I never worried much about the hazards of the Information Age until my 9-year-old son started beating me at video games.
It matters somehow that our clean laundry came back from the laundry building wrapped in crackling brown paper and bound meticulously with string; and it matters that each boy (for only boys had their wash done by the University in those hoary days three decades ago) had a laundry number, five digits, printed on clean white cloth.
Ongoing scandals in the Catholic Church, along with noises recently being made by several presidential candidates and their supporters, bring to mind George Orwell’s grumpy observation that “as with the Christian religion, the worst advertisement for socialism is its adherents.”
Strips 87-90 of the popular comic strip Molarity, which previewed in The Observer in 1977, celebrate a new pope.
An estimated 300,000 Americans each year suffer a sports- or recreation-related “mild traumatic brain injury,” or concussion, as it is commonly known.
It’s difficult to envision the soft-spoken Heather Cocks ’99 as her generation’s standard-bearer of the Dorothy Parker zinger-hurling legacy.
In my extended family of cousins, in-laws, nieces and nephews, I have cultivated a reputation as a literary man, perhaps even as a bit of an eccentric.
Nice men apparently do finish last, at least when it comes to salaries. Faculty commentary in this edition of Networthy ND runs the gamut from a study of why it may pay to be a jerk to why Republican presidential candidates should be leery of the Tea Party.
Women & Spirit tells lovingly documented stories about faith-filled women who sacrificed family ties and material comfort to serve and lead and help shape our nation into something ennobling and entirely new.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 21st strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. Who’s watching over Notre Dame football?
The gardener down the street has switched plants this year. Instead of wooden flowers stuck in the stone-covered border along the front of the house, she’s now displaying plastic ones.
In late summer, the bicycle commute between home and work is nothing less than an honor, requiring, as it does, a passage through the groves of oak and sycamore on the north bank of Saint Joseph’s Lake. Invisible choirs of cicadas thrum from their bark and branches, enveloping those woods in an ancient sound.
“Where U at?” This was the last text a young woman wrote before fatally crashing into oncoming traffic. How is it that we humans can be so fully immersed in our symbolic lives that we can lose our sense of physical surroundings?
Maraya Steadman, author of The Playroom columns, is taking a well-earned summer vacation from writing. We miss her already, but she promises to be back soon with more to say about the singular art of parenting. In the meantime, we have other blogs to capture your attention.
A lacrosse stick is a tool, one that Kevin Dugan ’01 uses to play the game he loves. It is a tool that helped Dugan realize his dream of becoming an athlete at Notre Dame. But it wasn’t until Dugan saw Nakibira Fort holding a lacrosse stick that he realized how powerful a tool it could be.
Maybe Margot’s story doesn’t have an ending after all.
It’s not hard to find happy roommate stories spanning the decades. Bob McGoldrick and Roc O’Connor, both class of 1956, were roommates in Zahm Hall as freshmen and stayed close throughout their lives.
I grew up in the house and the town in which my dad grew up, which meant my family hosted dozens of visits from his six siblings through the years. Whenever aunts and uncles came, they always made a trip to the cemetery to visit the family graves.
On vacation at a Lake Michigan beach, shooting the breeze with some younger and nicer people, I made a nonchalantly dismissive remark about acupuncture or chakras or astrology or something. A reprimand was not long in coming: How could I, who believe a wafer of bread and a cup of wine can become both a meal and God, accuse anyone subscribing to Whatever-It-Was of being credulous?
My unintentional participation in a stranger’s funeral procession was as close as I was going to get to a funeral cortege for my uncle. He’d always made it clear that after his death he wanted no visitation, no funeral, no graveside service, no nothing.
Among all Notre Dame alumni, I am one of three special alumni. My two older brothers and I are graduates of Notre Dame, but we also grew up in the veritable shadow of the University while it progressed from quiet provincialism to nationally recognized greatness.
The starting gun fired 25 years ago, beginning my personal marathon that is otherwise known as parenting. From the moment my son, Aaron, was born, I was faced with a dizzying array of decisions. Cloth or disposable? Crib or co-sleep? Comfort or cry it out?
Strips 82-86 of the popular comic strip Molarity, which previewed in The Observer in 1977, take us a little west of Yasgur’s farm.