The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 288: BONUS: Vacuuming in the Nude Chapters 15 & 16

Episode Date: December 2, 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. 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. Find your connection at Monterey Bay Aquarium.org slash connects.

Hello, friends, and welcome to episode number 288 of the way I heard it, otherwise known, as the end of a grand experiment. In this episode, you'll hear the last two, and in my opinion, the best two chapters of my mom's bestselling book, vacuuming in the nude and other ways to get attention. If you're new to this little experiment, I've been posting my mom's book on this platform for free, two chapters at a time, because I want everybody to remember. read or hear this very warm and very funny offering from America's grandmother. Well, the initial numbers of this little experiment have been very encouraging. The sponsors are happy. My mother is happy. Chuck is happy, or at least as happy as Chuck gets. And mom and I are both delighted by and grateful for your enthusiastic response. If you're stumbling across this for the first time, do yourself a favor and go back and start with chapters one.

and two. That would be episode number 273. The book episodes will live on this platform indefinitely. So you can listen at your leisure. And for that reason, you really should embrace the intended chronology of the author. Start at the beginning and take your time. Having said that, if you love the audio version, you might also consider the actual book for all of your reading friends who are expecting a Christmas present from you. Here then, with only a little more to do are the two last chapters of vacuuming in the nude.

Right after this. Do do do do do do do do do do. 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 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 three. 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 15. You've got to be kidding. In the words of my veteran publisher, a social media presence is an absolute must for an author in this day and age. That is,

if you expect to sell books, and we do. Oh, no way am I getting on Facebook, I told my husband. It's a colossal waste of time. I'd heard it said many times, especially by people of my generation. I knew that Jonathan was right, of course. Readers would get a sense of style and voice from my Facebook posts and want to read more, hopefully. That said, learning to navigate Facebook for this techno-challenged 80-year-old

was as complicated as writing a book. How embarrassing that millions of people use Facebook every day with ease, and I hadn't a clue how to begin. Fortunately, MRW had the perfect solution. People. One of my people is a woman named Sherry, who is not only savvy about social media but has the patience of a geriatric social worker. Really? Who knew that counseling the elderly was in her job description? And counsel she did.

To say that I hated the process is an understatement. Posting 200 words a couple of times a week on Facebook felt like feeding the beast. My page had an insatiable appetite not only for words, but for actual interesting, entertaining content for the couple of hundred people who initially followed me. Then there were the comments, many of which I responded to, which took valuable time away from writing my second book. By the time about my mother was launched, I had become a slightly more confident blogger.

And as it turned out, my books and my Facebook page would have a symbiotic relationship. About My Mother made for convenient material for discussion on my blog, and some of my Facebook posts and comments made for interesting content in my second book, about your father. Sherry continues to be a valuable resource when things fall apart. If I should click on post and nothing happens, or my pictures are upside down and the rotate option isn't functioning, it's Sherry to the rescue. On one such occasion, the pictures

were posted sideways for a half hour or so while I tried to figure it out. By the time I sent up an SOS to Sherry, readers were commenting that their next were getting stiff. When writing the letter to Mike about losing my blue purse a year earlier, I had jokingly referred to his Facebook followers as your little Facebook friends. They, most of them, loved it, and the name stuck. My followers are also affectionately known as my LFBF. It was obvious even before my book launch that I had made the right choice in Jonathan Merck. I knew. I know knew it the day he called me while I was playing mahjong with some church friends. Hi, Jonathan, I said, I'm sorry, but I can't talk to you right now. I'm in the middle of a game of

mahjong. I'll call you back in an hour. And he laughed. My publisher simply laughed. Okay, he said, I'll wait for your call. I'd no sooner said goodbye when it hit me, considering all those years I had pursued publishers. If someone had told me a year ago that I would blow off my publisher for a game of mahjong, I'd have said they were crazy. And who'd have thought that a publisher would personally accompany an author on her book tour? But that is exactly what he did. Perhaps because it was my first, or maybe because of my age, whatever, he was the perfect guide in New York City, leading my entourage safely from our hotel to television and radio studios and personal appearances.

As dictated by tradition, my book was launched on a Tuesday. For two full days, my guardian angels and I rode from interview to interview in the big black car. Jonathan, Mike, Mary, and my John were beside me every step of the way. There were live and tape television interviews and radio and podcast interviews one after the other. We met celebrities, and I learned firsthand the value of makeup artists. Magicians, who made this 80-year-old woman look almost decent for the camera. On the second afternoon, as we were leaving a book signing at the Fifth Avenue flagship Barnes & Noble, Jonathan asked, well, what do you think of your first book tour? I feel like Cinderella at the ball, I told him.

and the best is yet to come, he said, with an air of mystery. We climbed back into our car for a short ride to the Simon and Schuster headquarters in Rockefeller's Center. When I saw the street sign, Avenue of the Americas, I felt a twinge, but kept it to myself. How many times had I written that address on my manuscript submissions and seen the same return address on the rejection letters from various big publishing houses? a lifetime ago. We stepped from the car and followed Jonathan along the prestigious entrance corridor to the Simon & Schuster complex, stopping midway at a large, brightly lit showcase display. There, I saw dozens of copies of one book only about my mother. True stories of a horse crazy

daughter and her baseball-obsessed mother by none other than Peggy Rowe. I wondered what other had rested on those same shelves over the years. A humbling thought for sure. John took my hand as he had the day we stood in all at the rim of the Grand Canyon. Mike put his arm around my shoulder, and my publisher smiled proudly, as a parent might, watching his child survey Santa's gifts on Christmas morning. There were photos, of course, but the rest of the afternoon is somewhat of a blur. the champagne reception at Simon & Chuster with staff, editors, and executives, the short speech is congratulating Jonathan on his quick turnaround of a book he had received a mere three months earlier.

