Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
Like any normal person with a job, two kids and a front yard full of weeds, I had been sleeping in on a Sunday morning – until the sound of Jon and Peter playing the new Nintendo woke me up. I burst in on them. “HEY. YOU WOKE ME UP.” No answer. So enraptured were they with their dratted boomerangs and Oktoroks they didn’t care that they had wrecked my beautiful Sunday morning sleep-in. I stomped back to bed, covered my head and cried. Read more.
To save money, management had cut my hours back to one day a week. I did what every self-respecting writer does when she’s ticked off at the world. I sat down at the keyboard – and wrote. Read more.
I’m not very tough-minded. I discourage easily. So I’m careful about the writers I allow to spend time in my psyche, rearranging the furniture. Emil Mihai Cioran, for one, is not so welcome there.
Will my kids grow up to be cheaters? Is it possible to raise honest children in this Pete Rose-Bernie Madoff world — where something like 50 percent of students admit to cheating? Read More
My children do not tease each other like the normal sibling pair. They are nice to each other. I worry. Where did Jon and I go wrong?
Genealogically speaking, I’m not that far removed from Scotland. My father’s father was born near Glasgow. But the complex – presumably – set of beliefs and customs he and his parents brought with them to the shores of Lake Michigan in 1873 are lost to me now. Tartans have given way to Levi’s. Haggis has succumbed to pizza and Chinese take-out. When I think about where I come from, I do not think of Scotland. I think of Michigan. Read More.
An iris blossom close up. Purple. Photo by Barbara Newhall[/caption]
There’s a heck of a lot of erotica going on inside an iris blossom. Stamen. Pistel. Haft. Claws. And, of course, those fuzzy, caterpillar-like beards. Read more.