At Notre Dame, on Tuesday of Holy Week, winter has gone on exactly too long. A dusting of stubbornly persistent snow falls from a galvanized gray-steel sky. Darting from residence hall to lecture hall students stoop against the oncoming wind gusts, scowling into their iPhones, looking, and doubtless feeling, uncertain and out of joint, as if suddenly feeling that they don’t belong here, that some placement mistake has been made. And the feeling is contagious.
In a warm, wooden dockside pub frequented by sailors and stevedores, a German, who claimed to be a veteran of his country’s navy, wandered over to a table occupied by two American students traveling through the north. Old, ragged and largely inebriated, he talked to them about what everyone in Europe that year eventually talked to them about: the United States’ impending invasion of Iraq.
Rivette led me by the hand, pointing out the aspects that she felt are the most important to know. We’d only just met, but she had a sense of the importance of visitors to her home, and there was a formality to the proceedings I hadn’t expected. She tugged at my hand, pulling with the entirety of her body weight, urging the tour on by force of will. I was obliged by good manners and the laws of physics to comply.
Their season was done. The five second-graders came to the bench, replaced by five teammates who would play the game’s final period. As the head coach gave final instructions to those entering the game, I thanked the others for a good year, gave them high-fives.
This week, Molarity Classic reminds us of the days without cell phones and credit cards, but when disco still reigned. We shudder at the thought.
I’m known to my friends as the woman who will drive a car until its wheels fall off. That, unfortunately, is literally true. As I walked to the parking lot one day after work some years ago, I could see that my aging Honda Accord had a strange lean. Yes, one of the wheels had fallen off.
When Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger was elected pope, I was deeply disappointed. His reputation as the head of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, the Vatican’s “watchdog” agency, preceded him, and he received an icy reception in the press. But over time I came to respect this complicated and humble man whose views transcended American political categories.
Some years ago, before I was editor of this magazine, I wrote a shortish piece that the editor, Walt Collins ’51, rejected. I reworked it several times, and each version got a thumbs down from the bearded journalist I greatly admired.
Editors’ note: Alan Sondej ’74, whose name — pronounced “Sunday” — is synonymous with selfless love and service to the least among us for a generation of Notre Dame alumni, died 25 years ago in relative anonymity. One Domer knew Sondej before he came to Notre Dame and has never ceased marveling since.…
B drives the girls to hockey practice on Tuesdays and I drive on Thursdays, so I get to enjoy Tuesday afternoons. I make dinner, help the kids with their homework and wonder if this is what life would be like if we weren’t scheduled into the abyss. But this Tuesday, B didn’t show up.
Cheap, plastic sandals hang underneath the little feet that dangle off of the wooden bench he is sitting on next to his mother. They’re covered in mud, as are his feet, and are not offering much protection from the elements of rural Haiti, but they are shoes nonetheless.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 42nd strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. Does a priest apply for admission into the College of Cardinals?
If Voldemort had used the Internet, I think he would have split his soul into Horcruxes housed in LinkedIn, Tumblr and Pinterest.
There are a lot of reasons to hate winters in South Bend, be it the interminable snowfall, the feeling that sunshine is a fictional creation, or the chilling wind that pounds your face no matter what direction you are heading into. But for a man who loves loafers, this is a real season of discontent.
I am in the car on a Saturday morning driving my daughter to ballet class. “Mom, I don’t think I’m going to follow my dream.”