And me, for producing such a good read. I panicked when I realized I was expected to make a short, impromptu speech. I needn't have worried. I still remember my first two sentences. bold as brass and smiling, I said, Thank you so much for all of this. And just so you know, I've decided to forgive each and every one of you

for all those rejection notices you've sent me through the years. There was good-natured laughter, and I felt pretty silly looking out at those fresh faces who were probably in elementary school when I had submitted my book manuscripts decades earlier. There was a festive dinner at the hotel that evening, with Mike, Jonathan, Mary, and me. John was tired and decided to heat up his leftovers from lunch in the microwave in our room.

As the rest of us were perusing the dinner menu, John appeared at the table and provided the evening's entertainment. I've decided to join you, he said. The microwave in our room is broken. The door won't stay shut. It flies open every time I set the timer. Where is it, Dad, this microwave, Mike asked. because my room doesn't have one. Neither does mine, said Mary. Well, that's another weird thing.

It's inside the closet, John said, with a baffled look. That's a funny place for a microwave. That's because it's not a microwave, Dad, Mike said, laughing. You've been trying to heat up a sandwich and you're safe. Nobody laughed harder than John. After dinner, I posted a blog to my LFBF from my New York City hotel room. Setting. New York City.

Barnes & Noble flagship store on Fifth Avenue for many years their largest store. Time. 4 p.m. Tuesday, November 13, 2018, the day of my book launch. Characters. John Rowe and his author wife, Peggy Rowe. A stranger named Leslie.

Plot. My entourage casually approaches the table at the front of the store, the one that's below the bold sign proclaiming new releases. There, we get some pictures of my books on display while trying to appear cool. Then we meander to the biography section for more photos. The manager sees us and brings a stack of books for me to sign. Thank you for doing this, he says, applying stickers to the front covers that say autographed.

At this point, John steps away with one of my books and approaches an innocent shopper at a nearby table. He looks as though he's about to do a man on the street interview. Oh, no, I think, because with my husband one never knows. Suddenly he opens the book and begins reading aloud to this innocent shopper, this perfect stranger. I avert my eyes because that's what I do in these situations and continue signing the stack of books.

When I finish and look up again, I'm face to face with the woman and wondering if I should apologize. This is Leslie, John says. Leslie, this is my wife, Peggy Rowe, the author of this book. Well, now I have to buy it, the woman says, taking the book from John. I need to read the rest of that story you started.

would you sign it for me, Mrs. Rowe? And that's how John sold my first book, possibly, in Barnes & Noble, on the very day it came out. Thursday evening after arriving home, I wrote another short post. Cinderella has returned from her magical whirlwind New York City book tour. I'm pleased to say that not only does she have both of her slippers, she brought Prince Charming home with her. Since that day, John has been known to my LFBF as Prince Charming or PC. He's not crazy about the nickname. It's a lot to live up to, he says. So far, no problem.

That weekend, I did my first ever book event. It was held at my local library and the night before I dreamed that I walked into a completely empty room. When I saw the packed auditorium, I might have teared up just a little. As it turned out, I was hardly nervous at all. You know who was on the front row videoing the action. Really, sometimes he takes my breath away. And my friend and editor Michelle was on the back row making notes for me. Old friends and neighbors and an entire row of church friends, including my minister,

were cheering me on. How could I help but succeed? And then I went to bed and slept for a week. In the end, this 80-year-old woman who had never paid a bill, balanced a checkbook, or made financial decisions, happily turned over the business side of my latent life career to my son and MRW. There have been no regrets. Shortly after my book hit the shelves, another miracle occurred.

It was a Saturday morning about 10 o'clock when the phone rang. John answered it at the kitchen table on speaker. It was son Mike. Dad, what are you doing right now? Well, your mother and I are having breakfast. I cook the perfect omelet with ham and... Dad, I want you to look at your wife. Are you looking at her?

Yes, Mike. She's right here beside me. What's this all about? Dad, you are looking at a New York Times best-selling author. Get out of here. Again, I might have teared up. Old people do that. that a lot, and I might have screamed for joy just a little, despite a miserable cold. Surely I was

dreaming. The following morning, with my illness keeping me home from church, I had a visitor. My next-door neighbor Jim carrying copies of the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and the Baltimore Sun, and appearing every bit as excited as I, confirmed the full extent of Mike's news. Naturally, after calling family, I sat at my computer and shared the good news with my LFBF through some creative verse,

the kind that rhymes. Quoth, My Neighbor. Once upon a Sunday dreary, as I languished weak and weary, at the kitchen window of our condo's second floor, sipping tea and munching toast, watching him whom I love most, step into our car and shut the door. Off to church and Mickey Dees, whilst I heave a mighty sneeze,

bundled in my robe of grave allure. Pondering life and lightly napping, suddenly I hear a tapping, someone gently rapping, rapping at my condo door. Tis my neighbor with some news, to wipe away my morning blues, and fill my soul with happiness galore. Seems my humble little tone, has found a temporary home. On the New York Times bestseller list, what's more? There's U.S. News and World Report. Don't sell the Wall Street Journal short. They're in agreement.

