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| John Grogan |
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John Grogan
Author of
Marley and Me
Author of
Marley and Me
| Photo © Adam Nadel |
I was born in the Motor City, Detroit, Michigan,
on March 20, 1957. My parents were hoping for
a St. Patrick's Day baby; damn, three days late.
My life story. I was the youngest of four in a
very, very, very Catholic family. The church
was just three doors down -- no coincidence --
and my earliest memories are steeped in the
fragrances of devotion … incense and
sacramental wine, beeswax and musty pews. I
was an altar server and later the office boy at
on March 20, 1957. My parents were hoping for
a St. Patrick's Day baby; damn, three days late.
My life story. I was the youngest of four in a
very, very, very Catholic family. The church
was just three doors down -- no coincidence --
and my earliest memories are steeped in the
fragrances of devotion … incense and
sacramental wine, beeswax and musty pews. I
was an altar server and later the office boy at
Like just about every other dad in the neighborhood, my father worked
with cars, as an engineer for General Motors. Mom was a full-time mother
and housewife, and proud of it. When not cooking big meals or ironing our
blue Catholic-school uniform shirts, she worried about our moral fabric
and prayed a priestly vocation would be in the future for at least one of us.
(Sorry on all counts, Mom.) She had a sharp sense of humor and a
wonderful, effortless gift for storytelling, some of which she concedes wore
off on me.
I got into writing by default because I was so bad at everything else.
Algebra, geometry, French, chemistry, physics -- they all escaped me. But
writing, now there was a subject I could have some fun with. By eighth
grade I was penning parodies of the nuns just for fun, and in high school,
besides writing for the school newspaper, I started an underground tabloid,
which earned me a celebrated trip to the principal's office. From there it
was on to Central Michigan University, where I earned the princely sum of
twenty-five cents per column inch writing for the campus newspaper while
slugging away at a double major in journalism and English.
My first full-time writing job came immediately upon graduation in 1979
when I was hired as a police reporter for the small and laughably
lackluster Herald-Palladium in the Michigan harbor town of St. Joseph. I
rode all night with cops, photographed murder victims, picked my way
through smoldering house fires and sat over coffee with grieving parents. I
also summoned the courage to ask out a willowy and tart-tongued reporter
on the staff whose name was Jenny and who eventually would become my
soul mate, lover, and wife, in that order.
In 1985, I won a fellowship into the Kiplinger Mid-Career Program in
Public Affairs Reporting at Ohio State University, which would become my
ticket out of small-town journalism. After earning my master's degree at
OSU, I had the immense good fortune of landing a second fellowship, this
one at the Poynter Institute for Media Studies, a journalism think tank in
St. Petersburg, Florida, where I gained a keen appreciation for an aptly
named local rum concoction known as The Hurricane. Faced with the
prospect of returning to unemployment and freezing temperatures in
Michigan or staying in Florida to soak up more rays and Hurricanes, I
took a job at the South Florida Sun-Sentinel in Fort Lauderdale. Jenny
quickly followed, landing a position as a feature writer at The Palm Beach
Post. I bumped my way up from a bureau reporter to a projects writer and,
finally, to metropolitan columnist, a job I found suited me better than I
ever imagined any job could. Not long after arriving in steamy South
Florida, Jenny and I married, bought a little bungalow together a block off
the water, and brought home a wildly neurotic Labrador retriever who we
named after a certain famous reggae star. At the time I had no idea our
loopy, attention-deficit dog would someday provide me the inspiration to
fulfill a lifelong dream of writing a book.
Unable to leave well enough alone, I quit the Sun-Sentinel in 1999,
walking away from my beloved column writing to try my hand as editor-in-
chief of Rodale's Organic Gardening magazine. As my friend David Beard
at The Boston Globe put it at the time, “An interesting, if rather
unorthodox, career move.” What can I say? I had this crazy dream of
making my hobby my job and my job my hobby. Big mistake. I learned the
hobby ceased to be fun and the job ceased to be rewarding. A little more
than three years later, missing newspapers and column writing more than
I thought possible, I jumped at a chance to join The Philadelphia Inquirer
as the paper's three-times-a-week Pennsylvania columnist, where I
happily remained for more than four years. Perhaps almost as
importantly, gardening is fun again.
