Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
It had been years since I last typed a story on my dear old manual typewriter. Its platen was cracked, its keys tangled. Time to say good-bye. Read more.
I’m playing hooky from my blog today. So this is not a blog post. This is me complaining — again — about my consarned to-do list. Read more.
We’re not immortal after all. When we were twenty, we thought we were, which meant some of us did things like hop a freight train to Los Angeles. Read more.
Sometime between the pandemic and my husband’s death I began dumping out the contents of my travel bucket list. Read more.
Now and then I come across a photo that brings my husband back to life, and for one sweet moment, Jon is there in all his ineffable Jon-ness. Read more.
