social highlight of our holiday season, and for some of us, the entire year. The rules of Yankee Swap were simple, Each person or couple brought a $10 present. Funny or gag gifts were encouraged. Flee market fines, weird addict treasures and quirky retro discards were popular, wrapped and without name tags. They were piled at the end of the great room where we gathered. Couples or individuals drew numbers

from a basket, from one to 20 or however many people were present. The person or a couple who who drew number one chose a gift, unwrapped it, and held it up for all to see. Then the person who drew number two could pick a new gift, or steal, a previously open gift. The person they stole it from could choose a new one, and so on in numerical order. One year we came home with a hideous vase, which we were tempted to drop into the dumpster at the end of the road, but instead we wrapped and re-gifted it the following year. Another time we were the proud recipients of a scrawny rubber-stuffed chicken that squawked when it was squeezed.

We learned through the years to go small when choosing, as they were easier to dispose of. Sometimes we got lucky and opened our gift to discover food such as cheeses or nuts or a box of candy and tried to hide it so that someone else wouldn't steal it when it was their turn. The most coveted number was one since that person went both first and last and had the pick of all previously opened gifts. One year, thanks to Mike's Roadkill episode, it occurred to me that the perfect gift lay in our bottom desk drawer.

It was unique, disgusting, and definitely a conversation piece. If ever there was a group with a sense of humor, it was this one. So I wrapped the placemats in red tissue paper and placed them in a festive gift bag, confident they would be a hit. As usual, it was a rousing party. And when it was game time, John and I were lucky enough to snag the best seats in the house, front row center beside our friends, Phyllis, and Tom. One by one, the creative actor types chose and revealed their gifts,

often with hilarious, award-worthy reactions. After Harry opened a box to find a very convincing miniature human skull, he held it high and professed, Alas, poor York, I knew him Horatio. The group was halfway through the pile, and our gift had not yet been claimed, when it was Phyllis and Tom's turn. Tom stood and headed straight for our gift bag.

I saw John stiffen, then he squeezed my arm, discreetly because, as I said, our seats were in full view of everyone. Tom handed the prize to his wife, and as she tore away the red paper, it suddenly hit me as the theme from Jalls came to mind from nowhere. This was not going to be pretty. To say that Phyllis was an animal lover would be like saying, kids tolerate ice cream. She had a house full of dogs and was active on the show circuit. She belonged to canine clubs and was involved in rescues and was a member of Pita in good standing. In short, Phyllis's life revolved around animals. She held the pack of placements at arm's length.

Then with her glasses on, she tilted her head to the side, squinted and rotated the mats. Gradually her eyes widened, and there was a pained expression on her face as though someone had shot a staple into her temple. As I've said, there were approximately 20 pairs of eyes on us. We didn't dare look at each other, just our luck. The one person in the room who should not receive a picture of a sail bunny was staring at it as though it were a human head on a spike. Personally, I was torn between a desire to laugh hysterically, as a few others were doing, and a concern that our friend appeared to be somewhere between a cardiac event and a fit of apoplexy. But my primary concern was sitting a mere ten inches away.

My husband, who, as you might recall, is a chronic truth teller, and would rather be run over by an eighteen wheeler than tell a lie. So I gave him the hairy eyeball warning, Do not under any circumstances reveal that we brought this tasteless gift. And sure enough, not only did he get it, his acting skills kicked in full force. The next thing I knew, he was shaking his head and adopting a tis-tis-exp expression that matched mine.

Oh, this is terrible. I can't look at it, Phyllis said, making no attempt to hide her revulsion. Giving me a sideways glance, she whispered, What kind of a person? She shoved the offensive placements toward her husband as people laughed and someone hummed,

here comes Peter Cotton Tail. One person even applauded. So my thoughtful and quick-thinking husband said the only comforting thing he could think of, and really, it saved the day. Pass them around, Tom. maybe somebody else will choose them. So Tom did just that.

