The wedding ceremony was going to be a simple one, so there was no need for an actual rehearsal. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t have ourselves a rehearsal dinner. Read more.
Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
The wedding ceremony was going to be a simple one, so there was no need for an actual rehearsal. But that didn’t mean we couldn’t have ourselves a rehearsal dinner. Read more.
In a little more than twenty-four hours our son Peter would be a married man. But first, he and Jon had to pick up their wedding duds. My outfit was already hanging in the closet. Read more.
I wasn’t looking. I was at the computer all weekend with my back to the world. When I finally took a bleary look out the window Monday morning, I saw a front yard crazy with life — poppies, blue-eyed grass, armeria, pansies and several lascivious stalks of lupine blossoms. Read more.
At 7 on a Saturday night, eight-year-old Peter came home from the park with a lip the size of a ping-pong ball. He had been hit by a hardball on the fly. I wanted to take him to the ER. Jon said no, it was just a fat lip. Read more.
“Move,” said my 6-year-old son Peter to his grandmother. “I want to get by.” My mother looked up from her book and gave my son a hard look. 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.