The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 286: BONUS: Vacuuming in the Nude Chapters 13 & 14

Episode Date: November 25, 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. 

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Your affordable GLP 1 source that puts you on a path to successful weight loss by quieting food noise. Bite it. Learn more at join mochi.com. Mochi members have access to licensed physicians and nutritionists. Hello, friends. It's Mike Row, and this is the way I heard it, episode number 286, otherwise known as chapters 13 and 14 of my mom's bestselling book, vacuuming in the nude and other ways to get attention. Something very strange is happening here on the way I heard it. Something strange and wonderful and kind of humbling, to be perfectly honest. Last week's episode, wherein I shared the previous two chapters of my mom's book, was downloaded more times in one week than any previous episode of the way I heard it, ever.

My mom and I are delighted that so many people have embraced her new book, but full disclosure, it's a hell of a thing when you learn that the most popular episode of your podcast doesn't have you in it. Ah, well, tis a gift to be humbled and flattered at the same time. The two chapters you're about to hear are even better than last weeks, so I look forward to being humbled once again next week. Vacuuming in the nude is available on Amazon and everywhere else. People buy books, and it goes without saying, I hope, that it would make a fine Christmas present for you and or yours.

Consider yourself officially invited to pick up a copy or two. In the meantime, you can listen to it right here, For free, you're welcome. Vacuuming in the nude and other ways to get attention continues right after this. Well, people are still raving, raving, I tell you, about my mother's performance in the latest Pure Talk commercial. And if you haven't seen it, I encourage you to give it a look on my Facebook page and read the comments. They're hysterical. In this commercial, you'll not only see Peggy 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 MicroWorks Foundation, and allows me to exploit my own mother in a national advertising campaign. Do what my mom did. Get yourself unlimited high-speed data for just, 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 13. Madam Secretary. My friends have known that since college, I dabbled in writing. Kind of like they dabbled in crafts, gardening, and tennis. They knew that I wrote poetry for birthdays and anniversaries and eulogies for funerals. but they were not aware of the two children's novels I had written, or the heartache I had

experienced while trying to get them published, or that I had lived with the shame of rejection for much of my adult life, because some things are just too personal, too painful to share, even with good friends. Through the years their passion for tennis and gardening and crafts waned, and they pursued other interests. But I never stopped writing, not really. I had to be a had no choice. Through a half century of life, with kids, rejection, cancer, hope, passion, and dreams, I kept writing. Because that's what writers do. They write, whether on paper, a word processor, or in their head. From time to time in later years, my friends would reach into their purses as we sat at lunch in a restaurant or in our homes and pull out a clipping of my

latest newspaper or magazine article in case I needed an extra copy for an out-of-town relative. They'd chuckled or ask me more about the story. Is it true? Did you change the names? I could tell they were proud of my work. Little did my old teaching buddies know that they had been a source of entertaining material for decades. I'd been taking mental notes at our gatherings and journaling the effects of aging on our lives and our friendship through the years. And believe me, the stories have never been better. Octogenarian friends are pure comedy gold. From Trish, a widow who's carrying on a steamy romance with her boyfriend from church,

to Annie, whose fine dining goes awry when her steamy appetizer dissolves her denture adhesive, to marry, whose restless husband moves them from home to home, using up an entire page in my address book. If I have learned anything from our long relationship, it is that the travails of aging are more bearable when shared with friends, and what fun they are to write about, even if the pieces haven't been published until now. Old people.

It's official. According to the New York Times Health and Wellness Page, My husband reached old age some time ago. John strongly resents the sentiment. I don't want anybody telling me I'm old, he says. They don't know me. I don't have to remind him that he's past his sexual peak. I take a gentler approach and retrieve our calendar.