And sure enough, theatrical types, it seems, do have a high tolerance for gore and carnage. Not only did someone steal them from Phyllis, they were stolen at least once again. John always chooses a gift for us and got lucky that year. A round can with four flavors of delicious popcorn. When the game ended, we adjourned for dessert, but Phil, wasn't up to digesting food, just as well as the centerpiece was everyone's favorite, a large, decorated, multi-layered carrot cake. On the way home, John asked, did you notice who ended up with the placements? To which I responded, no, but next year be sure to choose something

really small when it's your turn. That was 15 years ago, and we have never come clean or been outed. To this day, no one knows our little secret, that we were the gifters of tasteless carnage. From time to time, when we're in the company of old friends from the playgroup, more often than not at a funeral or memorial service, Phyllis will recall the infamous placements, and it's always with a shudder of revulsion. I realize we're blowing our cover now, and possibly damaging our reputations forever, but really. How likely is Phyllis to read a story titled, Roadkill? Family remains an endless source of material for this writer. I was in the fitness center the other day watching an interview with Mike. I nearly fell off the elliptical when he said, I actually enjoy all the

traveling I do for work. Our parents never took us anywhere when we were growing up. No vacations or trips. As soon as I left the gym, I called him. Really? I said. You make your father and me sound like absentee parents, like we deprived our children. Sorry, Mom, but honestly, that's how I remember it. I mean, where did we ever go? He had a point, but I needed to tell him my side of the story. So I sat down and wrote this letter. I call it, like. Like, normal families. Mike, I'm sending you this story to remind you why we didn't take vacations like normal families. Our last family trip was exactly 50 years ago. Let me refresh your memory. You were nine. I'm dedicating this story to Dad because he was the only one who had the good

sense to vote against the trip, which was all your fault, by the way. It was your best friend whose family invited us. You thought you were so clever, telling your little brothers about the invitation before you told us. And in retrospect, I guess you were. Naturally, they ran into the kitchen, squealing, can we go, huh?

Can we go? It's going to be so much fun. Three days at the ocean, a swimming pool, a tent. Can we please? Well, I said, let's go in and see what Dad thinks. Your father lowered his newspaper and stared at me as though I had suggested spending three days at the Chicago stockyards and slaughterhouse. Let me get this straight, he said. You want us to ride 250 miles with the same two kids who threw up on the one-mile drive to church last Sunday?

Well, it's not like they didn't have coffee cans, I said. Your father was emphasizing every syllable as though I were a lip reader. so that we can sleep in a tent on the sand in Virginia, in August. It'll be a blast furnace peg. Your father worked one summer at Bethlehem Steel, so naturally he's an expert on heat. A blast furnace with mosquitoes and flies and nets. Surely you're kidding.

Ah, let Dad me talk. about it, I said. You guys go outside and play for a while. Your father dropped the paper and held out his hands like St. Peter welcoming me through the pearly gates. We have paradise right here, Peg, a flowing stream with sand, a small forest, a field, pets, and they're building a new YMCA family center right around the corner. What more could a kid ask for? Quite a lot of parents. if the shouts coming through the open windows were any indication. Yippee, we're going to the ocean, to sleep in a tent, on the sand, and cook hamburgers over an open fire like normal kids.

It's what I always dreamed of doing before I die. Oh, John, I said, every kid should dig a hole in the sand and see the ocean come up. catch a fish from a pier and experience grit in his bathing suit. Pulling to the shoulder to dump puke from sloshing coffee cans is a small price to pay. We'll only be there for two full days. Let's do it, hon. Let's have some fun. St. Peter knew when he was beat. I could have gotten medication for your brother's motion sickness,

something to put them to sleep for the four-hour trip. But as tempting as that was, it sounded extreme. Yet, when we were a good 20 miles from home and keeping an eye on the Johnson's car pulling the pop-up camper ahead, it happened. You wouldn't remember that, Mike, because you weren't in the Barfmobile. You were riding with Jack, having fun. Well, I'm here to tell you, nothing sucks the joy from a road trip like the sound of vomit splashing into coffee cans. in the back seat. For three hours we played games and sang every song I could think of. Had I known that this would be the highlight of our trip, I'd have put more into it. It was evening by the time we

