Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
Our family shrinks and grows. People die. People get born. People get mad and won't talk to you for a while. Kids grow up and find partners of their own, and pretty soon there are brand-new in-laws. And a grandchild or two.
Christmas has gotten to be a scheduling nightmare. 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 2,000 miles between us and our son. Not exactly over the river and through the woods. Read more.
Look what reorganizing my stationery drawers turned up: Coupons from my then 13-year-old daughter Christina promising to do chores around the house — including yard work, for heaven’s sake. Read more.
My trusty point and shoot goes with me everywhere these days. But for my son’s wedding I resolved to Be In The Moment and resist the temptation to digitize every last detail of my son’s big day. Read more.
The wedding ceremony was going to be a simple one, so there was no need for an actual rehearsal. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t have ourselves a rehearsal dinner. Read more.
In a little more than twenty-four hours our son Peter would be a married man. But first, he and Jon had to pick up their wedding duds. My outfit was already hanging in the closet. Read more.
They pulled it off. They got married. They said their vows. They were pronounced husband and wife in Minneapolis on May 25.
At 7 on a Saturday night, eight-year-old Peter came home from the park with a lip the size of a ping-pong ball. He had been hit by a hardball on the fly. I wanted to take him to the ER. Jon said no, it was just a fat lip. Read more.