The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 490: About My Father

Episode Date: June 20, 2026

In honor of Father's Day, we're sharing several hilarious chapters from the audio version of Peggy Rowe's bestselling book About Your Father.  Buy all three audiobooks from bestselling author Peggy Rowe for $30 or $15 individually at: https://bit.ly/MomsAudiobooks Tip o' the hat to our excellent sponsor PureTalk.com/Rowe Pure Talk is matching donations dollar for dollar until they hit two hundred fifty THOUSAND DOLLARS for America's Warrior Partnership, who is on the frontlines of supporting our veterans.

Hello, friends, and happy Father's Day weekend and welcome to a very special episode of the way I heard it. Just how special is this episode? Well, I'll let you decide my guest was going to be my dad. Obviously, it's Father's Day. And I have much I would like to say to him in front of a large audience because what better way to pay a tribute to somebody you care about than to publicly proclaim your fondness and gratitude. for said person. Well, my dad is busy. Yeah, it's a botchy ball tournament this weekend, I think.

Or maybe it's a pool tournament, or both. Or maybe it's shuffleboard. The old man's got a lot going on. 93 years old, living his best life over there at Oak Crest. So instead, I reached out to my mother, because my mom always has something interesting to say about my dad. But Peggy Rowe, I'm sorry to say, is also very busy, terribly, terribly busy.

My mom has a, she's under deadline delivering her next book, good for her. So she's back there writing away as my dad is playing shuffle board or botchy or pool. So I thought, maybe I'll just talk with Chuck for a while, you know, about the occasion. But he's back east tending to some domestic chores. And of course, you know, I don't have kids. and he doesn't have kids. How are we qualified to talk about Father's Day, really? So I circled back to my mom and thought, well, wait a minute.

Wait a minute. She wrote a terrific book about my dad called About Your Father. I know many of you have read it, but wait, there's more. About Your Father and other celebrities I have known also took the form of an audiobook. And most people have no idea. My mom recorded all of these books. in a studio shortly after she wrote them. And they never really got the attention they deserved in my humble estimation.

So I went back into the files and I listened to a couple of stories about my dad, read by my mother. These stories originally took the form of letters from her to me. My mom spent decades chronicling the myriad, delightful, idiosyncratic things my dad has done over the years and continues to do. And I kept these letters, and of course she kept copies as well, and one day they turned into a book. And flying back from Las Vegas yesterday, listening to my mom, read these stories, made me think of my dad once again in a different way, in a fun way, in a very grateful way. And perhaps listening to them will engender in you. Similar feelings for your old man. I hope so, because I'm going to share a few chapters with you right now from her best-selling book about,

your father and other celebrities, I have known ruminations and revelations from a desperate mother to her dirty son. Honestly, not to oversell it, but I forgot how good this book was. I'm looking at the back cover right now, and it's filled with five-star reviews, not from the major literary sources, but from her many, many, many fans. She just decided, you know what? And don't get me wrong. A lot of major literary sources had nice things to say about this book, but my mom chose instead to give a shout out to her many little Facebook friends. It's a terrific book. Here are a few chapters that I think you'll enjoy read by the one and only Peggy Row about the inimitable John Michael Roe, my dad, on this the occasion of Father's Day. I do hope you enjoy it. There's some information

in the description for those of you who would like to hear all of her books read in that style that I think is a, what is my mother really? Like if Betty White and Irma Bombbek had some sort of love child and grew up in Baltimore only to meet her Prince Charming 66 years ago or something like that, that's who my mom is. A true writer wrote every day for 60 years, still writing to this day. Much to my delight and perhaps to yours as well. A few ruminations from About Your Father right after this. Do do do do do do do do do do dumb.

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Following a blog post, I wrote about my husband walking in the neighborhood after dark, in the rain. I received some interesting comments. They ranged from, heartfelt concern to criticism. Some even accused John of a selfish disregard for the drivers who might run into him, throw him onto the hood of their car, and frighten them. There were also helpful suggestions. Some readers told him to wear reflective clothing so that he can be seen. Others said he should carry a flashlight. When several people told me I should buy him a headlamp like the ones miners wear,

I had to laugh. I know my husband, and I could see my future. In no time, he would have us both wearing headlamps in a dark house. Hey, hon, he'd say. These little babies are perfect. We're lighting up only the parts of the house we really need to see. We're not wasting electricity in areas we're not using. So typical.

My husband has been flicking off light switches as long as I've known him. him. It was his full-time job when the kids were at home, following them from room to room, like they were the pied piper. There's nobody in this room, he'd say. Click. Why are these lights on? Click. If they complained, but Dad, I'm coming right back. He'd say, when you're paying the electric bill, you can leave as many lights on as you want. Click. More than once I yelled, Hey, I'm in here. Well, you've lived in this house long enough

to know your way around in the dark, John would say, laughing, and turning the light back on. They say it's darkest before the dawn, but in our house, it was darkest after my husband got home from work. Hey, he'd say, walking through the door, this house is lit up like New Orleans during Mardi Gras.

