Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
Need some levity? Read on!
My mother-in-law was on the phone. Could my 6-year-old son Peter come to Southern California for a week’s visit with her? “A week?” I thought. Could I get along without my little son for a whole week? Read more.
Pink dresses. Powder blue dresses. Dresses with nosegays, kitty cats and sunbursts. Are little girls the last hold-outs for pretty these days? Read more.
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.
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.
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.
I waited too long to get married. By the time Jon and I said our vows, the contents of my hope chest had become outdated, old-fashioned, fussy — unusable. As a result, after thirty some years of marriage, I continue to be the owner of a dozen or so beautiful, hand-embroidered, virginal pillowcases. Read more.