Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
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Christina hadn’t called. We had dropped her at the airport hours ago. The flight to Burbank takes only seventy minutes. She should be home by now. But Jon and I still hadn’t gotten the, “I’m home. The plane didn’t crash. My roommate remembered to pick me up, and we didn’t get mugged in the garage,” phone call. Read more.
A flowering tree grows hidden in the canyon below our house. If no one sees it bloom, is it beautiful? Without a beholder, can there be beauty? Read more.
My friend Jake is a man in his prime. He does triathlons, reads good books, knows all the best hiking trails and drinks nice wines. Jake has never been anybody’s rickety old grandpa — until recently, when Jake’s daughter gave birth to a baby girl. Read more.
George Leonard, one of the founders of the human potential movement, and I both worked at Look magazine during the 1960s. We knew each other — that is to say, I knew who he was. Read more.
If I were drawing a map of the world, its center would be the little beach in Michigan where the Bass Lake outlet flows into the great, blue Lake Michigan. Read more.
I saw the map and burst into tears. It broke my heart. Windmills, a hundred square miles of them, are being proposed for Lake Michigan – a couple miles off shore. In the lake. Beautiful, serene, life-giving Lake Michigan. Read more.
Some of my favorite books on the craft of writing. Photo by Barbara Falconer Newhall[/caption]
I was at the gym working on my pecs and abdominals the other day when I spotted a flyer announcing, “Belly fat is different than other fat.” Shouldn’t that be different from? What’s correct? I hadn’t a clue. Read more.