Astronauts can see our house from space. Click. Click, click. The day my husband took the almost empty toothpaste tube to the basement and put it in the workbench vice to squeeze out the last drop, the kids were fascinated. I told them that this would be our little family secret. When he washed, used aluminum foil, and smoothed it out for reuse,

I explained that their father was poor growing up and hated waste. From time to time, John was able to laugh at himself. Like the day we took the kids to the Maryland Science Center. For four hours, we saw fascinating exhibits, demonstrations, and films. When it was time to leave, he checked the parking meter. There is no way I'm leaving 25 minutes on that meter, he said. Come on, guys. We're taking a hike around the harbor. I said I was exhausted and would sooner wait.

in the car for 25 minutes, thank you. When the tired kids piled in behind me, John chuckled, got behind the wheel and started the engine. Nothing revealed John's thrifty nature or impacted our lives, quite like the new addition in our home. Taking up residence on the fireplace hearth at the far end of the kitchen and weighing in at 650 pounds, the black steel Warner Woodstove,

became not only the focal point in our lives, but the center of our winter world. It was made by John's brother Robert, a master welder, and as such had great sentimental value. The decision to purchase the wood stove followed daily news coverage of the impending increase in oil prices

over the coming months. Now we can turn off the furnace and heat the house with wood. There's a forest full of, fuel out back, John announced, pointing toward the picture window and the woods beyond. And all the cheap labor we need, he said, looking over his glasses at three healthy sons. Nothing achieved family participation quite like the wood stove, not even monopoly, sorry, or 500 rummy. From gathering logs, splitting, and stacking them, to feeding the stove's

insatiable appetite and shoveling out the ashes, there were plenty of chores to go around. My husband was like a child on Christmas morning those first few weeks. With the new wood stove roaring, he walked through the house morning and night, holding a thermometer high in the air, with one hand and carrying a notebook in the other. In each room he paused to record times and temperatures. Peg, light a candle and come upstairs with me, he said late one frigid January night. I want to see if the heat's getting up there. John, we'll wake the kids. Nah, come on. He led the way up the steps while holding the thermometer high, with me following close behind with a candle, looking for all the world like a religious procession on a high holy day.

"'It's freezing up here,' I whispered. "'Look, Michael's wearing his coat in bed. "'John, is the child even breathing?' "'Well, of course he's breathing. "'You can see his breath.' "'He pointed to the little white puffs "'of white cumulus clouds coming from our son's nostrils. "'It was only a matter of time

"'untive services would come knocking at our door. Suddenly, Mike's eyes popped open and he bolted upright. What, what are you guys doing? Just taking some readings, son, go back to sleep. Geez, Dad. I thought you were the Statue of Liberty. Is that you, Mom? Don't drip candle wax on my homework.

The teacher already thinks we don't have electricity. She told me twice I smell like a wood fire. You didn't turn off the electricity, did you? Go back to sleep, son. John checked the thermometer and made notes in his book. Downstairs, while I topped off the water in the heavy black iron pot on the stove, he checked our little weather station, then recorded the temperature, humidity, and air pressure on a chart on the refrigerator door.

It's too dry, he said, shaking his head. We have to be sure to keep that pot filled with water. water. And we need to install a fan in the wall to get more heat upstairs. The following morning, my husband was at it again. Listen to this, Scott, he said as our son came down the steps wrapped in a blanket. It was 70 degrees in the kitchen and 65 degrees in the living room at 7 a.m. At 7 p.m. last night. It was 81 degrees in the kitchen and 73 degrees in the living room. How about that? Well, it's 32 degrees upstairs and my nose hairs are frozen, stiffer than icicles. How about that? Scott said. That's why they make blankets, John told him. The dog slept on top of me,

and I was still cold, Scott replied. Hmm, John said, winking at me. Maybe it's time to get another dog, hon. Scott's brother came down the stairs behind him. Hey, the toilet bowl looks like a skating pond, dad. Is it okay to flush? No, Phil, Scott said. We'll have to wait for the spring, fall. John says the children have inherited my pension for sarcasm.

Just for the record, no one in our family experienced frostbite during those years. Scott, it's your turn to shovel some matches from the stove, John said. All right, but you might be getting a note from the teacher. She thinks I smoke. And Phil, you run up to the woodpile. Take the wheelbarrow with you. I feel like Daniel Boone, Phil muttered,

putting a coat on over his Dungeons and Dragons jacket and heading for the door. Scott left for school that day, prematurely gray, with singed eyebrows. The Warner stove was our primary heat source, for the next 10 years. During that time, John reached a level of proficiency that would have qualified him to teach Woodstove 101

at the local community college had there been such a course. If Woodstove had been a national sport, my husband would surely have meddled. Sadly, our wood stove was ahead of its time. It would have been great material for a certain reality show on, say, the Discovery Channel. Four degrees of separation and counting. It was the year of my husband's fierce summer cold.