arrived at the campsite to the sound of ocean waves and mosquitoes the size of dune buggies. Memories of that three-day vacation 50 years ago still resurfaced from time to time, kind of like the recurrence of malaria symptoms. It's like a sauna out here. There's sand in my mouth. There's sand in my sleeping bag. There's sand in my underpants. The following morning as we were having breakfast in the blast furnace, four-year-old Philip brought his egg and bacon sandwich to me. It's all gritty, mommy, he whined, spitting a mouthful onto his plate. Six-year-old Scott whose quick wit had blossomed, at a young age reminded him, well, it is a sandwich. Minutes later we left the mosquitoes and flies and nets and oppressive humidity behind and headed across the burning sand to the cool, frothy ocean waves.

A half hour or so later, as I was calling your fair-skinned four-year-old brother in from the sun, a monstrous wave from behind flattened and dragged him along the bottom. He served, He were a therapist holding his ears. After that, it was the screaming, I remember. It continued throughout the 10-mile ambulance trip to the hospital. Well, except for the two minutes Phil was busy throwing up in my lap. We were the only vehicle on the road, except for Dad, who was following in our car. Still, the driver turned on the deafening siren.

Who could blame him? Again, you wouldn't remember any of this, Mike. as you and Scott had stayed behind with the Johnsons to enjoy the ocean, pool, and arcade. What followed still gives me nightmares. Walking into the ER was like stepping onto the set of a futuristic movie. Spotless, sterile surfaces, nurses and doctors in crisp white uniforms, and everywhere refreshing cool air with the faint odor of disinfectant. not a mosquito, fly, or gnat in sight.

Just a four-year-old sitting on the edge of the examining table, rubbing the mosquito bites that peppered his arms and legs. The only sand there was falling from his matted, curly hair onto a face and shoulders pink from the sun and sticky with lotion. His crying turned to sobs as he was distracted by the hustle and bustle around him. standing there in our wet bathing suits, old t-shirts, and flip-flops. Your father and I looked like a couple of refugees who just swam to freedom. The sour stench of vomit wafted from my shirt as your father gave me a half-smile.

He wasn't fooling me. I knew what he was thinking. Are we having fun yet? Anyway, Mike, as soon as the black grit was flushed from your brain, brother's ears, his sobbing stopped. Minutes later, he was licking an orange popsicle and swinging his legs, while a pretty young nurse applied cool compresses and soothing lotion to his shoulders and back. Your father nudged me and said under his breath, he looks like a prospector who's hit the mother load. And then your little brother, the same one who's normally terrified of doctors and

hospitals, said to your father and me. I should probably stay here. I don't mind. You can pick me up tomorrow. Before I could offer to stay with him, your father spoke up. Oh, no, you don't. If I have to go back there, we're all going. We'll get in the pool this afternoon, I promised, as we headed back to our one-star waterfront resort. Surely you remember the next part, Mike. We arrived at poolside in time to hear screams of horror. Ooh, look, somebody's pooped in the swimming pool and it's floating around like a little brown buoy. It's a pooey, Scott declared.

Whatever the technical term, it cleared the pool quicker than a jagged bolt of lightning for the rest of the day, which was unfortunate as a riptide had closed the beach. The following morning, before the rains began in earnest, your father joined Mr. Johnson. in the shallow creek nearby. Side by side, barefoot and holding a dip net and fishing lines with chicken necks at the end, they set about catching crabs for our dinner. I'd never noticed before,

but apparently Dad's big toe bears a strong resemblance to a chicken neck, and, well, let's just say his scream wasn't quite as loud as your brothers. And you wonder why we didn't travel with you, kids? call us a couple of cowards, Mike, but your father and I adopted Dorothy Gale's philosophy after that trip. There really is no place like home. Later that year, we joined the new YMCA Family Center down the street with two swimming pools.

Maybe you can mention that on one of your interviews. I love stories like this seven years ago, a guy named Ben Still was a musician. He had zero interest in running a food company, but he was annoyed that so much imported meat was being deceptively marketed and labeled as domestic and decided to fix the problem. The result was a company called Good Ranchers.

