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.
Army’s assignment was to show up at the offices of the San Francisco Chronicle every weekday morning and produce seven hundred words, give or take. The challenging part was this: Unlike most newspaper journalists, Army did not sit down to his Selectric typewriter fortified with a fat notebook of stats and quotes. Army’s job was not to report the news. It was to make it up. Read more.
Deep in the heart of Texas is a neighborhood that has everything it takes to be a first-rate hipster haven — street art, food trucks, farmers markets, coffee shops, parks, affordable (so far) housing, artists’ studios, walkability — and, most important, a carefree, offbeat vibe. Read more.
If it’s the Baby Jesus you’re looking for on Christmas Eve, the colonial town of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, is the place to be. Read more.
Santa was nowhere to be seen in the days leading up to Christmas in San Miguel de Allende.
Christmas has gotten to be a scheduling nightmare in our family. Peter lives in Minnesota. Christina lives in Southern California. Jon and I live in Northern California. That puts 400 miles between us and our daughter and 1600 miles between us and our son and daughter-in-law. Not exactly over the river and through the woods. 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.