Here you go, hon. This month's social highlights. Senior Expo. Blood work. a hearing aid evaluation, a dementia seminar at the Department of Aging, a podiatry appointment to get your toenails clipped, a bimonthly lunch date with my old teacher friends, and a dermatology appointment. Dermatology appointments are the worst. They used to be little more than a drive-through, with a doctor as old as my father peering at me over his glasses and asking,

anything new I should take a look at? Minutes later, I'd be on. on my way with my dignity intact and a complimentary magazine. Skin checks during COVID-19 had all the elements of a costume party. Me adorned in socks and a blue tissue paper dress, while my lovely young doctor, armed with a canister of liquid nitrogen, wears a spotlight on her forehead, a magnifying lens in one eye, and a full face mask. At least I think she was my lovely young dermatologist. Either way, she was fully prepared to appraise a precious stone, weld a boat propeller, or enter a mine shaft. To her credit, she managed not to gag while examining my skin and bemoaning the tragedy of sun damage. A pretty, masked young blonde assistant documented the proceedings on a tablet,

recording measurements and taking pictures at close range. Occasionally, I'd pose a silly question such as, what is this brown spot on my shoulder? I should know better than to ask. My old doctor used words such as freckles and age spots. This one is full-on-medical, spouting terms such as lentigo-sinilis or subureic carotosis. My husband is convinced that her fee is based on the number of syllables

of whatever it is she's removing. After the ordeal, I'd staggered to the car with extra ban, mandates, gauze, wound care instructions, and an appointment card, another social event for our calendar. On the Friday evening of a big social event, I was still sporting a burn on my neck and a bandage on my nose from one such appointment. It was our turn to entertain old college friends, six retired school teachers still alive and able to hobble to our condominium. 50 years ago, our little get-togethers began at 8 p.m. with drinks, followed by dinner, a game of charades, laughter, and lively discussions into the wee hours.

Everything from current events and politics to our kids' little league performances, sprinkled with jokes, often risque. We'd return home in the wee hours, awaken mom, and walk her across the lawn to her house. On this Friday, I served dinner at 4.30. Then we sat around sipping non-diarrotic drinks and complaining about everything from pacemakers and prostates to colonoscopies and cholesterol. We had a good laugh when Joanne told us about her call to the urology office to make an appointment. The secretary asked me to hold, so I told her, Hun, if I could hold, I wouldn't be making this call.

By 7 p.m., our living room looked like the lounge and a nursing home, with guests sprawled across the furniture and nodding off. We put them on the elevator at 7.30, agreeing that our next get-together, Jack's 88th birthday celebration, would be over lunch. Our friends tottered to their cars while we waved goodbye from our balcony, grateful that we weren't the ones making the late-night trek in the dark. By 8 p.m., John was in his slippers and ensconced in his domain, a blue leather recliner six feet from the television. To his left were his tablet, a crossword puzzle, and the TV guide.

On the right were his flip phone, evening pills, and a bottle of water. With the drone of the dishwasher in the background, we put our feet up and agree that there's something to be said for old age. Fifty shades of gray matter. I always look forward to my old teacher luncheons. Never underestimate the value of girlfriends, especially old girlfriends. As much as I love the energy and enthusiasm of use,

there's nothing more comforting than a couple of hours with people who remind me of, well, me. It's not just about bodies that mirror our own. sagging, wrinkled skin, non-existent waistlines, and gray hair, except for Dora's, she colors hers, but you didn't hear it from me. Old friends give me permission to be myself, to act my age, as it were. Put simply, I feel normal when I'm with them, and when their wrinkles are deeper than mine or their skin flabbier, I love them all the more. It was that time of the month again,

for six to crepit old classmates and teaching colleagues to meet for lunch. With all of us still married to our college, sweethearts, we had well over a half century of history and memories. I've come to think of these gatherings as group therapy. We'd come a long way since being on extended maternity leave together. That was back when we met in our homes with as many as 15 kids in tow. kids who were devoted to wrecking our playrooms while we moms spread peanut butter and jelly and slapped bologna and cheese sandwiches together at the kitchen counter.