It's a completely honest, totally transparent meat company that deals directly with American farms and ranches and promises to deliver high-quality American-grown meat for a fair price. Today, that promise. and Ben's absolute determination to keep it has not only propelled good ranchers into the top tier of meat delivery companies, it's fueled enormous awareness among meat eaters like me, that we have all been affirmatively deceived by policies that allow imported meat to be marketed as domestic. That's the reason I 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 off your first order. Good Ranchers.com. American meat delivered. If you could eat a stare, if you could eat a cow,

don't take a chance on a foreign ranch, get good ranchers now. E-Ha! Chapter 12. Family ties. John and I are normal parents. We're proud of our children and treasure our time with them. We try not to take it personally that they've moved thousands of miles away. The good news is we've tracked them down.

In fact, we've gone to work with our engineer's son and watched him drill for core samples and water. We've sat behind his office desk, seen a reservoir and tunnel under construction, and enjoyed a hands-on tour of his lab. We visited another son's second-hand bookstore and left with armloads of delightful, out-of-print reading material as well as applauded his performances at theatrical productions. That said, I respect that. privacy and try not to intrude into their adult personal lives with my writing. Son Mike is a different story altogether. He's already out there in public views, so to speak. I figure that anyone who has inseminated a pig, combed hippopotamus poop from his hair, and bitten the testicles off a baby lamb in front of millions of people, is fair game for

his mother's stories. His career has given us a glimpse into a world most people never seen. see. We've joined him on episodes of dirty jobs and somebody's got to do it, as well as a half dozen or so television commercials for Viva paper towels, Lee jeans, fell pro gaskets, and various cleaning products. When CNN invited my husband and me to New York City for a live interview to promote Mike's new show, we were tempted. It was 2015, and somebody's got to do it was in full production. John and I were familiar with the show. We had even made guest appearances on a couple of fun episodes. Our only reservation was the actual travel. We are not fans of trains and planes. So when CNN offered to send a car to Baltimore and put us up in a suite at a nearby five-star hotel, we took

our suitcases from the closet. I call my story, strangers in a strange. land. This wasn't our first trip to the Big Apple. Back in the mid-90s, when Mike's TV career was still in the early stages before he was a celebrity, he worked in New York City, where he shared an apartment with a married friend whose wife was working on the West Coast. For Christmas one year, while his friend was traveling, he invited us for our first ever visit to New York City with all the bills and whistles. After a four-hour bus trip, we headed from Mike's apartment. Less than a minute after we stepped from our taxi in front of the Beaumont. The doorman ran out to greet us. Mr. Mrs. Roe, welcome, he said, grabbing our bags. We stared at the uniformed man. The Beaumont was an enormous

establishment, 31 stories and over 150 apartments. With so many residents, how in the world, did he know who we were? He read our minds. Your son gave me a description and asked me to be on the lookout. Their mouths will be gaping and they'll be staring up at the tall buildings, Mike said. I recognized you right away. For two country folks who avoided crowds of people with the same fervor they avoided swarms of hornets, New York City was an eye-opener indeed. Our son graciously gave up his comfortable waterbed and slept in his friend's bed. The ironing board that was a permanent fixture in his bedroom made a convenient ballet for our clothes, and I soon recovered from the shock of a refrigerator that was as empty as it was on the day it was delivered, except for some

bottled water. A view of Central Park and a skyline the likes of which we had seen only in pictures had us glued to the apartment windows in wonder. Mike was our tour, planning each activity and shepherding us about the city like a dedicated border collie. One minute he was prodding us along so as not to be late for a Broadway show or the Radio City Music Hall. The next he was feeding us at such landmarks as Cafe Mozart for breakfast, France's tavern for lunch, and Tavern on the Green for dinner. John was in awe at the American Museum of Natural History, an amazing. by the pile of dirt with shovel exhibit in the Museum of Modern Art.

Geez, Mike, he said. They call that art? Maybe I could interest them in a pile of horse manure and a pitchfork. We laughed as the art connoisseurs nearby looked down their noses at us. Not everyone has an appreciation for art or a sense of humor. The floor of the New York Stock Exchange on Wall Street was hallowed ground to my husband. He'd had a long-time crush on a host at the Business Channel. He denied it, of course, but a wife can tell. He watched a show as religiously as he attended church and was far more attentive to her than he was to our minister.

