Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
I’m Barbara Falconer Newhall and I’ve got an incurable Case of the Human Condition. And since you do too, I’m counting on you to laugh and cry along with me as I riff on life as we know it . . . Below you'll read about my creaky, old fifties house, my forays into home gardening, my shopping stories, my spectacularly low-fashion wardrobe -- and more.
We shared a love of the Michigan woods — pine, oak and birch. Photo by Barbara Newhall[/caption]
This Ojibwe poet would have been dear to my girlish Michigan heart. Why didn’t my Detroit schoolteachers ever mention her? Was I culturally deprived? Read more.
We traveled 1700 miles to see the eclipse. The moon came between us and the sun, as promised. But so did a big fat cloud. A totality disappointment. Read more.
Sitting at a blank laptop screen awaiting writerly inspiration isn’t that much fun nowadays. I’d rather watch the guys laying asphalt in front of our house. Am I stuck? Read more.
Back in 1987 old age seemed a long ways away. It still does. Read more.
Let’s face it. Spike heels aren’t much good for doing what real women do – drive an SUV, wash down the deck. Same goes for long fingernails. What gives? Read more.
Our 6-year-old wanted an allowance. Jon and I debated: 50 cents a week? 75? “Let’s not talk in cents,” said Peter. “Let’s talk in dollars.” Read more.
Oops. Six missing blog posts! My apologies to subscribers who didn’t get my June and July updates. Blame it on the ongoing website construction. Read more.