That's great news for sure. And then my neighbor said to me, with a hint of merriment and glee, as he turned and headed for my chamber door, so when can we expect to see the next great masterpiece from thee? It's been a month. What art thou waiting for? thus quoth my neighbor evermore. Peggy Rowe, 2018, with a special shout-out to fellow

Baltimoreian Edgar Allan Poe, and my dear neighbor, Jim Durkin. My next phone call was from Mike telling me that my little book, a story that was filled with hope, was now number one at Barnes & Noble, oh for Bob Woodward's mega book, Fear. Yep, Mike said, Hope trumps fear. Before long, I settled into a comfortable social media routine and discovered that almost anything can be material, if written about, in an interesting way. From recipes to after-church gatherings at McDonald's to the adventures of rubber duckies around the neighborhood, readers relate to and embrace our mundane lives. When my husband had hernia surgery and we kept track of his nighttime trips to the toilet by dropping pencils in the bathroom, bathroom sink, readers followed with interest his nightly pencil count. When my soft-boiled egg exploded in the microwave, thousands of people shared their own exploding egg stories.

Who knew? And when John made me a coffee table at the wood shop, my post went viral. The writer in me pays attention to everyone. It's something I've learned from the experts over the years. I've written about our friends, neighbors, and family, as well as our minister, grocer, hairdresser, GP, GYN, dentist, dermatologist, urologist, cardiologist, electrician, and plumber, all with humor. Without exception, they have been willing subjects. My husband worries that people are going to see me approaching and clam up. John, you turn every conversation into an interview. People talk to you and you turn around and write about them. Me. But I change their names. I give them anonymity. John. Hun, you include their pictures.

Me, but only with their permission. And I always ask them first if they're wanted by the law, or if they're in the witness protection program. What John says is true, and I've made an important discovery about my readers. They love it. when I'm a tad naughty, without actually stepping over that line of decency. I recently included this passage in a blog. It's from an essay in my second book about your father, and it's called The Old Grey Pear. For my Facebook blog, I called the excerpt, Geriatric Erotica.

One evening after dinner, my husband and I were hugging in the kitchen when our visiting son wrapped his arms around us and lifted us off the floor saying, You guys are adorable. I wonder what he'd have said if he had seen us at bedtime. Do you have the stuff? John asked me as I got into bed. Of course, I said, here, you do me first.

Uh-uh. You know how you are. You get all steamy. You do me first. All right, but you better hadn't fall asleep. I warned him. I'd love to hear his groans of ecstasy as I do my thing. Nothing relieves my husband's itchy back like cortisone cream.

And what he said about me is true. Ben Gay on my shoulders and neck can produce too much heat if he's not careful. John knows what I like. Life here at the home has provided a wealth of material. An audience favorite was my post about the elderly woman in the locker room. She stepped from the shower and passed in front of me on the way to her locker. Her front was covered with a towel, and I was shocked to see a slightly faded and sagging tattoo on her bottom, red, white, and blue with some writing. Naturally, the inquisitive writer within me pointed to her bottom and asked,

Tell me about your tattoo. She looked confused, backed up to the mirror, and laughed. I joined her and read aloud, Wise Markets, Gas Rewards. When we'd finished laughing, she explained, After my shower, I spread a plastic grocery bag on the bench and sat down to dry my legs and feet. As I said, material is everywhere. I've learned more about human nature in the past four years from my social media readers than in the past 84 years of life. People are hungry for something positive and uplifting, something they can relate to, something that makes sense.

them laugh. During a time of turmoil and illness with quarantine and life-changing uncertainty in non-stop news cycles, I have avoided controversial topics and continue to do so even now. Writing a book is a solitary pursuit, with hours spent alone at a computer with little or no feedback. The comments written by my social media followers, whether they refer to a current short post or a story from one of my books, provide a wide range of views and even immediate gratification. Connecting with my readers reminds me who my audience is, which is an enormous advantage to any writer. Who'd have thought I would ever have a fan club? Had it not been for my LFBF, their acceptance, and their enthusiasm for the graphic, nitty-gritty of everyday humor around us, I doubt I'd have

had the courage to write and share the following, oh-so-true stories. Maintenance 101, the Battle of the Bulge. A fan once asked, Mrs. Rowe, can you describe old age in three words? Oh, that's easy, I said. Patch, Patch, Patch. And it's true. Our bodies are like old cars.

It's all about maintenance. Your engine light comes on, and you high-tail it to a garage. Some repairs are easy, in and out in a day. Others are more time-consuming and expensive, not to mention painful. To put it briefly, our body parts have a shelf life, which varies from person to person. In 2019, my husband had what the doctor called, a little procedure. His inguinal hernia had been popping out at inconvenient times for the past several years, kind of like a nosy neighbor who sticks her head through the door, univated. You never knew when it might make an appearance. John could be in full stride in mid-sentence when

suddenly the hernia would emerge through his abdominal wall, prompting him to reach down with both hands and push the nosy neighbor back through the door. He was like a walking, whack-a-mole game, beating his hernia into submission. When I made comments such as a as one of these days you won't be able to shove that thing back in, he would say, give it a rest, peg, you worry too much. And then one day my prediction came true, and my husband's bulge had to be dealt with by a surgeon. Along with the repair of the hernia, John's longtime hydroceal was corrected. As you may know, the hydroceal is a small sack of fluid in the scrotum. This one had been hanging around for way too long.