Now he was looking around hopefully. Come on, John, I said. She's not here. I don't know what you're talking about, he replied with an innocent look. By the time we visited the World Trade Center, and St. Patrick's Cathedral he had forgotten all about her, I think. To his credit, not once did our son show the stress he must have felt showing two unpredictable, wide-eyed tourists a good time while keeping them safe in the big city. Of course, we wouldn't tell Mike about our real adventure until much later. It happened the evening he surprised us with a Broadway show,

sharing with us beforehand only that it was a musical. I knew little about the Broadway scene, but had heard about the popular revivals and was imagining Oklahoma, or South Pacific or Carousel. What fun. John and I had spent the afternoon at the American Museum of Natural History

and arrived back at the Beaumont, barely in time, to be hurried into a cab and whisked off to the Ambassador Theater in Midtown, Manhattan. Had I not been preoccupied in prayer and holding on for dear life during the cab ride, I would have been obsessing about the fact that there hadn't been time to change from our jeans, tennis shoes, and casual jackets. The driver, totally immersed in an animated personal

telephone conversation, drove erratically, bouncing the cab off a curb twice. Finally, our son yelled, stop several blocks short of our destination, and we got out, whereupon Mike, famous for his generosity, remarked that it was the first time ever he had not tipped a driver. The musical was called Bring in to Noise, Bring in to Funk, and for the first few minutes, our mouths gaped. Now and then my husband and I exchanged quick glances and chuckled. Of course in no time, we were thoroughly immersed in tapping our feet. Turns out we were overdressed. Except, of course, for the woman across the aisle

wearing a long black sequined gown. After the show, Mike announced that the three of us were invited to a party down the street. As it was after 11 p.m., and we'd had a full day, we opted to get a cab and head back to our apartment. Go to your party, we told Mike, have a good time. We'll be fine.

It was a brisk, cheerful evening, as bright as midday, and sidewalks teamed with people in a festive mood. Best of all, Christmas was in the air, so instead of hailing a cab, we began walking the 13 blocks. Feeling like a couple of kids away from parental scrutiny for the first time in days, we stopped at a small cafe. What fun. When we finished eating, we put on our coats. and started back to Mike's apartment, heading in the wrong direction. After ten blocks or so, we realized our mistake, turned around, and walked the 20-some blocks back to the Beaumont. Not once did we feel uneasy or threatened, just exhausted. The following morning when we had a hard time getting out of bed, Mike apologized for the demanding schedule

and promised to give us a break. Our current 2015 visit to New York City was quite different. CNN put us up in the fancy Trump Tower, where we spent the first hour, counting all the objects in our room that bore the Trump name or logo. Candy bars, water bottles, soaps, lotions, shampoos, slippers, robes, towels.

The smaller items became souvenirs, souvenirs for friends on both sides of the political spectrum. Then we headed across the street for a walk in the famous Central Park, a maze at the number of children playing there. One doesn't think of children living in New York City. And so many dogs with dog walkers. A decade after our first visit, we still stood out as gulking tourists. On the morning of our interview with Brooke Baldwin,

we rose early, dressed, and headed for a leisurely breakfast. No hurry since Mike was already at the studio shooting promo ads. We were coming down to the lobby when John walked to the back of the elevator, which was empty except for us, or so I thought. As you've probably heard, my husband chats with strangers on elevators, and I feared he had gone round the bend when he turned and said to no one, So where's a good place to eat breakfast in this town? John, I said, as we reached the first floor and the doors opened,

Who are you? And that's when a slender, middle-aged man in jeans, t-shirt, and a baseball cap emerged from the dark corner of the elevator and walked past me, saying, Right through those doors, sir. John thanked him, and we headed toward the street. No, the man called, coming after. after us. He pointed to the hotel restaurant across the room. Those doors. Oh, it's too late.

