Andrew McShane rounded the corner in front of the altar of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart and sized up the cacophony in the choir loft: Drills wheezing. Socket wrenches clicking. Wisecracks flying. Workmen calling down from vanishing tiers of organ pipes that still rose three and four stories above the church floor.
If New England cows can jump start Haiti’s energy future, an enlightening couple will make the connection.
The sendoff was uneventful, with no announcement or fanfare. The music would speak for itself.
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.
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.
Paul Fritts & Company Organ Builders is one of a handful of shops in the United States capable of making mechanical action pipe organs as good as anything Bach ever played. With 70 stops and 5,164 pipes, rising to the height of a four-story building, the organ the company installs next year in the Basilica of the Sacred Heart will be the largest and grandest instrument it has produced since 1979, when the 28-year-old Fritts took over his father’s small business.
So, what will it all look like, this impressive instrument and its fortified perch, once they’re built and installed in the south end of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart? We don’t know.
If you’ve ever wondered — as I have — whether emailed requests are ever literally prayed at the Grotto, let me be your witness: They are.
Yep, 250 bucks. Not a bad prize for a treasure hunt. It explains the thousands of Notre Dame students who were combing campus in April to find Morrissey Manor’s slender wooden medallion.
A heartbreaking loss…. a moment in the sun…. a disfiguring disease in the crosshairs.
Each spring, the Morrissey Medallion Hunt dispatches campus scavengers to find a wee wooden wafer tucked away in some hidden-in-plain-sight corner of the University. Could you have found it this year?
A friendship opens a Notre Dame passage to India.
Nandi Mgwaba has a sore neck.
It takes a lot to cultivate a lasting residence hall tradition at Notre Dame. Thirty-nine years of uproarious double-entendres and equal-opportunity irreverence will build the hype for next year’s Revue. Nine years of contempt for frostbite and respiratory infections — all to collect money in those red cups for South Bend’s Center for the Homeless — will snowball into the next Day of Man.
Let me come right out and say it: I don’t have a great story of my own to share about Father Hesburgh. I’ve since had a few ennobling encounters with him, for which I’ll be forever grateful. And it’s impossible to spend any amount of time around Notre Dame people and not get to know Father Ted. It seems like everyone has a story to tell.
Whenever I think of the March for Life, I think of my oldest son. I think of him as a miniature boy about 17 months old, walking along the double-yellow line that runs down Washington D.C.’s Constitution Avenue, wearing a giant woolen hat and snow boots that nearly covered his knees. Sometimes out of habit he would rocket his mittened hand upward to find his pregnant mother’s gloved one.
Barely a day goes by when I don’t think about the undergraduate semester I spent in Ireland 21 years ago. I’ve never found the opportunity to return, but two recent events on the Notre Dame campus renewed my acquaintance with the island and my hope that transformative Christian faith may not be a thing of the Irish past.
A Notre Dame scholar’s research liberates an Ecuadorian treasure
The Keough School of Global Affairs will house seven existing units active in international scholarship at Notre Dame.
The Keough School of Global Affairs is scheduled to open in 2017. In respect for historical roots, let’s review what global efforts came before at Notre Dame.
Seen & heard at Notre Dame
Notre Dame carves out a holistic, religion-savvy niche with the creation of its first new school in 93 years.
On October 1, 2014, University President Rev. John I. Jenkins ’76, ’78M.A. formally announced the creation of the Donald R. Keough School of Global Affairs.
Composed one morning while getting everyone out the door, aware that, no matter what, we will still be late to school/work/practice/whatever.
Two Americas. It’s become customary to think of ourselves as a divided people, at least since John Edwards’ stump speech in the 2004 race for the Democratic presidential nomination when he lumped us into haves and have-nots. But thanks to author Susan Cain, I’m beginning to think our great divide isn’t economic.
A nap versus nativity scenes from around the world? To me, the choice was obvious.
The bell tower of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart isn’t on the standard Notre Dame campus tour for good reason. It’s kind of a dangerous place. The wooden stairs are narrow and steeply pitched, and the first flight alone is sufficiently dusty and Hitchcockian as to discourage anyone but the most determined and cautious visitor.
He’s a lifelong Notre Dame fan. This was his first trip to campus. And it so happened that the day of the football game against the North Carolina Tarheels was his 40th birthday.
Resonant, lyric metal, not quite like anything you’ve ever heard before. It’s not the only thing emerging from the foundry of Riley Hall.