I grew up in a home where my mother stressed classics over fads, quality over quantity. She also frequently issued clothing edicts, particularly during my teen years: “Susan, those jeans are inappropriate for church.” Or “We’re going to your cousin’s wedding, Susan, not a saloon — go change into that crepe de chine dress.”
Jack Quinlan is the greatest baseball broadcaster you’ve never heard of.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the 63rd strip in the updated, continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends.
The urgency in the young man’s voice — plus the two questions he asked — immediately grabbed my attention.
“Either way, no matter what we do, you’ll live less than 12 months, probably less than nine. Even if we were in the United States, your disease is incurable.” He nodded slowly in understanding.
There was a time in America’s history when the continent was a vast sea of possibility. It was the raw material for visionaries and schemers, the enterprising and broad-shouldered.
It took only one awe-inspiring trips to campus for me to know Notre Dame would always be a part of me—and would be the place I would play football one day.
The case of the missing Observers.
In Salvador, the party blares until midnight, then quiets so that the neighborhood can rest before waking up early to songs of worship from the numerous churches.
At 7 a.m., a loud and familiar noise broke the predawn silence: the clanging of ice hitting a cooler full of bottles. Tailgating season had begun.
The media continually dissect statements from Pope Francis. When he says, “Who am I to judge?” or “We cannot insist only on issues related to abortion,” they speculate: Is Francis reversing Church teaching?