Jenny and I live in the Pennsylvania countryside with our three children
and a surprisingly calm Labrador retriever named Gracie. We all agree
she's no Marley -- not that there's anything wrong with that.
with cars, as an engineer for General Motors. Mom was a full-time mother
and housewife, and proud of it. When not cooking big meals or ironing our
blue Catholic-school uniform shirts, she worried about our moral fabric
and prayed a priestly vocation would be in the future for at least one of us.
(Sorry on all counts, Mom.) She had a sharp sense of humor and a
wonderful, effortless gift for storytelling, some of which she concedes wore
off on me.
I got into writing by default because I was so bad at everything else.
Algebra, geometry, French, chemistry, physics -- they all escaped me. But
writing, now there was a subject I could have some fun with. By eighth
grade I was penning parodies of the nuns just for fun, and in high school,
besides writing for the school newspaper, I started an underground tabloid,
which earned me a celebrated trip to the principal's office. From there it
was on to Central Michigan University, where I earned the princely sum of
twenty-five cents per column inch writing for the campus newspaper while
slugging away at a double major in journalism and English.
My first full-time writing job came immediately upon graduation in 1979
when I was hired as a police reporter for the small and laughably
lackluster Herald-Palladium in the Michigan harbor town of St. Joseph. I
rode all night with cops, photographed murder victims, picked my way
through smoldering house fires and sat over coffee with grieving parents. I
also summoned the courage to ask out a willowy and tart-tongued reporter
on the staff whose name was Jenny and who eventually would become my
soul mate, lover, and wife, in that order.
In 1985, I won a fellowship into the Kiplinger Mid-Career Program in
Public Affairs Reporting at Ohio State University, which would become my
ticket out of small-town journalism. After earning my master's degree at
OSU, I had the immense good fortune of landing a second fellowship, this
one at the Poynter Institute for Media Studies, a journalism think tank in
St. Petersburg, Florida, where I gained a keen appreciation for an aptly
named local rum concoction known as The Hurricane. Faced with the
prospect of returning to unemployment and freezing temperatures in
Michigan or staying in Florida to soak up more rays and Hurricanes, I
took a job at the South Florida Sun-Sentinel in Fort Lauderdale. Jenny
quickly followed, landing a position as a feature writer at The Palm Beach
Post. I bumped my way up from a bureau reporter to a projects writer and,
finally, to metropolitan columnist, a job I found suited me better than I
ever imagined any job could. Not long after arriving in steamy South
Florida, Jenny and I married, bought a little bungalow together a block off
the water, and brought home a wildly neurotic Labrador retriever who we
named after a certain famous reggae star. At the time I had no idea our
loopy, attention-deficit dog would someday provide me the inspiration to
fulfill a lifelong dream of writing a book.
Unable to leave well enough alone, I quit the Sun-Sentinel in 1999,
walking away from my beloved column writing to try my hand as editor-in-
chief of Rodale's Organic Gardening magazine. As my friend David Beard
at The Boston Globe put it at the time, “An interesting, if rather
unorthodox, career move.” What can I say? I had this crazy dream of
making my hobby my job and my job my hobby. Big mistake. I learned the
hobby ceased to be fun and the job ceased to be rewarding. A little more
than three years later, missing newspapers and column writing more than
I thought possible, I jumped at a chance to join The Philadelphia Inquirer
as the paper's three-times-a-week Pennsylvania columnist, where I
happily remained for more than four years. Perhaps almost as
importantly, gardening is fun again.
Jenny and I live in the Pennsylvania countryside with our three children
and a surprisingly calm Labrador retriever named Gracie. We all agree
she's no Marley -- not that there's anything wrong with that.
the church rectory, where I earned a dollar an hour answering phones and
doorbells.
doorbells.
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