The surgery, an outpatient procedure, was not without side effects or more accurately, frontal effects. I feel that I should post a message here, like those disclaimers on PBS, warning of explicit content that may not be appropriate for all viewing audiences. It's usually followed by a show that has language or sex or violence. Consider yourself forewarned. Late that night, following the show, surgery my husband and I were at home as the anesthesia was wearing off. He lifted the sheet, stared wide-eyed for a second, then screamed like a man engulfed in flames. Pag, come here, quick. I pulled away the sheet and thought, my lord, what's an egg plant doing down there on his

private parts? I knew, of course, that it was my husband's scrotum, but only because of the position it occupied between his legs. Knowing that John needed a calming influence. I did not gasp, but instead, said in a soothing voice, well, honey, Dr. Steele did say that you could expect some swelling and bruising, remember? Some swelling, some bruising? There's a freaking eggplant between my legs. He was right, complete with a plump stem. I'm calling 911, I said, as my husband wobbled toward the bathroom, looking like a character from March of the Penguins. No way, he yelled, do you really want an ambulance screeching in here at 2 a.m.? There are a few secrets in a condominium community,

especially when it comes to vehicles with flashing lights and screaming sirens. Many's the time we've stood in our kitchen window waiting to see who's being hauled through their front door like a piece of discarded furniture on dumpster day. It looks like that tall, gentleman with a mustache, John might say, or I think it's somebody heavy with white hair, I'll speculate. So I did what I always do when we have a medical crisis. I ran down to the first floor and knocked on our neighbor's door. Debbie is a retired nurse with a calm, professional demeanor. It was Debbie who helped the EMT crew maneuver my 90-year-old mother onto a stretcher the night she fell and broke her hip. It was Debbie who loaned us a blood pressure kit when we had the flu and an ankle

wrap when our son sprained his foot. It was Debbie who made us a casserole when I broke my fifth metatarsal and you get the picture. So naturally, it was Debbie who came to our rescue in the middle of that fateful night. Now, wait a minute, you're probably thinking. Do you mean to say that John actually shared his not so little problem with a neighbor? A female neighbor? I should probably mention here that John has had bouts of recurring bladder cancer over the past 15 years or so, so he is no stranger to displaying his intimate body parts.

There have been countless cystoscopies where his doctor and assistant introduced tools into the bladder to have a look around through the obvious and obvious. only accessible route. After that first procedure, my husband came home shaking his head and laughing. You'll never guess what his pretty young assistant said when they finished. Um, it's been my pleasure, Mr. Roe, I said. She said, and now I'll give you some privacy while you get dressed, Mr. Roe.

Can you believe that? So yes, my husband has become somewhat desensitized over the years. Well, God bless Debbie. She did not run screaming or pass out or even gasp when John lowered the sheet to reveal the vegetable of the day with stem. Instead, she beheld the monstrosity between his legs and pronounced calmly but with authority.

Your surgeon needs to take a look at this right now. Dr. Steele was delighted to get our call at 2.15 a.m. Mrs. Rowe, as you might remember, I offered to see your husband when we spoke this afternoon. And again earlier this evening, he declined both times. I know and I'm sorry, doctor, but my neighbor says it doesn't look normal. Your neighbor? So your neighbor's on the case? Well, that's when Debbie said, ask if we can send him a picture. Sure, the doctor said, stifling a yawn, by all means, send me a picture of your

your husband's scrotum. I took two photos, one from the top and one from underneath, while John elevated the subject. Get good and close, hon. Make sure it's in focus. We want the color to pop. And do not get my face in it. I briefly pictured the image on a social media page with a caption. Can you identify this? Hold on a minute, Debbie said, before you hit send. make sure you have the right number. I shuddered at the thought, imagining a scenario where an elderly insomniac is in bed

watching a Hallmark movie. She gets a text. Who could it be at this late hour? There must be some kind of emergency. She pauses, Christmas wishes and missile toe kisses, and glances at her phone, now bursting with geriatric pornography.

The poor old deer would probably never close her eyes again. Well, it isn't pretty, the doctor said, but I don't think it's gangrenous. If you want to be sure, though, you can go to the ER. What did your neighbor think? I ignored the sarcasm, thanked him, and prepared for the drive to the hospital. My husband's eyes were wide as his hands clenched the armrest and dashboard in the wee hours of that morning. I couldn't be sure if it was pain or fright. Cataracts and glaucoma make night-time driving a challenge for me.

But like I told John, how important are those white lines when there's so little traffic? I can still see the road, sort of. Five hours later, after multiple tests and scans in the ER, Dr. Steele made an appearance with a group of interns on morning rounds. He had his smartphone out, and I was pretty sure he and the interns weren't gulking at the weather app. as they huddled around the foot of my husband's bed.

Our doctor was probably thinking, some people get pictures of grandkids on their phones. During the great unveiling, Dr. Steele said to the interns, So have you guys ever seen Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe? Well, guess what? These are his parents. He always introduces us that way.