He had the works all right, sore throat, cough, congestion, and swollen glands. He thought he was at death's door. I know this because he resorted to the unthinkable. He paid a visit to our Dr. Lisa, who prescribed antibiotics along with a mega dose of advice, as usual. You are contagious, John. Stay away from Peggy, she warned. No hugging, no kissing, no touching, don't even look at her.

I shook my head when he came home and told me. I have to deliver a speech next week and a eulogy the following week. I cannot, under any circumstances, catch your cold. Okay, he said, no kissing, no hugging. And I'd better sleep in the guest room for now. I said. I could tell my husband was devastated when I came from the bathroom and gathered up my nightgown, slippers and robe.

Poor thing. Lay alone and forlorn on his side of our comfortable queen-sized pillow-top mattress with a summer wait embroidered bedspread, the one my mother had made for us. We had shared a bed for over 50 years, and now... I'll see you at breakfast on, I said. brushing the hair from his forehead, lingering just long enough to see if he had a fever. He did not.

Everything you need is right here on the bedside table, I said, including your cell phone. Call if you need me. Love you. Our guest room is smaller than the master bedroom, with a comfortable queen-sized bed and private bath. There's a radio and a reading lamp, neither of which I used.

We all have our creature comfort room. requirements, and mine include a quiet, darkened room in order to fall asleep. If I use the overhead fan at all, it has to be on low. John is not as particular, but has graciously acquiesced to my needs over the years. And so it went. My husband going to bed alone, quietly, with cough syrup, tissues, antibiotics, a bottle of water, and cough drops, and missing me in tensile. of course. And me going to bed burdened with the guilt of abandonment. Not to worry. Absence makes

the heart grow fonder. By the end of the week his cold was much improved, and he was more himself. One night, after nature had awakened me, I thought I heard voices and noticed a bright light under our bedroom door. If I didn't know my husband better, I would have guessed that he was entertaining. When I cracked the door and peeked in, there was my poor, lonely husband, sprawled across the entire bed, laughing hysterically at the late-late show on TV, while gnawing on pop chips and sipping Diet Coke. The open newspaper lay on my side of the bed, flapping in the wind like a flag mounted atop a pole on a windy day. As the overhead fan whirled furiously, rocking back and forth. A dangling chain swung like a pendulum on steroids,

clicking against the light fixture. I closed the door quietly and returned to my bed, unable to forget the scene I had just witnessed, reminding me of a long ago visit to a friend's college dorm. It had been a long time indeed since our bedroom had hosted that level of activity. The following morning, I gave John the long-awaited good news that he seemed well enough for me to return to our bed. And these were his exact words, oh, we don't want to rush it, hon. Remember that speech and that eulogy? It can happen so fast. One day, you're side by side in your marriage bed. The next, you've been replaced by a stand-up monologue, a newspaper, some wind, and a bag of pop chips.

The next blow came days later at church, of all places. I love summer because there's no choir, and I get to sit in a pew alongside John, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a hymnal and church bulletin. When it's time to pass the peace, we always kiss before greeting our friends. I've been told my husband and I are an inspiration to younger couples. But on this particular morning, as we stood, I opened our hymnal to the next song, and was taken aback when my husband reached for his own hymnal. When it was time to pass the piece, I stood puckering, as John shook my hand.

Who'd have dreamed it could happen to us? At dinner that evening, I was still coming to terms with the shocking events of the week. Afterwards in the kitchen, when we always clean up. up together, John waved me aside saying, go write something, I can do this by myself. At first I was horrified, but decided I could live with that one. It was evening, after all, and almost time for our stroll. It was my favorite part of the day, a period of hand-holding and sharing.

As we were walking and enjoying a stimulating conversation about our neighbors' psoriasis, and people who don't pick up after their dogs, and the need for speed bumps in the driveway. John suddenly dropped my hand, put on his headset, and charged ahead, listening to the Orioles game. A cautionary tale to be sure.

Each day of married life is a slippery slope of separation. I shudder to think what's next. Just saying. The fabric of life. Over the years, my husband has acquired a certain sartorial reverend. I wouldn't call him a clotheshorse exactly, or even a fashionista, but there's no denying he has style. If I had to give it a name, I'd go with vintage shabby. John holds onto clothing

like ordinary people hold onto family heirlooms. His closet is a museum of shirts and pants he brought to our marriage, like a dowry from over 50 years ago. They're safely hanging in our walk-in closet, as if they're on the endangered species list. My husband dressed appropriately for his teaching career, but when he retired, holy jeans and tattered shirts became the uniform of the day. Once when he was in the middle of a messy home repair project, he announced that he needed something from Home Depot and picked up his car keys. What are you doing, John? I said, you can't go out in public like that. He looked down and brushed some dust from his shabby jeans.