Our luncheons are way more civilized now, like our recent gathering at a lovely old country tavern. It was a Wednesday morning when I backed my car into a parking spot at the shopping center where I was to meet Annie. I'd driven the previous time, as Annie had been suffering from a belt of what she called traffic anxiety. It was a big day for my friend, her geriatric trifecta. She was sporting new dentures, new hearing aids, and new bifocals. But when she told me it was her first time behind the wheel of their new car, I opened the door and told her I was driving. No, no, I've got this, she said. Close that door. Besides, I have to learn sometime, right? Ben won't let

drive when we're together. Apparently I make him anxious men. If this was aimed at reassuring me, it missed the mark. Too nervous to talk, Annie was hunched low, her knuckles white against the steering wheel, her eyes laser focused on the road ahead. For the next 20 minutes, I applied my navigator skills, concentrating on the speed limit in traffic, looking for the defroster and windshield wipers. and giving directions. From time to time, I made reassuring comments such as, You're doing great, Annie.

Really? I'm so proud of you. You haven't hit one pedestrian or been pulled over for speeding. We were going 15 in a 45-mile-per-hour zone. Annie and I arrived at the restaurant and joined the others when Dora came rushing in, looking frazzled.

I was vacuuming this morning and lost track of time, she told us. When I saw the clock, I panicked and jumped right in the shower. She picked up her menu and gave a little giggle. Fortunately, I vacuum in the nude. What? I asked. You mean, nothing on? I do it all the time. Well, since the kids left home. Well, you were home alone, right? One of the girls asked.

No, Dan was in the next room. Sometimes he joins me in the shower afterward. When we laughed, Dora, who had put on some weight through the years, added, Hey, my body might not be perfect these days, but it is what it is. Nobody laughed harder than Dora, who clearly enjoyed her story as much as the rest of us. Our therapy session had begun. Every successful support group has a facilitator. Lucille keeps things rolling for us, making sure that everyone has a turn to share. as we make our way through a delicious lunch that we didn't have to prepare.

She went first, and when she struggled to remember the name of her cousin, then couldn't remember the name of the grocery store where she's been shopping twice a week for the past 30 years, I wanted to shout a triumphant, yes, it was all so wickedly comforting. We sympathized over her husband's lymphodema and shook our heads over her sciatica. when Dora paused in the story about her granddaughter's graduation and said, What was I just talking about?

We all laughed. And when we shared her distress over her struggling, divorced son who had lost his job, our sympathy and concern were genuine, as well as our relief that it wasn't our own son experiencing such hardship. We were slurping soup as Mary told us about her upcoming vacation with 12 in-laws. and speculated as to whether or not they'd still be on speaking terms at the end of the week. Then she talked about her female issues and impending surgery. I don't know why our body parts can't just stay put, she said.

We're all waiting to see how successful her surgery is before we ask for her doctor's number. For some reason, Annie lost her appetite after her crab soup and put the rest of her lunch in a doggy bag for later. Are you nervous about making that left-hand turn out of the parking lot, Annie? I whispered. Because we can always turn right and go down to the traffic light. No, no, I just had a big breakfast, she said. Annie had brought me a newspaper clipping of my latest essay in the Baltimore Sun, prompting questions about my writing routine.

So I answered them all, but good. I write through the morning until early afternoon. from time to time I stopped writing, get up from my computer, and bounce a big ball against the wall a couple of hundred times. You know, overhand, underarm, sidearm, while I march in place. It's great exercise. Sometimes I do it three times a day. But you live in a condominium, somebody said. Aren't you afraid your neighbors will hear you? Well, I hope they do, I said. I want them to think we're having rough sex. laughing as I explained that rough sex means you're awake for it. When we finished, figuring our bills and tips took a good 15 minutes, and Trish finding her

car keys, another five. She looked everywhere and finally dumped the contents of her purse onto the table so that we could all help. No car keys. At that point, Lucille remembered that Trish had ridden with her. After we looked at our calendars and chose a date for the next get-together, We rose to leave, standing in place a minute or so until our joints creaked into motion. On our way home, after successfully negotiating the left-hand turn out of the parking lot, Annie confided in me. Peggy, that hot crab soup dissolved my denture adhesive and I can't chew. I thought you were quiet, I said. Take them out now so we can talk. She did.

I'm starved. We're stopping at the dairy for a milkshake on the way home. Honestly, who needs therapy when we have old friends? Update. Fifty shades of even grayer matter. Sadly, our group of six has diminished to five decrepit old teachers limping to our bimonthly luncheon therapy session. Two of us on canes and three of us widowed.