Don't get me wrong. We're proud of our son, but the Dirty Jobs' humor loses its punch when your husband's scrotum is on full display, or say, during a colonoscopy. It's a bit too, on the nose, as it were. Anyway, the test results were good. So after a thorough examination,

we returned home mid-morning, where Debbie was waiting with a flexible ice wrap, ideal for the task at hand. As the doctor predicted, the swelling and bruising gradually disappeared, and after weeks of stool softener, and Mirralax, I'm relieved to say that the unwelcome eggplant gradually withered away, and my husband's body parts returned to normal. I admit to having selfish feelings about the

repair of John's hernia. To be honest, I kind of miss it. Like the gopher in Caddyshack, that bulge had become a recurring character in my stories and social media posts, always good for a laugh. More than once when we were out walking, I would turn to John and ask, what did you say, hon? To which he would respond, I didn't say anything. It was his hernia talking, of course. The lead instrument in the one-man band, my husband had become with a groaning bulge, backed up by the whistling hearing aids, a creaking foot brace, and the occasional fanfare from the brass section, always there to keep the tempo peppy. Enough said about that. Of course, I'm relieved that John had the little

procedure and is back to good health. That said, we're still not eating eggplant, and I've noticed that John continues to have trouble looking our neighbor Debbie in the eye. As for her ice wrap, I washed it thoroughly and returned it, but what are the odds she'll ever use it again? Bulges in the elderly are as common as forgetfulness and mobility issues. I was doing a signing in a bookstore when a jolly middle-aged woman approached and handed me a copy of my book saying, Oh, Mrs. Rowe, you make old age seem like such fun. I'm actually looking forward to it. I wanted to say to her, seriously?

Pull up a chair, honey. I have a little story for you. I call this story, material girls. My particular bulge was as personal as my husband's. Simply put, after spending eight, 82 years in a sheltered, confined environment, my bladder became curious about the outside world. So, anxious for a glimpse of the good life, she headed south. As the expression goes, after seeing gay Paris, it was impossible to keep her down on the farm, or should I say,

up in the north pasture. My G.Y.N assured me that prolapse is common. 50% of women over the age of 50 experience it. She told me this as I was on the table with my feet in the air, a captive audience, so to speak. It's usually the result of gravity and childbirth. Look at it this way, she said. It's one more reason to make your children feel guilty. I made a mental note to remember that one. It might come in handy sometime, not that I would dream of using it. It was at this point in our relationship that the middle-aged doctor and I began chatting personally. When I told her that I was a writer of mostly humor, she shared with me that she moonlights as a stand-up comic.

Really, I said, I would never have guessed. She looked reserved and kind of serene, not traits one normally associates with stand-up comics, plus the fact that she had not once used profanity. Well, you certainly have some great material, I said, imagining her typical day looking at women's bottoms. There was a twinkle in her eye when she said, you could be the subject of my next routine,

which of course had already occurred to me. She quickly added, naturally, I don't use names or pictures, and laughed. That's very reassuring, I said, and reminded her of a recent news story about a doctor who had photographed patients without their knowledge. No cameras, she said,

looking around the room and laughing, not even in the ceiling. She finished her examination and explained that I had three options. I could lift with the prolapse, I could schedule surgery, which she described in detail, or I could try a pessary. Apparently, many women have success

with the plastic ring-like device, which, when fitted correctly, holds things in place. I grimaced, ooh. Think of it as a piece of jewelry, she said. They come in sizes two to seven. I would use a size three on you. We can always make adjustments.

A size three? Really? I have to admit it, I was flattered, and began to consider the possibilities. I could brag that I was wearing a lady like size three, like those women who brag about their petite size eight dresses. I couldn't wait to tell my husband. So I opted to avoid surgery and go with the peth.

Jewelry. This meant returning to the office from time to time for some scheduled maintenance, kind of like my husband takes the car in for a thousand-mile check-up, oil change or grease job. But overall, I treated my peccary like jewelry, taking her to church in the grocery store and the theater. Alas, there were size adjustments down the road, always larger, unfortunately.

But it's just a number, right? And who cares? let's just say I didn't do any bragging. And to the doctor's credit, not once did she refer to it as the hula hoop. I eventually opted for the surgery. My self-esteem couldn't take any more. At my surgical follow-up appointment,

my doctor was looking through the speculum at her handiwork when she smiled and said one word, beautiful. To which I responded, You really have to get out more. We girls both laughed. pleased with our new material. In recent years, the children have made assessment visits,

where they've considered our needs and well-being. Not that they would say as much, but we can tell. From advising us on the purchase of a television and carrying it in from the car, to hanging dozens of pictures in our new residence, to making trips to goodwill and the dump to dispose of our unwanted items. Sometimes their interests in our well-being,

is a mixed blessing. I call the following story, Don't shoot your eye out. Now, what the heck is this, my husband said as he came into our condo with a big box? He was carrying it well away from his body as though it might contain a poisonous snake.

We didn't order anything from Amazon. We're not the kind of people who order things online. We shopped the old-fashioned way. I still remember John's expression when he opened the box with a mixture of confusion and wonder. What the? Who would be sending us an adventure force,

tactical strikes sentry X2 ball blaster? Oh, no, I said, stepping back. It's a machine gun. Don't touch it, John. Don't be silly. It's not a machine gun. It's a pistol. A pistol that shoots Nerf balls.

His eyes sparkled like a kid's on Christmas morning. "'Well, don't take it out of the box,' I yelled. "'We have to send it right back. It's a mistake.' And then we saw the card from our son. This was no mistake. "'There's nothing funny about hearing loss. My husband faced his square on with denial. There was nothing wrong with his hearing.

