Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
Need some levity? Read on!
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 By the time Jon and I said our vows, the contents of my hope chest had become outdated, old-fashioned, fussy — unusable.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.
I believe in microbes. Microbes are like God. You can’t hear them, taste them, smell them or see them with the naked eye. But you know they’re there. Lately, I’ve had more experiences with microbes than with God. I’ve been sick a lot. Read more.
There are no photos in my my writing room. No kids, no parents, no family. Pictures of my parents have the worst effect on me when I’m trying to write. “When are you going to get a real job, Barb?” they shout from their frames as I enter the workroom. Peering over my shoulder, they pass judgment on me and my thoughts, “You’re writing about that? Shame on you.”
The kids were still pre-schoolers at the time, and it had been another night of sleep deprivation for me. “Tell me it gets easier,” I said to my friend Nancy. “Well, actually it gets harder,” she replied. Nancy has a daughter three years older than Peter. She keeps me briefed on the parenting realities ahead. Read more.
My old high school, deep in flyover country, has moved into the 21st century: The girls room is now the women’s room and the library the media room. Read more.
Some people can’t resist chocolate. For others, it’s clothes. Some folks, oddly enough, will spend $110,000 on a Ferrari with no back seat and hardly any trunk. Imagine that . . . For me as the mother of young children, toys were my weakness. Read more.
There was no getting around it. Christina, who is 51/2, intended to wash our kitchen floor. She had been studying her “Cinderella” videotape for weeks, and now she wanted nothing more than to scrub. Read more