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Doug Worgul

@dougworgul

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Fading writer.

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This email invite arrived today. by @dougworgul

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4 days ago

by @dougworgul

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16 days ago

Book mood. by @dougworgul

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19 days ago

Book mood. by @dougworgul

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20 days ago

Apparently it’s Daughter Day. by @dougworgul

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21 days ago

by @dougworgul

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25 days ago

Keep ‘em coming, folks. Each Amazon or Goodreads or social media review helps. More than you know. Got to get that word-of-mouth rolling. And thank you to those who’ve already posted. by @dougworgul

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a month ago

First day of school for the Michigan grands. Two in high school. Two in middle school. Two in elementary school. by @dougworgul

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a month ago

by @dougworgul

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a month ago

Thank you @marksluce and @steveuptodate by @dougworgul

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2 months ago

This is always one of my favorite days of the year — when I visit with the senior class at Barstow School to discuss THIN BLUE SMOKE, which the class was assigned as part of their summer reading program.

As always, the questions and comments were smart, insightful, and often emotional. I’ve learned so much about my own book through these honest and authentic conversations with these eager and engaged young people.

There was an added joy this year. Senior Mira Gupta made vinegar pie (iykyk) for the class. It was delish.

Thank you Mark Luce and Barstow_English. by @dougworgul

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2 months ago

[six years ago]

The Peach Tree

By his ninetieth year there was only a single tree still bearing fruit; a peach tree on the edge of the yard. I don’t have any memory of planting that tree, he said. But there it is. What a beautiful tree. And these peaches! Have you ever seen anything like these?

He called the fruit specialist at the County Extension to come take a look. The man said they were fine peaches, but nothing extraordinary.

I tried to distract him from his disappointment. Remember when I was a kid and we used to stop at fruit stands on Saturdays and you’d knock your knuckles on the watermelons before choosing one? What exactly were you listening for? Because I do the same thing. I learned it from you. But I’ve never been sure about what it is I’m doing. He smiled. I was never sure either. I just knew when I found the right one.

Near the end, when walking the length of the yard was no longer possible, he’d putter out to the peach tree on his little garden tractor and sit there. Sometimes for an hour or more. Just looking at the peach tree. Pondering its mysteries. Where did it come from? I don’t remember planting it. How did its peaches get so big and so beautiful? What will happen to my tree when I’m gone?

A better poet might find a metaphor here. A better son might have found a way to somehow fulfill his father’s dying hope to know with certainty, even if a lie, that his peach tree was indeed remarkable. But before such an effort could be made, he began to fade into himself. His days flowing one to the next, without borders of dark or light, day or night. by @dougworgul

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2 months ago