Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
When I’m writing a personal essay or a blog post, I find that nice stories in which I behave well and come off looking good generally don’t work so well. I look for the bad story, the ugly story, the story that shows off my marvelous human shortcomings.
Impermanence. It’s a helpful, if not always comfortable, idea: Everything changes. It just does. My Aunt Grace died last month. My son Peter will be married in May. And 56 wind turbines are now up and running on the pristine rural countryside near my father’s birthplace. Read more.
What’s rhetoric? I’ve always thought of it as the high-flown language of politics. But really, it’s something we humans do all the time, and that includes the two-year-old humans among us.
My authentic Austrian Walkjanker jacket has hung forlornly at the far end of a plastic garment bag for decades. It had no place to go till my son got engaged to a Minnesota girl — and I had a chance to show it a good time on a snowy weekend in Minneapolis.
My aunt was tall, red-headed, blue-eyed, self-sufficient and glamorous at a time and place when most women in her hometown wanted nothing more than to get married, have babies and put up green beans and blackberry jam. Read more.