It was my fault. I mumbled. "'You have to enunciate,' he told me. "'When I raised my voice in order to be heard, I was accused of being angry and impatient. After I threatened to register us for a course in signing for the deaf, he agreed to see an audiologist and got his first pair of hearing aids. Things improved a little, but our television continued to blast away, causing the lampshades and living room windows to vibrate.

John denied any connection between the vibrating and his hearing, so I told him there was a petition being circulated in our building about the noise pollution from our television. So he did some research and discovered TV ears, a simple Bluetooth wireless headset that allows him to hear the television at a reasonable volume and our neighbors and me to remove our earplugs. The downside, of course, is that when he's wearing the TV ears, conversation between us is impossible. He hears only the television. weeks later, as luck would have it, son Mike came to visit, observed our problem, and surprised us with a dry erase board, complete with markers and erasers. Such a clever idea. I could sit on the sofa, scribble my comments, and hold up the board.

John, sitting in his blue lounger six feet away, had only to read it and react. Wala. There was just one problem. Getting his attention. I screamed. I waved a towel in the air. I threw a pillow at him and hit the lamp. By the time he looked up, the action had moved on,

and my comment was irrelevant. I texted Mike and told him about my dilemma. And that's when the package arrived from Amazon. I read the enclosed card. Hey, Mom, here's the perfect way for you to get Dad's attention while he's using his TV ears. Just load the gun, shoot, and bounce a Nerf ball off his leg. Then hold up the message board. P.S. Don't shoot your eye out. Mike.

Before I knew what was happening, my husband had unwrapped the weapon, loaded it, and was shooting random targets around the living room with a crazed gleam in his eye. First, our family photographed hanging on the wall, then the thermostat, then the ceiling fan. He was eyeing the dining room fixture when Midsummer Murders came on PBS. It was a typical evening in the row house with John ensconced in his blue leather recliner, TV ears in, and me on the sofa with a cup of decaf, dry erase board, and my Adventure Force tactical strike pistol, fully loaded with six rounds of Nerf ammo. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, let me tell you. A few minutes into the show, I wrote the name of the murderer on the board. Lade it down, picked up my pistol, and shot my husband's glasses clear off his face. Before I knew what I was doing, I'd squeezed off another round, this time hitting a lower target. let's just say they don't call this the ball blaster for nothing. John was not pleased. As luck would have it, he isn't a violent man. Anyway, they're always saying that the most dangerous firearms are possessed by people who don't

know how to use them. So yesterday morning, I stood in the sunroom and did some target practice, under my husband's tutelage, of course. Unfortunately, I was in front of the big window as a passerby glance. up and saw somebody with a gun in a threatening pose. She called the building captain, instead of the police, thank heaven. What a mess. We had to get rid of the gun when we moved into the home. Apparently there are rules about old people and machine guns, but that's okay. Things are simpler nowadays. My husband and I sit side by side on the sofa when we watch TV.

All I have to do is lean over, take his ear, peace out, and yell. 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 bucks off your first order. Good ranchers.com. American meat delivered. If you could eat a steer, if you could eat a cow,

don't take a chance on a foreign ranch, get good ranchers now. A-haw! Chapter 16, a memoir, she wrote. Being a first-time author gave new purpose to my outings. It was impossible, for instance, to pass our library without stopping in to visit the memoir biography section, kind of like one might stop to visit a favorite friend. I've even been known to replace the book currently on the display stand with my own. Sometimes an accomplice acts as a lookout, an elderly, innocent-looking gentleman. One day I was visiting a library outside of my neighborhood and checked on my book.

It was nowhere to be found, so I played it cool and asked the librarian if they carried About My Mother by Peggy Rowe. Could it be on display in another area, I suggested? She checked her computer. I'm afraid all of our copies are out, and there are three people ahead of you, she said, Do you want me to put it on hold for you, Mrs. Rowe? I might have turned the shade of Ralphie's bunny outfit in the Christmas story and said something like, Busted.

We had a good laugh together before she said, By the way, it was a fun read. Don't you just love librarians? And bookstores don't get me started. I had no shame in rearranging displays. I had learned early on not to take my book from the shelf in Peruse. I invariably wanted to make changes. Oh, I'd say to myself, I should have said that differently.

I wish I could do it over. truth is, I could still be tweaking the stories in my first book, four years after publishing. But as all writers know, there comes a time when you must say goodbye and kick your literary fledgling from the nest. It was mid-December when my daughter-in-law Margie texted me with some before and after pictures of the book table in her South Florida Walmart. The first picture showed two copies of my book, partially obscured on a book. bottom shelf. In the second photograph, after Margie's rearranging, my books appeared on the top shelf proudly looking out at shoppers. A third picture, taken an hour later following Margie's

Christmas shopping, showed an empty space on the top shelf where my books had been prior to selling. It occurred to me that having a large family scattered about could be advantageous indeed for an author. Me too, not. I envy authors who have the good fortune to enjoy a career in their prime, like those women who present at conferences, standing at the podium in a pretty little sundress that accentuates their slim waist

and shows off their shapely calves. For me, the sundress ships sailed during the Reagan administration. The more I cover up now, the more presentable I look. My pretty little outfit these days consists of black slacks and a loose-fitting top. At the age of 84, I'm bullish on comfort and walking to the podium without limping. My only nod to fashion would be the laces in my tennis shoes that match my top. Another downside to having your career take off when you're old is the whole energy thing. I recently listened to an interview with 65-year-old author David Sedari.

