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.
When I was a kid, Pentwater was not the place to be. The place to be was on the beach or in the woods with the wild critters. But now that I am thoroughly grown up, I’m preferring the charms of Pentwater village to the toads and grasshoppers of my 9-year-old self. Read more.
Los Angeles is an awful place. It is 469 square miles of bumper to bumper traffic, sinus clogging air pollution, starless nights and unrelenting summer sun . . . Read more.
There’s no such thing as a presentable evening bag that can hold what a woman – a real one – needs to put into her purse these days. Read more.
It’s an Indian wedding with all the trimmings — drums, gongs, garlands of flowers, priestly blessings and flocks of women wearing gorgeous saris. I’m a Westerner. What do I wear? Read more.
When I heard about the new windmills, I resolved to take a look the next time I was in Michigan. Were they a noisy, ugly, menacing blight on the landscape? Or could they be interesting — attractive even? Read more.
Susan Brooks was in her studio selling handmade earrings priced in the three-figures category the other day. I was not tempted. I’m tightening my belt these days. Instead . . . Read more.
I caught the last minute of the last day of the annual San Francisco East Bay Open Studios on June 9. I didn’t go there intending to shop. My plan was to stop by painter Salma Arastu’s studio in the funky Sawtooth Building on Eighth Street in Berkeley to talk about my book. Read more.