They're closing soon, John said. Wait right here, the man told us before hurrying into the restaurant. Seconds later, he reappeared and motioned us through the doors saying, it's okay, they're still serving. We thanked him and were seated at a table for two while the man in the ball cap headed to the back of the restaurant. We were reading the menu when a wide-eyed woman at the table beside us leaned over and said, Do you know who that man is? What man, I ask? The man you came in with? We shook our heads no, and her eyes sparkled. That was Bruce Willis, she said. Clearly anxious to see our reactions. He owns a penthouse apartment in this hotel. Really? I said. He didn't look like Bruce Willis. Her husband looked at us and smiled.

Oh, you can take her word for it. Believe me, my wife is an expert when it comes to celebrities. That's because he has lost weight and has a cap on, the woman added. Demi Moore is here too, his ex. Their daughter is opening in a play tonight. She sounded like one of those TMZ Hollywood gossip reporters, and I didn't doubt her for moment. She leaned in again, pointing to two men having breakfast at a nearby table. Do you know who he is? She nodded toward a bushy-browed man who looked vaguely familiar. I shook my head. No clue. She straightened and smiled broadly. That's Martin Scorsese, the famous Hollywood filmmaker. Really? Impressive, I said. Then I looked up and saw the man who has shown us

into the restaurant, possibly Bruce Willis. He was walking toward our table. I could hear the Celebrity Watcher gasp as Mr. Willis placed a book on the table in front of John. It was as a Gat restaurant guide for New York City. Here you go, sir. This book might come in handy while you're in New York. It's a big town. My husband jumped up and shook the man's hand. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you, Bruce. wife and I don't go to the movies very often. Oh, that's okay, he said while smiling. I'm thinking we probably reminded him of his parents. Next thing I knew, I was on my feet saying something stupid like, but we enjoyed moonlighting back in the 80s. Oh yeah, and we loved six cents. Then Bruce Willis saw Martin Scorsese and politely excused himself. They chatted briefly before he left. Gee, hon,

that was really something, John. said, This is a nice book. Too bad we're not going to be here longer. You should have had Bruce sign it, the woman beside us chided, but it was too late. Hey, John said when we had finished our breakfast.

Let's go over and ask Martin Sikorsky if he can take our picture. Absolutely not. And it's Scorsese, I said. I am not going to bother that man. John, don't you dare, but it was too late of you. course. He was very friendly and seemed flattered when John asked if his wife could have her picture

taken with him. I was sorry I didn't know more about his career. I would like to have mentioned some movies or something. I'll tell you what, the man with the eyebrows said, Don here will take a picture of all three of us. How's that? He was delightful. And afterward, when I called Mike at CNN to tell him about our brush with two celebrities, he said, that's great. Send me the picture of you and Marty, and I'll show it to Brooke Baldwin. See you soon. An hour or so later at CNN, we had more brushes with celebrity, including meeting the head honcho, whose name escapes me now, but I'm sure he's very important. The lady in the restaurant would probably know his name. Brooke Baldwin was gorgeous and charming, and during our interview, said,

I hear you two had a brush with celebrity this morning. So we told her about Bruce, and the next thing we knew, our picture was on the big monitor with Martin Scorsese, going out to 150 million households in over 200 countries. Imagine. We felt like genuine celebrities. It was fun, and everybody loved it. Mike even posted the picture and wrote a story about our celebrity sightings for his millions of Facebook followers.

He called us later that afternoon with a disturbing question. What made you think that man was Martin Scorsese? Well, the lady at the next table told us it was. She knew Bruce Willis. It seems the friendly, bushy-brow gentleman in the restaurant was not Martin Scorsese after all. CNN had been notified, possibly by Mr. Scorsese himself, who had called in to set the record straight. About the same time, a woman made an interesting comment beneath the picture on Mike's Facebook post. Hey, that's my uncle George! Turns out the mystery man was named George Whipple, a bushy-browed New York Society reporter.

Anyway, Mike said we managed to set CNN's credibility for fact-checking back light years. The ocean delights us. Some marvel at the colorful world below the surface. The ocean feeds us. Others find nourishment in its bounty. The ocean teaches us how our everyday choices impact even the deepest places. The ocean moves us, whether we're riding a wave or soaking in its breathtaking beauty. The Ocean Connects Us.

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