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.
A new diet is based on what our prehistoric ancestors ate, the ones with the intelligence of the neighbor’s dog who had a life expectancy of 27. Halfway through the first chapter, I decided to come up with my own diet.
It starts with a home-town honey, but the Notre Dame love story is only beginning.
In my opinion, as soon as a woman decides she wants to be a mother everyone is full of opinions: when to get pregnant, how to get pregnant, fertility, adoption, single parenthood. And that’s just conception.
In September, baby Bella Rose Thompson will experience one of life’s classic lessons: Music festivals can be awesome.
I have a gun. A battle rifle to be specific. My right forefinger controls the trigger. My left forefinger throws grenades. Wait . . . do I have any grenades? My left thumb controls my head . . . or was it my body? Why do my head and my body have different controls? I can’t play Halo; this is obvious.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 20th strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. “Road trip!” takes on a whole new meaning.
Knowing how much fun it can be, I asked my 8-year-old in the back of the minivan, “How do you spell Mississippi?” She hollers out in a single breath with a lilting rhythm, “M, I, S, S, I, S, S, I, P, P, I!”
I am a proud Notre Dame student who tries to embrace every bit of ND culture: I have slapped the “Play like a Champion” sign. I have done hundreds of Irish pushups. I haven’t yet walked up the steps of the Main Building. But I can’t help but be wounded by the disappointment of alums as they bemoan traditions that have faded away.
2010-11 was a good year for ND fencing, women’s basketball and hockey.
This morning my 4-year-old daughter and I went to visit my 106-year-old aunt. I held my daughter’s hand as we walked down the long hallway to my aunt’s room and told her not to be afraid. As we walked, I also noticed the personal objects in people’s rooms.
Before the commencement 2011 arrived, senior Casey Cockerham asked his classmates to reflect on their growth and the wisdom gathered during four years at Notre Dame. Here are a few selections from what they had to say.
Women & Spirit is organized by the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, which represents 95 percent of Catholic sisters in the United States.
This is certain: An “extraordinary” gust of wind — recorded as 53 miles per hour at 4:54 p.m. October 27, 2010 — knocked over the Marklift MT40G hydraulic scissor lift and dropped 20-year-old Declan Sullivan to his death while the junior from Long Grove, Illinois, was filming football practice.
It’s 12:04 a.m. and your email inbox adds one more subject line: “GREAT SCOTT, IT’S FRIDAY!!!” The caps lock and midnight arrival carry a sense of exuberant urgency.
A best-of compilation of Laura McCarty Happy Friday Email.
Gingerbread it’s not, but the answer to the permanent housing crisis in Port-au-Prince and Léogâne may lie in sugarcane. Or sorghum. Or a blend of Haitian crop fibers.
When he talks about the need for a master plan for Léogâne, William DeJong quotes Proverbs: Where there is no vision, the people perish.
Kevin Dugan wants to use lacrosse to do good work in Uganda. He also wants to field some good lacrosse teams there.