Sure I can. I'm dressing down, like kids do. Have you seen the stuff they wear? You're dressing down, I asked him. There's a hole in the seat of your pants the size of a sticky bun, John. I can see your white underwear. You get any more down and you'll be arrested for indecent exposure. So, they're clean.

You worry too much about what people think. I still remember that perfectly good pair of shoes you made me get rid of in London. Those perfectly good shoes had soles that flapped like sheets on a clothesline and a windstorm. You left them on a hotel bed with a sign that said, genuine leather and joy. You'd like to dress me up like Rhett Butler, I guess. We had just watched Gone with the Wind the night before. Well, if people in the store offer you money, you'll see that I'm right.

I know a losing battle when I see one. Hanging on to the past is as much a part of John's psyche as his distrust of anything new, unless, of course, it comes from goodwill. I've seen the way our sons look at their father's outfits when they're home. Believe me, I've tried slipping a new garment among his antiques from time to time, only to see it shunned like a prostitute at a Sunday school picnic. When we moved to a condominium in a slightly more upscale community, I made a point of discarding a few of my husband's more ragged garments.

It wasn't easy, mind you. The two-step process began with hiding them for a month or so until they were forgotten. I was depending on the old adage, out of sight, out of mind. If their absence caused a spike in blood pressure, they would reappear magically at the bottom of a drawer. If not, they were placed in a garbage can and laid to rest. Unfortunately, much of John's faded dowry sees the light of day far too often. Even birthday or Father's Day gifts from the children are regarded with disdain and viewed as excess. Oh, no, he'll say, eyeing a delivery truck like it's a process server delivering a court summons.

This better not be something for me. On a recent morning, while John was working on his taxes, I gathered my coupons and headed to the mall for some end-of-season sales. When I returned, John was at his office desk at the back of our bedroom. He stared at my shopping bag as though it might contain explosives. or worse still, something new and frivolous for him to wear. Look what I found, I said, taking a deep breath and reaching into the bag. He backed off from the new shirt like it was fresh roadkill. I do not need another shirt.

I have a closet full of shirts. Which have been hanging there since shirts were invented. I stormed into the closet and returned with an armful of shirts, which I threw onto the bed. Just look at these frayed collars and sleeves, John. See these little fuzzballs? They're called pills, and they're holding your shirts together.

John hesitated, then said in a tone that could only be described as accusatory, I guess you'd like to give them to goodwill. Huh, that's a joke. Goodwill is not that desperate. And then I did quite possibly the gutsiest thing I've ever done in all our years of marriage. I opened my sewing basket, retrieved my sharpest pair of scissors, and cut off a collar, buttons, and sleeves. John gasped, slapped his hand over his heart,

and collapsed onto the bed. Oh, don't be so dramatic, I said. It's not your sainted Aunt Louise. It's a faded shirt that's old enough for social security. He almost smiled, so with a stroke of genius, I added, these are going to make the most awesome dust claws ever. In fact, I said, putting my arm around his shoulder, if you clear off your desk, I'll dust it with this very cloth right now. I know, we'll give some to the kids for Christmas. They'll think about you every cleaning day. He gave me a peck on the cheek and headed back to his desk saying, don't overdo it, hon. I have to say that convincing him was so easy. I almost regretted leaving the other bags in the car.

Oh, well, I could think about that tomorrow. Huh. Did you see what she did there with that last line? Oh, well, I could think about that tomorrow. I didn't even notice it the first time I read the story, but earlier, in the story, she makes reference to Rhett Butler and Gone with the Wind, the classic movie that ends with Scarlett O'Hara's famous line.

After all, tomorrow is another day. I wonder if she did that on purpose. Yeah, I really wonder. You know, sometimes it's a conscious thing, but sometimes when good writers are in the flow, those little connections just happen on their own. Whatever, that's what my mom sounds like when she reads the true stories she wrote about my dad aloud.

And if you enjoyed it, you can get a whole book full of them over at the link in the description to this episode. In fact, her other two bestsellers are all bundled together right now. You can get the whole pack for like $30 or something. Not to turn this into a shameless plug, but I guess I just kind of did. It is Father's Day.

And honestly, I think about these books as a kind of a public service. I know I'm biased, but listening to my mom read stories about my dad, my youth, her youth. Maybe it's just me, but they, it's kind of nice to listen to right before I fall asleep some nights. I'm not saying, Mom, I'm not saying that your work puts me to sleep. Yeah, but it doesn't hurt. Anyway, that's my mom. Happy Father's Day to your pops, wherever he may be. Dad, I love you.

As for the rest of you, I will talk to you soon. Like us and subscribe before.