He was on a 60-city book tour in something like 20 days. As I mentioned earlier, I spent two days on a New York City book tour, came home, and slept for a week. I used to worry about not being able to recall words or names while speaking, but I've learned that if you're up front with audiences, they cut you some slack. I was doing a Q&A at a library when I couldn't think of a word, so I pointed to my head. and fessed up, saying something like old brains. Someone called out, what does the word mean? Well, I said, it's a story that someone recorded for you to listen to on your smartphone while you're out walking. An enthusiastic voice from the back shouted, podcast. There was laughter. So a little later,

I pretended to struggle for another word until someone came to my rescue. A kind of interactive charades. They loved it. Audiences remind me of the classes for my substituting days. No, they don't throw things or fight, and nobody is called out, I don't have to listen to you, you're just a substitute. But a speaker does get a sense early on if an audience is going to be fun. If so, and I'm at a podium for an hour or more, I might do some bends and stretches to avoid blood clots and frozen joints. They're fully on board. Some might even. and join me. I might also share with them that I have a two-hour bladder. But don't you worry, I say, I came prepared. Yes, I've come a long way from that aged green horn, but I still marvel at a

full audience. There are definite advantages to a late-in life career. For one, I can say with certainty that my work never interfered with my maternal responsibilities. Child protective services did not once pay me a visit or charge me with neglect. Irma Bombbeck talked about her children slipping notes under the door while she was hard at work in her home office, notes that claimed the house was on fire, or that the kid was being murdered by a sibling. Romance author, Nora Roberts, had what she called the fire and blood rule when she was writing at home with two young sons. Unless it's fire or blood, don't bother me. Our three sons were in their 50s when my writing career took off.

Fire, blood, and sibling violence were never issues outside of my office door. The only character intruding into my workspace has been an old man who lovingly sets my breakfast on a table beside me while admonishing. Now eat while it's hot. Another advantage of being a late bloomer is that I haven't been part of the Me Too movement. I didn't have to sleep my way to a moment. a publishing contract. And I can honestly say, there has been no sexual harassment in my career, not by publishers, editors, book distributors, interviewers, or event organizers. Nope, never.

Zilch. Not one lousy time. If and when it should happen, I'm sure Prince Charming will handle it, as soon as he stops laughing. Blessed is the writer, for she shall inherit the truth. If I've learned anything from writing, it is that nothing reveals the big picture, quite like telling the story. I had always thought of my mother as controlling, forcing me to go to church and Girl Scouts, wear dresses, take piano lessons, listen to opera, do my homework. She was a dictator devoted to molding her girls into refined young ladies and models of perfection who would reflect well on her, despite their desires. But in writing the stories for my book,

I understood her motivation. Her true nature was revealed. Instead of a nosy, prying mother, I saw a protective mother shielding her daughters from unwholesome relationships and environments. Even her disapproval of my husband to be was understandable. Fortunately, she backed down and never regretted it. Reliving my childhood trip to the pony roundup in Shinkatig, Virginia, was more than an eye-opener. It gave me an appreciation for the busy mother and office manager who dropped everything, drove hundreds of miles to a strange town, and slept for two nights in a mosquito-infested station wagon in a parking lot, all so that her horse-crazed 10-year-old daughter might stare at ponies, touch them, smell them, dream,

and store up a lifetime of memories. Instead of the embarrassment I had felt 70 years earlier, writing about it allowed me to look back and laugh at my mother's desperate, dramatic performance before a mercenary motel manager who had tried to charge us $70 a night in 1948. Shame on you for taking advantage of a mother and child, she admonished.

I have a good mind to report you. This, as I looked down at my cowboy boots and backed through the door onto the sidewalk. Later, her performance in the firehouse was thoroughly persuasive as she clutched me to her side. There might have been a slate catch in her voice when she told the fire chief about our desperate situation and the merciless motel operator. He looked at the two weary travelers who had no place to spend the night, and like the innkeeper in Bethlehem, took pity on. on us. Not only were we allowed to park directly in front of the firehouse for two nights, we had lavatory privileges and all the donuts we could eat. My mother's most dramatic performance during that trip took place on the drive home when the policeman pulled us over for speeding.

And really, it was Oscar worthy. Mom, rolling down her window, What is it, officer? Is there something wrong with my car? Officer. Yes, ma'am. It was going too fast. Your license and registration, please. Mom. Me, speeding? You're mistaken. I've been driving since I was 12. I've never even been pulled over. Officer, license and registration, please. Mom, breathless and coughing with her hand over her heart. I don't feel very well. This has never happened before. Officer, as I handed him an envelope from the glove compartment and slid lower in my seat. You'll be all right, ma'am. Mom, rubbing the left side of her chest. Are you sure about this officer because I've never? Officer writing on a pad. I'm sure, Mrs. Noble, I'll just give you a warning this time, but you need to slow down. You have precious cargo. A scene that was totally devoid of humor at the time became clear when I wrote that chapter for my book. What a wonderful aid is the memoir to help us understand people and behavior and events,

even when they happened 70 years ago. Blessed is the humorist, for she will live with laughter. When a woman stopped me in the grocery store and said, Oh, Mrs. Rowe, I can so relate to your writing. You and I are just alike. Gray hair, wrinkles, and I've put on some extra pounds around the middle just like you. I saw the humor and was able to laugh

instead of slinging a jar of pickled beets at her. Then there was the lady who compared my writing to comfort food. It puts me to sleep, she told me. I had to laugh. But just as I was thinking, boy, does this woman know how to give a compliment or what? She continued. You see,

