Journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall reports from the the second half of life -- on books, writing . . . her husband, house, aging relatives and grown-up kids.
A retablo from San Miguel, Mexico. c 2008 Barbara Falconer Newhall
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
A very touching story on Patheos by author Jana Riess about how Facebook helped her grieve.
Apparently, FB has a policy of shutting down a FB account if it hears that the owner has died — much to the distress of friends and family members who have grieved together on the deceased person’s FB site.
Your thoughts? Have you had this experience?
Four abortions kept this book from being written years ago.
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
Twenty-two years after the deadly crack-down at China’s Tiananmen Square, Chai Ling, a young leader of the student protests there, finally tells her story.
Why did it take so long?
Because Chai’s story is not simply one of political activism in China followed by escape to a new life in the United States. It is also the story of a woman who has had four abortions. [Read more...]
My mother with her grandchildren on the beach at Lake Michigan in 1987. Photo by BF Newhall.
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
The Oakland Tribune, Sunday, September 27, 1987
“Move,” said Peter. “I want to get by.”
My mother looked up from her book and gave my 6 1/2-year-old a hard look. She was sitting on her sofa, in her house, feet up on her coffee table. Reluctantly, she moved her feet to let Peter by. He squeezed wordlessly past. [Read more...]
My mother's leg was stabilized with a temporary cast after she broke her hip. Photo by BF Newhall
By Barbara Falconer Newhall, May 4, 2010
Well, last week I missed my Friday night 11:59 p.m. deadline for posting on this blog. The reason: My 92-year-old mom is still in a skilled nursing facility recovering from a broken hip. [Read more...]
My daughter Christina ran 6 miles in less time than it took me to walk 3. She was doing her stretches on the sidewalk when I arrived back at the Lululemon store in Berkeley. Photos by BF Newhall
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
I was all of three or four years old, pumping away on the pedals of my tricycle, near tears because the big kids were leaving me behind.
“Wait for me!” I cried.
Nobody listened. [Read more...]
