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.”
There are only two numbers that I’m concerned with for Antoinette. One is her age: 22. The other is her oxygen saturation: 85 percent and dropping.
By now, the only thing more culturally insufferable than the Academy Awards is criticism of the Academy Awards. The explosion of instantaneous feedback on Twitter and blogs during and in the aftermath of the inevitably disappointing show has turned the entire evening into a snake eating its tail.
Molinelli went to Rome his junior year, but Molarity had to continue.
Notre Dame made living the faith easy, especially during Lent. Mass was available every few hours somewhere on campus. You could go to confessions in your slippers. Prayer seemed only natural on a campus studded with religious statues and paintings. And, during Lent, there was no meat in the dining hall on the days when we were encouraged to abstain.
I was in Dublin for my spring semester, and missed JPW. But the occasion of JPW always makes me think of my own private Notre Dame, how individual choices or circumstances render us outside the typical.
Pope Benedict XVI, or Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, as he will soon be once again, has stepped away from the papacy game while still on top. Rather than max out his time at the helm, Benedict has embraced his limits and will give way to a worthy, fresh successor.
Last fall an alumnus called and asked us to make sure he would continue to receive the magazine. We assured him alumni receive the magazine free for life. Well, he said, a few years ago he had told us to stop sending it — that he and Notre Dame were parting company.…
Yesterday I took my son and his friend skating outside where it was 18 degrees under the lights. My son is ready to go; he’s wearing a light warm-up jacket. I tell him to go get his winter coat. He runs around the house and arrives in the front hall ready to go, again, in a light warm-up jacket.
Valentine’s Day ranks up there with Groundhog Day and Earth Day in my book, meaning it isn’t in the ranking. But this morning I thought, why don’t I read up a bit on Saint Valentine and see if there’s something to chew on about this lovey-dovey day.
We often dilute our Lenten sacrifices, cheapening them from spiritually motivated self-denial to a retread of New Years’ resolutions, which usually fizzle by the time Lent rolls around. Domers are especially guilty of this, as we often wear our sacrifices on our sleeves.
Gladimir is only 28 years old, and he’d be dead in any other hospital in Haiti. Of course, he doesn’t know that because he’s been unconscious since he fell off of a motorcycle three days ago.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 41st strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. It has been a rough beginning to the year for Notre Dame fans and alumni, hasn’t it?
In 1960 I was a poor graduate student pursuing an M.A. in history, living off campus on North Ivy Road. The highlight of my week was the Saturday free movie shown at eight o’clock in Washington Hall. We tried to get there by 7:30 because it filled up fast. As soon as all seats were taken, the entrance doors were closed. Then the pre-feature fun began
To its many other distinctions, Notre Dame’s Basilica of the Sacred Heart may now add its recognition as the most beautiful college church in the country, in celebration of which I offer this brief report of something glimpsed there after this morning’s 11:30 Mass.
The kitchen is dark when I enter it on these cold winter mornings. So I flip on the light and head first to the cupboard where the bowls and plates are stacked. I pull out three Corelle plates and three Corelle bowls. Then one day, looking at the table waiting — paper napkins, forks and spoons and juice and bowls lined up at the ready — I realized I had become my father.