Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 42nd strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. How Downton Abbey should have ended:
I’d been a Roger Ebert groupie forever when the unimaginable happened — he and I ended up together, just the two of us, alone in an upstairs room.
In these days since hearing that Mike DeCicco died, an old-time phrase keeps running through my head. “He was a Notre Dame man.”
The University photographer takes us to some campus corners rarely seen and shares some fresh looks at familiar places.
About a year ago I received a manuscript from Mel Livatino, a stranger to me. He said Joseph Epstein, a very fine writer who had published perhaps a half-dozen essays with us, had recommended Mel send the manuscript to Notre Dame Magazine. It seemed like a Notre Dame Magazine kind of story.
Letters to the editor
Deaths in the Notre Dame family
Seen and heard around the Notre Dame campus.
The middle ground vanishes as America goes to the poles. And that’s a dangerous thing.
It was an unlikely friendship. I was a 30-something University of Michigan transplant, newly hired as the alumni editor for the Notre Dame Alumni Association. He was a 99-year-old, long-retired tax accountant and class secretary for the Class of 1930.
The world needs to cool it — before it’s too late
Deaths of Notre Dame alumni
Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1948, but the play’s drama pales in comparison to that of the very real streetcar line which connected Notre Dame’s campus and downtown South Bend in the first half of the 20th century.
The light is on inside Susan Sheridan’s lab, a scene a photographer describes as “a fun place full of bones.” Human bones.
Notre Dame has long been a place that demands rigorous academic standards, nurtures faith and service, and encourages fusing disciplines, but a sliver of its already ambitious population aspires for more. As a consequence, those students are receiving more than an undergraduate experience — they’re becoming scholars.
A Notre Dame history shows that it’s nothing new for faculty to speak their minds — and cause a stir.
We are driving up the Garden State Parkway into North Jersey, just me and my sheepdog and my ’97 Chevy Suburban named Bessie.
It’s summertime, so the windows are down and Sadie the Sheltie is pointing her nose into the warm summer breeze as the salt marsh air blows her sheepdog hairs into the back seat. We’re old friends by now, Sadie, Bessie and I. We grew up together.
My father said the women in my mother’s family had wills so adamant and granitic that you could get a fire started by using flint against their wills to get the necessary spark.
This trip to Viengkham was my introduction to life outside the tourist mecca of Luang Prabang, and it didn’t take too long after leaving town before I started to see a little more of what the development statistics for Laos really mean when they make bland pronouncements, such as: 27 percent of the population here lives on less than $1 a day. Or, more than 40 percent of the rural children under age 5 are undernourished.
So two guys walk into a bar. The first, Jeffery “The Natural” Stephens ’07, is a black lawyer from Chicago’s South Side. He’s all stylish denim with a black flatbrim and a huge pair of Super flattop sunglasses with gold sides. The second guy through the door is Lawrence Santiago, a Coushatta Native American architect who grew up in Guam and Louisiana.
Do the news media love or hate Notre Dame? That might seem like a timely question after the embarrassment — however temporary — of the Manti Te’o controversy.
You could see the ripples created by 9/11 on a Friday in early February if you happened to be in the Annadale section of Staten Island. Inside a funeral home there, an honor guard of the Fire Department of New York stood before the casket of Lieutenant Martin Fullam, 56, who had died a few days before of what one doctor said was “without doubt the worst case of World Trade Center lung disease ever seen.”
Michelle McNamara ’92 tracks down serial killers from home, investigating cold-case homicides and writing in her True Crime Diary.
Plush and varicolored in the rebounding light, the hawk grounded me with awe, though to the panicked squirrel leaping and spiraling from branch to branch in a rufous blur, the low-swooping predator must have seemed something like the warplane that Picasso implies in Guernica.
I can’t deal with broccoli. My son will only eat the bottoms not the tops; my older daughter will only eat the tops and not the bottoms, and only if it’s raw and slathered in ranch dressing. My youngest has now decided it doesn’t matter what I do to it — tops, bottoms, cooked, raw, ranch dressing, maple syrup, ketchup or cream cheese frosting — she won’t eat broccoli at all.
A round-up of news about Notre Dame people.
Creative work by Notre Dame people
Holy Cross College has long been the school of Rudy and transfer students, known for little else to the Notre Dame community across the street, but with a new president and a four-year degree program, it is making a unique contribution to the community of schools in South Bend.
“I love feeling the impact. I just love that,” says undefeated light heavyweight boxer Mike Lee.
The Big East, as we knew and loved it, is basically gone, especially where basketball is concerned