Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
I want to write about tulips today. I don’t want to write about sex. The trouble is, for me, writing about tulips means writing about sex: something about their juicy curves brings erotic metaphors to my particular mind. I had thought that once my mother — and father — were no longer alive and reading over my shoulder, I’d be able to write my heart out, but . . . Read more.
We remodeled our kitchen in 2000, and we made some design decisions that still make me happy. Read more.
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.
The long dress I was planning to wear to my son’s wedding needed earrings. Not a necklace. Not a bracelet. Not a glitzy ring. My gown needed earrings. Big, attention-grabbing, dangle earrings. Read more.
Dear Readers. From now on I’ll be posting on Thursday mornings instead of Saturdays. Here’s why.
What I’m grateful for, what I’m jazzed and excited about today, are the small things that have gone right for me lately: A clean oven, freshly washed windows, and a new steppingstone path for the garden — all in time for Thanksgiving. See more.
Some of my family members were uneasy at the thought of standing up at my mother’s memorial mass to read from the Bible, a document they didn’t believe in. I told them I thought belief was seriously overrated.