Yes, I get lost. A lot. If you have to give directions, listen up.
She was my student, I her teacher. But as life wheeled around, so, too, the swing of our friendship — until she became my very own fairy godmother.
In the 10 years since 9/11, the section of Lower Manhattan known as Ground Zero has resonated in the minds and hearts of Americans more than any other place in the nation, not because of what it is — a 16-acre hole in the ground that you can walk around in about 20 minutes — but rather because of what it represents.
This edition of Networthy leads off with some thoughts related to the child abuse scandal involving former Penn State assistant football coach Jerry Sandusky.
“Believe you can and you are halfway there,” said Theodore Roosevelt. That may be good advice if you are running for president or you’re a little engine trying to bring toys to the good little boys and girls on the other side of the mountain, but children’s stories don’t always work out that way.
Strips 101-105 of the popular comic strip Molarity, which previewed in The Observer in 1977, follow the tune-in,drop-out philosophy of Timothy Leary, as well as the importance of laundry.
This annual holiday is as unsettled as America itself, an utterly secular feast during which we celebrate an indistinct gratitude, expressing our thanks, if we are believers, to God, and if we are not believers, to Whomever or Whatever might receive them … as a castaway might toss a message-bearing bottle into an expressionless ocean.
Tis the season to be competitive. The season to push and shove. The season to be greedy. ’Tis the season for Black Friday.
A decade has passed since 9/11 and friends still gather in his memory, laughing at the stories that keep him and his playful soul alive — and celebrate his quest for the “arduous good.”
It’s 2007 and I’m trying to catch a plane from Miami to Newark on Super Bowl Sunday. As I boarded I saw, nestled there in first class among those flying for business or wanting just a little extra comfort, Regis Philbin.
Accompanying a priest like an altar boy, Tom Scanlon headed up a mountain made dangerous by man and nature. The Peace Corps volunteer had graduated from Notre Dame in 1960, just two years earlier, and was now on a Chilean mountainside avoided by police and government officials.
Death came to our house in February 1960. It was a Saturday morning. I was 7, playing alone in my front yard. My sister, four years older than I, came outside and said, “Grandmother died.” Our eyes met, then she turned and went back into the house.
This past summer, the summer of my daughter’s entry into tweenhood, I rediscovered something I had almost forgotten, french onion dip.
Notre Dame theologian Gary Anderson, an Old Testament scholar, recently wrote about purgatory. I read it late last Saturday night, after a day spent raking up the first autumnal deposit of dead leaves from our front and back yards.
In a world where the supernatural is threatened with extinction, the sacred may survive in the lands of fairies, fantasy and fable.
Is this wrong? Whenever I see the work of one of those so-called “tag artists” — the stuff most of us call “graffiti” — I sometimes have this fantasy. It usually begins with me finding the guy’s house and, when he’s not there, painting some odd, indecipherable words on his living-room wall in big, bulbous letters.
As life quickens by and the generations pass, stories are handed down like heirlooms, told and retold to help us try to make sense of it all.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 24th strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends, where a liturgical rap gets approval from on high.