By Barbara Falconer Newhall Note: I’m taking Christmas week off, so I’m offering a post that faithful readers saw back in August when holiday plans were being made in our family. The upshot — we had a great Thanksgiving here at home with the whole family. As for Christmas Day,
Christmas has gotten to be a scheduling nightmare. Peter lives in Minnesota. Christina lives in Southern California. Jon and I live in Northern California. That puts 400 miles between us and our daughter and 2,000 miles between us and our son. Not exactly over the river and through the woods. Read more.
Dress shoes for women right now, as you may have noticed, sport heels that go on forever. Wedge heels, spike heels, stack heels – everywhere I look I see nothing but heels of skyscraper proportions built to lift their wearers four or even four-and-a-half inches off the ground. Read More.
Christina hadn’t called. We had dropped her at the airport hours ago. The flight to Burbank takes only seventy minutes. She should be home by now. But Jon and I still hadn’t gotten the, “I’m home. The plane didn’t crash. My roommate remembered to pick me up, and we didn’t get mugged in the garage,” phone call.
My friend Jake is a man in his prime. He does triathlons, reads good books, knows all the best hiking trails and drinks nice wines. Jake has never been anybody’s rickety old grandpa — until recently, when Jake’s daughter gave birth to a baby girl.
Most of my grandmother’s children – there were seven of them – lived out their lives within walking distance of their mother’s white frame house in Scottville, Michigan. Not my father. He moved away. So did I. So has my son.