Richard Russo is a favorite author of mine. And That Old Cape Magic reaffirms the reasons for my admiration. It’s about real people, authentically and richly cast, leading familiar lives, coping — as we all do — with the trials and triumphs of real life.
Welcome to the 97th strip in Molarity Redux, the continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. Growing up means admitting that sometimes Santa knows us better than we do.
Some people claim the Notre Dame campus is magical. As a freshman, I learned firsthand that this belief lurks not far from the truth.
The line of work I have chosen is never easy, and the inconveniences can needle their way deep into your being. But sometimes my mind clears for a second and I allow myself to perceive the wonderful minutiae of life.
The Carrot Barn is a busy produce market and country store that’s about as pleasant a place to eat lunch as any you might imagine. It’s hard to imagine it as either a disaster recovery center or — in the blue skies and breezy heat of summer — the backdrop of a heartwarming Christmas tale but, four years ago, that’s what it became.
The story begins with a simple act of kindness.
At this time in the Christian year, we are often reminded that the Gospel of Matthew records a peculiar astronomical event that occurred at the birth of Christ.
I had a tough time reading Christmas Bells by Jennifer Chiaverini ’91. It’s not that the historic fiction wasn’t well written. It wasn’t that I was bored. It’s that the sense of despair, of dread, of sadness that haunts the characters at Christmastime hits too close to home this year.
O Hannibal Mole, where art thou? We hardly knew ye.
If the pope came to your house tomorrow night, what wine would you serve with dinner?
The fishermen of Lampedusa, a tiny Italian island 180 miles north of Libya, are seasoned professionals. Over the years, they have come to know the ongoing refugee crisis from daily experience. These fishermen might ignore the statistics, but they confront an inescapable truth: they live on the world’s deadliest frontier.
“I want to quit drinking, but it calms me down. Sometimes I drink to numb the pain in my shoulder — old football injury,” my patient John said to me in the hospital last week. “Same with the smoking. It keeps me calm and I don’t think I’ll ever quit smoking. It’s just a part of who I am.”
You are probably reading this on a computer, a tablet, some kind of mobile device. That’s OK. But you should know it’s not the same as reading these same words on paper.
I’m wary of parachute journalism, the practice of dropping a writer into a story without prior expertise. Columbia Journalism Review assures me parachuting is okay, as long as my own ruck is “packed with research.” So I picked up Farewell, Fred Voodoo, journalist Amy Wilentz’s 2013 “letter from Haiti,” which I took to be my best bet for getting to know this extraordinary country a little better in 310 pages or less.
Educating the next generation of campus radicals isn’t easy.
I just experienced my last home football game as a student and I am not quite sure how to feel about it.
In a state where Tom Brady drowns out any college football chatter, I could not wait to welcome friends, family and fans from South Bend. Boston, however, wasn’t so sure.
At Thanksgiving time I think of people who deserve a thank you. This year I’m thinking of John A. Richardson. Here’s why.
On the day after the Paris terrorist attacks, the Notre Dame campus felt a little subdued for a football Saturday, but in unseasonable warmth and sunshine we generally carried on as usual.
It may well be that the eyes are the last of ourselves to know of love, which, at its heart, is a holy recognition. But to be loved is, at its heart, to be wholly seen.
Some straight talk about America’s deep, dark and difficult racial divide.
“We wanted to write the kind of high-tech hard-science thriller where you can’t just make up stuff to solve your problem — where you have to deal with the real lemons that life hands you, to make your lemonade,” John Sandford and Ctein say in the authors’ note that appears at the end of Saturn Run.
Note to the curriculum review committee: Add “self-awareness” course requirement.
This week is just like any other week for me, staccato and split between two drastically different places, rarely with enough time to adjust or reflect.
Turns out he was born in a small town right here in Indiana. Turns out he was a chaplain during the First World War. I had never heard of him, I am embarrassed to admit. And yet he spoke to me.
Litigation “stacked up like planes at LaGuardia” threatens to change the relationship between athlete and university that has always defined college sports, but Jack Swarbrick ’76 sounded pretty serene about the whole thing.
Welcome to the 91st strip in Molarity Redux, the continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. Asking the big questions: It’s what a Notre Dame education is all about.
When I started reading Jim Langford’s The Times of My Life, I knew him only in passing as a storyteller with an intimate knowledge of Notre Dame, having once listened to him speak to an audience of alumni and friends here on campus. By the time I finished reading, I came away with an appreciation for the life he has led and the lessons he has to share.
By now, we have a public template for responding to gun massacres in America. The details differ, but the script remains the same.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month both in the United States and in Haiti. The month and its ubiquitous pink ribbons are supposed to remind us of the importance of screening for breast cancer and what we can do to stop the leading cancer killer of women globally.