Nevertheless, here we were again, in a dark corner booth this time, bonding over pizza, salad, crab soup, and hamburgers. On today's agenda, hip, kneecap, and cataract surgeries, the ineffectiveness of hearing aids, bathing suits, and varicose veins, and the annoying phenomenon of prolapse. And here is the best part. Trish, a widow in our group, is dating a widower friend. from her church and has livened our conversation.

Actually, she provides us with all the excitement we can handle. The octogenarian version of 50 Shades of Gray, we heard about church dinner dates, hand-holding during the Sunday sermon, hugging and kissing while watching sporting events on TV, and hold on to your hat, a timeshare in the Bahamas and an upcoming European cruise. Yikes. My glasses fogged up just listening.

Well, you know how we writers are. It was the elephant in the room, so why not? Trish, I said to my old friend, are you in Mac living in sin? She laughed. Oh, Peggy, believe me, very little sinning goes on when you're in your 80s. I can't wait until our next luncheon. A geriatric support group was PG-13 entertainment.

It really doesn't get any better. I only wish I could talk Trish into taking notes. I must admit, the visual of vacuuming in the nude has stayed with me. Maybe it's not such a bad idea. Maybe I should put it all out there like Dora and share my writing journey, the potholes and detours, the tears and shame of rejection, and the amazing scenery along the way. Hey, it is what it is.

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Get good ranchers now. E-Haw! Chapter 14. The book in the drawer. It was 2016, and my two middle-grade young adult novels were still safely sequestered in my bottom desk drawer like treasured family heirlooms, and where they would probably remain until the children disposed of our belongings someday, along with our ashes.

I thought about the estate auctions my husband and I had enjoyed early in our marriage, where I had opened old furniture drawers to discover personal letters and children's photographs once treasured by a loved one. I wondered if my books would meet the same face. I had long since given up on seeing them in print. I was somewhat comforted by a favorite trope trotted out by presenters at conferences. Oh, yes, they'd say, smiling, the book in the drawer. Every successful writer has a book in the drawer. Think of it as your learning tool.

You tried. You made mistakes. And you've learned more than you realized from writing that book. Maybe my books in the drawer were like the blouse I made in Homek with the uneven sleeves that fell off when it was washed, or the lopsided scunts our son made in shop and proudly presented to me. Not perfect, perhaps, but learning tools and the result of great effort. Perhaps I was ahead of the game with two learning tools in my drawer. One of my manuscripts had seen the light of day ever so briefly, several years earlier, when Mike

lugged it all the way to New York City with him and handed it to a publisher he was meeting in person. An editor read parts of it and had some nice things to say about my writing, but in the end deemed my protagonist not as sympathetic as I had hoped. Still, writing filled my life, and though I still dreamed of publishing a book, there was satisfaction in seeing my essays and stories and newspapers and magazines. Mike routinely told me, just keep writing, Mom. Who knows? Maybe you're writing a book right now. Your stories are great. To this day, people, writers especially, are curious to know how I finally managed to break through the Iron Dome of the book publishing world in my dotage. It's a long story, I tell them.

Pull up a chair. Just a growing up story. Do not underestimate the power of guilt. When your three sons have moved as far away from home as they can get and still live in the United States of America, there's nothing wrong with a well-placed email reminding them that many years ago you endured the agony of childbirth to give them life and that you're still alive and kicking should they feel the urge to call you. It doesn't hurt to insert your phone number, just in case. Thanks to technology, it's easy to keep our three kids up to date on all,

things dad and mom. There have been regular phone calls, texts, and emails to my offspring. They so look forward to each and every one. Lord knows I would hate to disappoint them. One day, out of pure frustration with my stubborn husband, I vented by shooting off a text to our firstborn. I was in no mood to check for typos, which was unusual for me. That very evening, John and I were sitting in a theater during intermission when Mike texted me a link to his Facebook page. Check this out, he said. I did, and lo and behold, he had shared my personal, typo-ridden, venting text with his millions of fans. I quickly got over my initial embarrassment after reading some of the thousands of comments.

