Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
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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.
My mother is gone, but when she died, she left a few things behind — a battered old purse, a small sofa she liked to call the loveseat. 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.
Can you guess who wrote this? “Of making many books there is no end; and much study is a weariness of the flesh.” Hint: The writer’s been dead for at least two millenniums. Read more.
I’m a meat-eating loser. I didn’t win the “Why It’s OK to Eat Meat” essay contest the New York Times Magazine put on a few weeks ago. But I’m OK with that. Read more.
St. Jerome kept a human skull on his desk to remind him of his mortality. We gardeners don’t need a skull . We’ve got stuff dying on us every day. Read more.
I live in California where spring peaks in March. And by last week the little patch of hillside that is our front yard was alive with color. Read more.