Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
Meet my changing, shrinking, growing family. Here you'll find stories of married life, little kids, grown-up kids, the empty nest, cousins and ancestors, aging parents, and the view from the second half of life.
I keep a stash of greeting cards in my desk — birthday and anniversary cards to send to sisters-in-law, brothers, nephews and nieces as the dates come up. But that’s not what I needed on a recent afternoon. I needed sympathy cards. Two of them. Read more.
What does a farm family in Michigan have in common with a courtroom in Hayward, California? A nearly forgotten social skill. Read more.
It’s midsummer. Right now. Today. It’s the summer solstice. Read more.
A smiling receptionist greets you as you enter the lobby of the Carol Ann Read Breast Health Center in San Francisco’s East Bay. She directs you to the registration desk, where there’s no wait. A nice woman with pretty eyebrows is ready to help. Everyone here is nice, really nice. Read more.
The last time I saw Robert Morse there were beads of sweat on his forehead. It was 1967 and he was working the crowd on the set of a local TV comedy show. Robert Morse was on. He was going for laughs and he was going for them with the intensity of a rocket launch. He was doing what mid-life folks do – he was striving.
It’s Sunday morning. I pull the New York Times Magazine from the fat stack of newspapers on the breakfast table, fully intending to read the informative, thought-provoking articles inside. But I get no farther than page two, because that’s where the real estate ads are – the ones with the floor plans. Read more.
I’m worried about the strawberry. It’s too late for the tomato. Its innards were transformed into colorless, flavorless – but easily shippable – pulp decades ago. Which is why I’m concerned about the strawberry. Is it going the way of the tomato? Read more.