Readers found my post hilarious, many of them expressing concern that my husband's prostate was lying on a scorching sidewalk somewhere in Baltimore. Here is the embarrassing text. Mike, you father's out walking, and it's 93 degrees. I couldn't talk him out of it, so I told him to make sure he has his ID on him so that they can call me from the hospital. He's wearing his sunglasses because they make him look sexy.

I reminded him that lying prostate on the sidewalk is never sexy, no matter what you're wearing. If he is still alive, we're going to the theater tonight to see Sister Act. A couple of days later, Mike called, Hey, Mom, I think we might be on to something here. Send me another text next week, and we'll see what happens. A week later, after Mike returned from the road, I sent him another. Home from New York yet, Mike? Get this. Your father wants to go to Northern Scotland, on our own, rent a car. We are people who get lost in Baltimore, and they drive on the left. I told Dad, we're not going anywhere until he has that hernia repaired. It's making eerie, groaning sounds. Along with his squeaky foot brace and squealing hearing aids, he's like a one-man band. Stay tuned.

Call soon. This text was even more popular than the first. So, per Mike's request, I wrote him a humorous story in the form of a letter, then another. Read by Mike with pure joy, they received the same enthusiastic responses. The comments written to Mike by his fans were full of advice and every bit as entertaining as my letters, especially the cautionary ones warning Mike of our impending demise. I've included a few of my favorites. Donna O. Mike, cherish your parents while they are here.

One day you'll turn around and they'll be gone. Dan. Mike, you have such a nice bond with your parents. You will crave them when they have passed. Alexander P. Their stories are so funny, Mike. Enjoy them while they are still alive before their minds go. Connie.

Love your parents, Mike. You never know when the Lord will be taking them home. And then one day a dreadful occurrence. I left my blue purse containing my wallet and cell phone, and short my life, dangling from the handle of a shopping cart in the Walmart parking lot. After somewhat recovering from a brief nervous breakdown, I called and shared my angst with the children. I needed sympathy. Two of them provided it. But not Mike. Don't tell me about it, Mom, he said. Sit down and write about it.

In a letter to me. Email it soon. I'm on the road tomorrow evening for a few days. So while the details were painfully fresh, I did just that. Then hit the send button. I called my story Old Blue. Mike read it aloud, recorded it,

and shared the video on his Facebook page, before leaving town. It went viral. Ended up on YouTube, and by the time Mike returned, it had been viewed 70 million times. But the truly exciting part was yet to come. Days later, real publishers from big publishing houses reached out to Mike, suggesting that if his mother were to write a couple of dozen humorous stories about him, in the same vein, they would publish them in a in a heartbeat, because, as we all know, celebrity sells. So, of course, I sat right down and wrote a humorous book, but not about my son.

I wrote instead about growing up with the most interesting character I have ever known. My mother, Velma Noble. Many of the stories I had already written because, as I've said, my mother was such a compelling character, and writers simply can't not write. I had attended a writing seminar at my alma mater, now Towson University, years earlier, where I submitted a humorous story about my mother. A creative writing professor read it and gave me a one-on-one critique, one that has lived in my mind to this day. Peggy, I have to tell you right up front. I am in love with your mother.

Seriously, he said. What a delightful character. and you have portrayed her beautifully. I especially loved his final comment. Peggy, you should consider writing a book about growing up with her, a mother-daughter story. And now I was doing just that. I finished my book in February, 2017, while visiting our son's family in Florida.

I chose a prominent editor when I had met and observed at writers' conferences. an editor who insisted on a hard copy, the old-fashioned way. So I followed the rules as I had all those years ago, and my daughter-in-law Margie printed it out for me. The editor responded weeks later. His first paragraph brought goosebumps. First of all, let me say how much I enjoy your writing and your sense of humor. At its best, this material skirts between the darkness of sarcasm

and the lightness of a big heart, and a wonderful story about a mother and a daughter. You are clearly a writer of much skill and talent. His second paragraph gave me chest pains. Now let me tell you what's wrong with your book. And boy, did he tell me. As it stood, my book was neither a collection of stories, nor was it a memoir.