I keep your books on my bedside table. When I've had a terrible day and I can't stop worrying, I read a chapter or two. My troubles melt away and I'm asleep in no time. Please don't stop writing, Mrs. Rowe. Even the occasional dark humor on my social media page makes me laugh. Oh, Mrs. Rowe, this post was so funny I nearly rolled off my hospital bed laughing. I wasn't quite sure how to react to the young woman who touched my arm and said,

Mrs. Rowe, you are my dead grandmother all over. So I simply smiled and tried to look pleased and made a mental note to jot this one down. Then she went on to extol her grandmother's virtues and tell me how much of an influence she had been in her own life. I loved her so much, she said, eyes brimming. And then she asked me to sign two copies of my book. I've decided that being compared to dead relatives can be the ultimate compliment.

We were in the midst of the coronavirus shutdown when my second book hit the shelves, metaphorically speaking, so I wasn't able to go on a book tour. Instead, there were telephone and Zoom interviews. One day there were as many as ten where I answered some of the same questions over and over. My answers are always earnest, of course, but from time to time, I have to admit, I fantasize about shaking things up, just a little. Interviewer. Peggy, in a time when the divorce rate is 40 to 50%, why do you think you and John have been able to stay together for 60 years?

Me. That's simple. Early on, neither one of us wanted custody of three boys. In later years, neither one of us has the energy to move out. interviewer wide-eyed and clearing his throat I see well um

how do you and your husband spend your time during this quarantine me uh you mean when we're not fighting interviewer nervous laughter me John stays busy with his internet porn sites

and I enjoy looking through the neighbor's windows with binoculars one of these days I'm going to give it a try. My childhood passion was horses, and my dream was to be a professional rider and trainer. My mother helped me to adjust that dream when I was in my teens. Peggy, she said, you have to be realistic. You'd need a career. Horses are your hobby. They're not an appropriate career for a young woman. Be a teacher. You were a fine Sunday school teacher, and I've watched you teaching children to ride. You're good with them.

they love you. Sometimes it's worth listening to our mothers. When I became an adult, I used writing in my teaching, and before long, it was my passion. It filled my head in eventually my days, and I dreamed of being an author and publishing books. Friends in my critique group helped me to adjust that dream. And as a result, I wrote shorter pieces, articles, stories, and essays that were easier to get published than a book. Today, I call myself a writer, not because my name is on two New York Times bestseller lists, but because the people I have cared for most in this world

have appreciated and benefited from my modest works. My parents and sister, my husband and children, my friends and neighbors, their pride in my accomplishments has helped to keep my passion alive. The rest is icing on the cake, or as my husband would say, the pepperoni on the pizza. When my granddaughters, now in their 30s, recently recalled my first book that I shared with them all those years ago, I was speechless.

That they would remember the plot and characters in such vivid detail left me humbled and grateful. Who knows? Maybe I'll open that drawer one of these days. And now, at the risk of sounding way too earnest, which I try to avoid like those lofty phrases, I must tell you. This book will not teach anyone how to write or how to get a book published. I'm far from an expert on either. I'm certainly not here to encourage readers to follow their dream, because sometimes dreams are unrealistic and need to be adjusted or deferred.

Think of me as one of those folks by the side of the road who offer sustenance to those passionate marathon runners and cheers them on along their journey. Because who doesn't need someone to cheer them on, no matter what their passion may be? My all-time favorite quote is one attributed to Albert Schweitzer. In everyone's life at some time, our inner fire goes out.

It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. John and I live next door to my parents for most of our married life, which was, oddly enough, a good thing. I was visiting my mother one day when I looked around and saw her old singer-tretel sewing machine in the corner. She had made all of our clothes, as well as draperies, slip covers, tablecloths, aprons,

and Halloween costumes on that old machine. Oh, Mom, I said, you're 85 years old. You don't need to sew anymore. We can get rid of that old thing. I know. Quite possibly the most insensitive words I've ever spoken. She looked at me as though my hair were engulfed in flames. Why would I want to do that, Peggy?

I could still create my greatest masterpiece. I wrote three books after the age of 80. After a 60-year journey with detours, disappointment, and doubt, along with some magnificent scenery. I've followed my passion throughout my adult life because I didn't have a choice. I simply don't know how not to. Would that my story could inspire someone else.

Remember, we might still create our greatest masterpiece. Acknowledgements. With special thanks to my loving and supportive family, who have been known to read the words I write and who claim to enjoy them. Son Mike, who shares my passion, and without whom my writing journey would have been quite different.

Jamie Buckley, illustrator, for his clever cover design, as well as other chapter drawings. My friends at MicroWorks, who make my life easier, Mary, Jade, Chuck, Sherry, Laura, and Libby. editors Lisa Stillwell and Billy Brownell

who helped to make this a real book Jonathan Merck, Jennifer Gingrich, and the rest at Forefront Books, my publisher of choice. My friend and first reader, Michelle Wojo, Wojikowski, who always offers me good advice. All of the people who read my books

and my hundreds of thousands of little Facebook friends. Moes Ushering a wave or savoring the view. The ocean delights us as playful otters restore coastal cowpores. The ocean connects us. Visit Monterey Bay Aquarium.org slash connects. If you work in university maintenance, Granger considers you an MVP because your playbook ensures your arena is always ready for tip-off. And Granger is your trusted partner.

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