A Message from Mike Rowe, the Dirty Jobs Guy: Just to be clear, About My Mother is a book about my grandmother, written by my mother. That’s to not say it’s now not about my mother—it’s. In truth, About My Mother is as much about my mother as it’s about my grandmother. In that sense, it’s in reality a book about “mothers.”
…It isn’t, on the other hand, a book written by me. True, I did write the foreword. But it surely doesn’t mean I’ve written a book about my mother. I haven’t. Nor does it mean my mother’s book is about her son. It isn’t. It’s about my grandmother. And my mother. Just to be clear.—Mike
A love letter to mothers all over the place, About My Mother will make you laugh and cry—and see yourself in its mirrored image. Peggy Rowe’s story of growing up as the daughter of Thelma Knobel is stuffed with warmth and humor. But Thelma may well be your mother—there’s a Thelma in everyone’s life. Shes the individual taking charge—the person who knows instinctively how things will have to be. Nowadays Thelma would be described as an alpha personality, but at the same time as growing up, her daughter Peggy saw her as a dictator—albeit a benevolent, loving one. They clashed from the start—Peggy, the pony-crazy tomboy, and Thelma, the genteel-yet-still-controlling mother, committed to raising two refined, ladylike daughters. Good luck.
When major league baseball came to the town within the early 1950s and turned sophisticated Thelma into a crazed Baltimore Orioles groupie, no one used to be more surprised and embarrassed than Peggy. Life changed into a series of compromises—Thelma tolerating a daughter who pitched manure and galloped the countryside, at the same time as Peggy learned to tolerate the whacky Orioles fan who threw her underwear on the tv, shouted insults at umpires, and lived by the orange-and-black schedule taped to the refrigerator door.
Occasionally, we’re more alike than we all know.
And when you’re puzzling over, Peggy knows a thing or two about dirty jobs herself…