Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
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. Read more.
A flowering tree grows hidden in the canyon below our house. If no one sees it bloom, is it beautiful? Without a beholder, can there be beauty? Read more.
I’ve attended the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley summer conference three different times and loved every moment. It’s a great chance to meet writers, editors, agents — and work on your writing.
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. Read more.
George Leonard, one of the founders of the human potential movement, and I both worked at Look magazine during the 1960s. We knew each other — that is to say, I knew who he was. Read more.
If I were drawing a map of the world, its center would be the little beach in Michigan where the Bass Lake outlet flows into the great, blue Lake Michigan. Read more.
My Michigan friends are emailing me about the Asian carp threatening to enter Lake Michigan and the other Great Lakes from the Illinois canal system. The carp would seriously endanger fish and other wildlife in the Lakes and local rivers.