There was no through line that builds to a fiery climax, no extreme situation, no chapters that stood alone, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. There was very little at stake, and no villain. What followed, brought bile to my throat, and reprised the hopelessness I'd experienced all those years ago when submitting my children's novels. The editor had seen the video of Mike reading Old Blue on social media and loved it, so much so that he gave me the following advice. That story about losing your purse made me think that perhaps you should really just do a collection of short stories that Mike reads first and then gets collected into a book. Maybe you do ten of them to begin with. That way you'll have his social media platform to fall back on.

I saw his critique as a prediction of failure from the get-go. And yet, I refrained from jumping from, from our balcony, like I could even make it over the railing, or overdosing on my cholesterol medication. I forwarded the critique to Mike in an email. My note said it all. On Monday, March 6th, 2017 at 1148 a.m. Peggy Roe wrote. Hi, Mike. Well, it's official. Your mother is a skilled writer with a great talent for writing garbage. But that's okay. I'll always have your social media platform to fall back on. I'm not sure how to proceed. Maybe just forget writing and grow older gracefully, playing mahjong and singing in the church choir. Just kidding, of course, I'm fine. I just need some time to think and stop feeling sorry for

myself. Mom. Of course, I hadn't even gotten to the editor's actual chapter-by-chapter critique. with suggestions on how to make my book work as a memoir. In the meantime, my friend Michelle asked me several times if she could read my book. She offered to give me her opinion as an editor and writer. But instead of sending her my book, I revisited the first editor's chapter suggestions, agreeing with many of them, especially the one I saw over and over.

Make a scene for Pete's sake. Stop telling me, show me. I worked until I felt hopeful again, and then I re-read the editor's paragraph about falling back on my son's social media platform and lost my confidence. The book was worthless. Later, I was having lunch with Michelle one day when she finally convinced me to let her read the book that was causing me such angst. Two weeks later, we met again. She looked me in the eye and said, Peggy, this book, is fucking hilarious or something like that. I'm your friend. I will always tell you the truth. So we did some light revision and line edits, and when we finished, I sent it off to Mike, who then forwarded it to publishers while I prayed. They responded quickly. There was no

interest. The general feeling was, nobody knows your mother, Mike, and nobody has ever heard of your grandmother. It would be a tough cell. It was far from my first rejection, but this one felt especially cruel as I had foolishly allowed myself to dream once again. Oh yeah, despite the popular song of the 1930s, we never grow too old to dream. Those feelings of not measuring up and of being an outsider resurfaced. There would be no book. Not back then. not today and not in the future. Of that, I was certain. I was wrong.

At this point, Mike took time from his hectic production schedule to read my manuscript, from cover to cover, for the first time. His heartwarming comment to me was as good as having it published, almost. I so respect him as a writer. Mom, this book is terrific. It should be out there. You know, I've never done it before, but I'm going to look into self-publishing. Maybe we can sell it on eBay.

And then my son went away for a while and figured it out, while I sat at home trying not to think of the horror stories I had heard about writers who self-published and had a basement full of unsold books. In the end, Mike and his company MicroWorks, MRW Productions were up to the task. I felt quite the literary professional sitting around my dining room table with my editor, Michelle Wojo-Ojikowski, representatives from Zest Social Media Solutions, who were designing the layout and putting my book together,

and Jade Estrada all the way from MRW Productions in California. What fun throwing out ideas about page 9. numbering, chapter titles, pictures, and dozens of other details. Who knew there were so many decisions? In my naivete, I'd assumed my work was finished. Silly me, not giving a thought to the title page, dedication, acknowledgments, forward, and table of contents, or even considering the inside front flap, inside backflap, biography, epilogue, and cover. We worked well into the evening that day, ironing out details while snacking on hummus, cheese and crackers, grapes, subs, and homemade cookies. Printing 10,000 copies and putting them on

eBay with no guarantee of a market was an enormous risk. But in 2018, About My Mother was published by MRW Productions. When the printer sent me the first book off the line, I lifted it from the box as one might lift a newborn from a cradle. I embraced it and cried. Not the same tears of rejection and despair I had shed through the years, but tears of gratitude and wonder. And though he won't admit it, so did my husband, before taking a hundred pictures of me holding our book

in every pose imaginable, other than standing on my head, in every room of the house, even outdoors. I call it our book, because John had read every word aloud to me so that I could hear it and get it right. Less than a month later, my son called with news that stopped my heart. Well, not really, or I'd be, you know. Mom, those 10,000 books we put on eBay, they've all sold. And that's when the real magic began.

