Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
When I was three or four years old, my mother took me shopping at a big department store in downtown Detroit. It might have been Crowley’s or Kern’s or Hudson’s. Shoppers crowded the aisles and soon, my mother and I got separated and I found myself alone. Read more.
My mother’s last words to me were nothing much. No parting words of love. No heartfelt messages to the grandchildren. Read more.
My mother is in the hospital. That means I’ll be doing a lot driving — and not so much writing.