Journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall reports from the the second half of life -- on books, writing . . . her husband, house, aging relatives and grown-up kids.
Daffodil. Photos by BF Newhall
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
I don’t like daffodils. I feel about daffodils the way I feel about some of my writing – too damned cheerful. Too nicey-nice. Too tidy. Too certain that in the end everything’s going to come out just fine, that all shall be well. [Read more...]
Four pretty girls. Christina is second from right in the pink leotard and white tutu. Photos by BF Newhall.
By Barbara Falconer Newhall, The Oakland Tribune, September 1987
“What does Christina have on today?” M.J. wanted to know.
M.J. and Christina are friends. They ran into each other while shopping for tutus.
M.J., who is 4, was wearing a dress.
She looked pretty.
Christina, newly 4, was wearing dungarees.
She looked OK.
My sister-in-law Alice had warned me [Read more...]
My son Peter berry picking with his Grandpa. My dad rigged up the berry containers for the expedition. Photo by BF Newhall
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
My friend Jake is a man in his prime. He does triathlons, reads good books, knows all the best hiking trails, drinks nice wines, and likes nothing more than a good, scrappy conversation. In other words, Jake has never been anybody’s rickety old grandpa.
Until recently. [Read more...]
My son Peter gets to know the outlet at Lake Michigan. Photos by BF Newhall
By Barbara Falconer Newhall, The Oakland Tribune, August 9, 1987
Up in Siskiyou mountain country, in the northwest corner of California, there is a spot known to the Karuk tribe as Kota-Mein. In the Karuk language, Kota Mein means “center of the world.” Like their ancestors before them, the Karuk people hike up to sacred spots like Kota-Mein, Chimney Rock and Doctor Rock to talk to the Great Spirit and to receive power.
I have never been to Kota-Mein, but I have been to Bass Lake, Mich.
If I were drawing a map of the world, its center would be at Bass Lake, just where its outlet flows into the great, blue Lake Michigan. [Read more...]
Peter leaves home for college. Photo by Barbara Falconer Newhall
By Barbara Falconer Newhall
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.
Which is why, when I think of my Grandma Falconer I see the pince-nez, the soft pink skin and the silvery-white hair swept into an up-do — but I also see my grandmother’s figure standing motionless at the foot of her driveway, watching as my family drives out of town. [Read more...]