Publishers became aware of my book's popularity. read it, and came calling. Again, more heart-stopping news. They want to publish your book, Mom. Big Houses want your book. You have a decision to make. Once I recovered from the shock, reality set in, oh, Mike, I said, I don't know how to do this. You handle it, okay? To say that I was suddenly embarrassed by the attention would be an accurate assessment. Suddenly, my book seemed small, inadequate, and unworthy of attention. It wasn't a page-turner. There wasn't even a narrative arc as such.

Just because I was compelled to write it was no guarantee it would have an audience. Would readers find the efficient, determined country girl who dedicated her life to her family, a sympathetic character? The woman who had seen her young husband's immense worth and potential, and orchestrated his career, indeed his very life? The woman who was determined that her two daughters would fulfill her own dreams? Or would they see my mother through my young eyes? A bossy, domineering taskmaster,

who embarrassed me in my teens by dancing in the aisle at Memorial Stadium and shouting obscenities and umpires. What's more? My straightforward, simple style of writing precluded beautiful flowing passages that one might want to read over and over. And Lord knows there was no earth-shattering or groundbreaking content. It was just a growing-up story. Most of all were publishers interested just because I was Mike Rose mother.

Mike sensed my insecurities. Believe me, it's a mercenary business, mom. Even if they did read it just because you're my mother, they wouldn't publish it if it wasn't good. It has warmth and humor and a mother-daughter relationship people will relate to. Then, like a parent, guiding an offspring along her professional journey, he said, and now you need to choose a publisher you like, Mom, somebody you're comfortable with, because you'll have a close working relationship.

Publishers from the very same houses that had rejected my earlier books traveled to Baltimore to meet me. They brought flowers and gifts and took me to lunch. As they made their pitches and detailed their plans for marketing and book tours, I fantasized about how I would go about rejecting the ones that didn't measure up. Maybe I'd tell them, I'm sorry. but after careful consideration, your proposal just isn't the right fit for my needs at this moment.

You see, my list is short, maybe next time. Then I could add, but don't give up, your work shows great promise. Good luck. When I came home and told my husband about the publisher who had just offered me a three-book deal, he laughed. Boy, if that isn't the height of optimism, they do know you're 80, right?

Mike and John and I discuss the publishers, their offers, their personalities, and the pros and cons of large versus small publishing houses. I chose Jonathan Merck, not just because he had seemed slightly nervous when he arrived at our condominium that hot August afternoon, and reluctantly agreed to remove his sport coat and enjoy some lemonade and a piece of homemade applesauce cake. Publishers probably have limited opportunities to work with writers in their 80s, and for some reason, he brought out my maternal instincts. He was probably surprised to find me upright and chatty, and not drooling in my lemonade. I went with Jonathan mostly because with 25 years of

publishing experience under his belt. He had left his executive position at Simon & Schuster to start his own company, Forefront Books. Though he still had a close association with Simon and Schuster, which would handle the distribution of my book, I would be Forefront's first author, just as Forefront would be my first book publisher. About my mother, Jonathan assured me, was a perfect fit for the nonfiction inspirational memoirs that would be Forefront's focus. The question I had was, would Jonathan still want to be my publisher after meeting me? That very evening my question was answered when Mary, Mike's partner and president of MRW, shared the email she had received from Jonathan.

It was memorable for sure. Quote, love her. I'll have a proposal for you within 24 hours. Remember, time is of the end. essence." My new publisher made one demand of me, and I hated it. The ocean delights us. Some marvel at the colorful world below the surface.

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