Football, the Grotto and Mass at the Basilica were the only antidotes for the bleak fall and winter of 1961-62, my freshman year at Notre Dame. Then, one football Saturday the following fall, a friend suggested I try out for the Glee Club.
As summer travel plans go, you could hardly beat the itinerary laid out before the Notre Dame Folk Choir this year. Just don’t call them tourists.
Pope Francis is not the first person to suggest that the story we all know as “The Parable of the Prodigal Son” is not named well.
In Finding Livelihood, Nancy Nordenson explores the quandary of following a deeply felt spiritual calling while the need to make a living in tough times exerts its own pull.
Love in the digital age is as rough as it ever was.
After my mother’s funeral and, perhaps more urgently, with the onset of my 50s, I’ve thought about my own sendoff, and my thinking includes Notre Dame. I’m hardly alone and I have wondered how Domers include ND in their final bow.
A few words regarding Joe Biden and the disheartening award of the Laetare Medal.
I am quite disturbed by the “outrage” over my friend, and my vice-president, Joe Biden, sharing the Laetare Medal with former U.S. House Speaker John Boehner.
When Paul Fritts opened his own pipe-making shop in 1984, the organ building world took notice. Today he and his craftsmen are still innovating — in this case by borrowing a technique he learned in Europe.
Reading Jon Meacham’s engaging new biography, Destiny and Power: The American Odyssey of George Herbert Walker Bush, my mind keeps returning to an earlier newspaper article that portrayed a frustrated Bush seeing his son Jeb out-polled by a candidate whom the elder Bush regarded as unworthy of the presidency.
Then, one day in the spring of 1981, things got personal.
I awoke in South Bend on Tuesday, March 22, to the dismaying news of the terrorist attack in Belgium, sobered all the more by my calculation that one week earlier, at the same time, my five urban design students, a colleague and I were in the exact place where the two suicide bombers detonated themselves in Brussels Airport.
When I was a novice, our novice master, Father Nick Ayo, CSC, ’56, ’62M.A. often said, “If everyone set their life story to music, you would recognize the melody everywhere.” So true, so true. In the end our sins are very similar.
It’s 10:30 on a Tuesday night, and a couple hundred students are waiting patiently to meet with Dr. Paul Farmer. In the global health world, the Harvard Medical School professor and co-founder of Partners in Health is as close to a rock star as it gets.
We have more information at our fingertips and are more frequently the target of communication than any humans in history. Television and radio, smartphones and tablets, Facebook and Twitter (and many others) continually update, entertain, stimulate, persuade, cajole, pressure and scold us.
In these confusing times, we can shut down and isolate ourselves, or we can explore and connect with the rest of humanity. I choose the latter. Here’s where to find the hidden gems in nine of my favorite cities when you’re tired of the beaten track.
When Alison and Kyle meet in high school, something clicks. But their on-again, off-again relationship is usually more off than on, and the dreams they pursue eventually lead to their parting. This may sound like the plot for a romance novel, but author Theresa Rebeck has more complex matters in store for the reader.
Welcome to Molarity Redux, the continuing adventures of Jim Mole and friends. Save it for the teacher course evaluation.
Robert Putnam is on a mission. You can hear it in his voice when he speaks, even though a good portion of his talk at Notre Dame was spent showing charts and graphs and explaining what they mean.
When Clem, aka Albert Alter ’69, clowns around, people smile and grin and giggle.
A man must account for his time on earth, how he has or has not fulfilled his calling, achieved what was in him to achieve. Has he used the talents given him and increased them or, on the contrary, let them dissipate?
Craig Counsell ’92 scored the winning run of Game Seven in the bottom of the 11th inning, going airborne in exultation to do so.
It happens every so often. You are perusing the obituary section of a newspaper or magazine — the “Irish sports pages,” as we call them in Boston — and you read a person’s life story from beginning to end. Instead of feeling sad, you feel uplifted. Gosh, you say to yourself, Poppa Neutrino had a fun life!…
My parents were pleased when I graduated from a small college in Philadelphia with a degree in bacteriology, but they never seemed to understand why anyone would want to study bacteria.
My hairdresser plucked the gray hair right out of my scalp and held it up for me to see. I am 24 years old. “How many days until the primary?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
If you’re lucky enough to make a living in any remotely artistic capacity, your job can sound pretty entertaining to those who don’t.
I have spent a decade in the entertainment industry, first as a pop culture journalist and television personality, and now as a fashion, lifestyle and hospitality publicist. This means that at social functions I often get hit with questions.
Most of us work in order to earn a living, to provide shelter, food, clothing, a high-speed Internet connection — all of life’s basic needs. But that doesn’t answer the question of why people work; nor does it explain whether it’s possible to have fun doing so.
“I hate people!” my co-worker declared as she stormed by me and threw herself into a chair. “My patients are all crazy!”