Peggy Rowe - Vacuuming in the Nude: And Other Ways to Get Attention

Vacuuming in the Nude

And Other Ways to Get Attention

New York Times Bestselling Author

Peggy Rowe

Foreword by Mike Rowe

To John Rowe, who knew that I was a writer long before I did. And who had the courage to call me onein publiceven before I was published.

In everyones life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being.

~A LBERT S CHWEITZER

T HIS IS MY MOTHER S THIRD book, and it is, without question, her best.

Conversely, this is my third foreword, and it is, without question, my worst.

The problem with this foreword began in May 2018 with a phone call from my mother, while I was filming an episode of Somebodys Gotta Do It.

Michael, Im sorry to interrupt your shoot, but when you have a few moments, would you mind writing the foreword for my first book?

Of course, Mom! It would be an honor.

My moms first book was a warm and funny collection of short stories about her mother, ingeniously titled About My Mother.

I know youre busy, she said, but the publisher says a foreword from a celebrity will boost sales, and youre the only celebrity I know.

I canceled my dinner plans that evening, went back to my hotel, and stayed up until 4 a.m. writing the best foreword I could possibly write. I mean, really, how could I say no? When your eighty-year-old mother asks you to write the foreword for her first book, you have to consider the possibility that it might also be the foreword for her last book. And so, I left nothing on the table. I not only raved about my mothers persistence and determination, I shared some of my own stories about Nana and offered a few observations on the remarkable mother-daughter relationship she and my mother shared for sixty-seven years. Modesty aside, it was a foreword fit for a New York Times best-seller, which is exactly what About My Mother became the day it hit the shelves.

Naturally, I was thrilled for my mom, but I was surprised by the call I received two years later while filming an episode of Returning the Favor.

Michael, Im sorry to interrupt your shoot, but when you have a few moments, would you mind writing the foreword for my second book?

My moms second book was a warm and funny collection of short stories about my father, ingeniously titled About Your Father.

Well, Mom, to be honest, my last foreword was pretty thorough. Im not sure what I can say that I havent said already.

I know, Michael, but you have such a way with words. Just a few lines, dear, when you have a moment.

What about Dad? Hes got a way with words too.

Your fathers a very busy man, Michael. And besides, youre still the only celebrity I know.

I canceled my dinner plans that evening, went back to my hotel, and stayed up until 4 a.m., writing the best foreword I could possibly write. I mean, really, how could I say no? When your eighty-two-year-old mother asks you to write the foreword for her second book, you cant help but consider the possibility that it might also be her last book. And so, once again, I held nothing back. I not only raved about her persistence, determination, and natural talent, I also shared a few funny stories about my dad and the many delightful idiosyncrasies that have endeared him to so many people. Now, was my second foreword as good as my first foreword? No. The sequel is never as good as the original. But apparently, it was good enough for another New York Times best-seller, which is exactly what About Your Father became the moment it hit the shelves.

Once again, I was thrilled by my mothers success, but surprised by the phone call I received two years later, while filming a new episode of Dirty Jobs.

Michael, Im sorry to interrupt your shoot, but when you have a few moments, would you mind writing the foreword for my third book?

You gotta be shitting me.

Michael! Language!

Sorry, Mom. Im in a septic tank. Can I call you back this evening?

Of course, dear. But the publisher is in a terrible hurry. Do you think we could get a foreword from you sometime tomorrow?

Again, how could I say no? If theres one thing Ive learned about the entertainment business, its never to turn your back on a winning formula. (Why else would I still be hosting a TV show from a septic tank?) And now, at eighty-four years of age, my mothers discovered the same is true in publishing. And so, here I am once again, sitting in a hotel at 1 a.m., searching for something new to share about my mothers lifelong obsession with the written word. Something I havent already told you twice.

Okay, how about this?

When I was baby, my mother used to write stories while she was nursing me. I dont remember this, thank God, but Mom told me recently that I nearly choked to death one morning because she had left me latched on to the point where I could no longer swallow. Apparently, she was so immersed in whatever she was writing, she forgot about the baby on her boob, swelling up like a tick.

Thats the essence of the woman on the cover of this book. An aspiring author who never stopped writing. A distracted housewife who imagined herself a best-selling author, sixty years before she became one.

For as long as I can remember, my mother has been armed with a yellow legal pad and a #2 pencil, chronicling the world around her. To this day, she still writes everywhere she goes. Beauty salons, baseball games, state fairs, supermarkets, pool halls, and planetariums you never know where shell whip out her yellow pad and start scribbling. Whereas my father still enters a bathroom with a book or a newspaper, my mother goes in with her pad and pencil and comes out with a screenplay or a sonnet.

You never know when inspiration might strike, she says. Or when youll see something worth jotting down.

My mother loves her three sons, but growing up, she never really talked to usshe interviewed us. When I came home from my first summer camp in 1975, she was waiting for me at the kitchen table with her pad and pencil.

Welcome home, she said. I missed you. Now, tell me everything. Leave nothing out.

I told her how much I had loved the woods, the wildlife, and the nightly campfires. I told her about canoeing down the rapids, winning the archery competition, and sleeping under the stars. The faster I talked, the faster she scribbled. I told her about navigating with a map and compass and cooking the fish I caught myself in a mountain stream. I told her about the bear that raided our camp and ate all our food and the hot air balloon ride that nearly ended in disaster when we missed power lines by inches before landing in a tree. Two days later, there was a story on my pillow called A Dangerous Walk in the Woods, with a daring young protagonist whose adventures were identical to my own.

In December of that year, my father decided it would be foolish to buy another Christmas tree.

Why pay good money for a tree he asked, when the woods out back are full of them?

So my dad fired up the tractor, loaded the cart with axes and saws, and led my brothers and me on a quest to find the perfect Christmas tree. What we brought home, however, was not a fir, a pine, or a spruce. Honestly, I dont know what it was. It looked like a hedge with a pointy top, and it took up half of our living room.

I remember mom scribbling away as my brothers and I were stringing lights and hanging tinsel. I recall Christmas carols playing on the transistor radio and the aroma of gingerbread wafting in from the kitchen. My dad was trying to affix the star to the top of our pointy hedge when suddenly, a starling flew out from the tangled depths and bounced off his forehead. I remember my brothers and me laughing as our dog took off after the bird, barking like mad and chasing it all over the house. Mostly though, I remember the script that appeared beneath the tree on Christmas morningan elaborate radio play that chronicled the events of that day with individual roles for everyone in the family. Later that day, we recorded A Christmas for the Birds by Peggy Rowe on a newfangled reel-to-reel tape recorder, liberated from the AV department of the junior high school where my father taught. Im pretty sure she still has that tape.