It’s the blood that bothers me. It didn’t always.
It’s the blood that bothers me. It didn’t always.
I’d like to know which places meant something to you — and why. I’d like to know which place was your favorite, or the best, or the place you miss. I’d like to hear some stories (tastefully told please), stories to be shared across the generations, stories that speak of life at Notre Dame.
I was a grownup — a forebear with descendants of my own — before I knew I wasn’t very Irish (if Irish at all).
There’s still a lot of games to be played this fall, but Notre Dame’s 125th football season is off to a thrilling start.
As sometimes happens in life, I was looking the other way when Jim Naughton died. The loss is just now sinking in. His life offers good thoughts on a Labor Day. Here’s why.
That football cover is a poster now.
We liked the retro style. It had the right feel to convey the historic sense of Notre Dame’s football tradition, but with a sort of bright, new shine.
“I was thumbing through this recent issue,” Gordon DiRenzo, Class of 1956, says, “until I got to page . . . let’s see, is it 21? No, it’s page 20. . . . Hey, where’d you get that photo? The photo of Leahy.”
Monday morning, early on. I am lying in bed, wondering when I got so old that mowing the lawn and splashing in a pool with the kids for an hour would leave me so tired and sore. The red numbers on the bedside clock tell me I should get up. But I like it here.
You remember when you first heard about Fighting Irish football. It was the first time you’d ever heard of Notre Dame. The game served as an introduction to the institution, the sport the school’s emissary.
Anecdotal evidence reveals clothing services multiple purposes.
We can take things pretty seriously here at Notre Dame Magazine, and we take our role on behalf of the University very seriously. Then one day this past fall, having wearied — at least temporarily — of the earnest and well-intentioned seriousness, we thought: Enough already. Let’s loosen up and have some fun.
The last time I saw Jean Lenz it was pretty much like the first time — and all the times in between. I smiled throughout the conversation, listening to her talk.
I spoke the other night to a group of ND students about writing. The Career Center had gotten us together to talk about careers in publishing.
Death came to our house in February 1960. It was a Saturday morning. I was 7, playing alone in my front yard. My sister, four years older than I, came outside and said, “Grandmother died.” Our eyes met, then she turned and went back into the house.
I believe in the healing of story. I think it’s good for people to talk it out. There is something clarifying, curative, restorative in the telling; some would call it “therapeutic.”
Some wounds are obvious. Others are hidden to the eye. But invisible scars — the ones lurking in the human psyche — can be just as crippling, similarly painful, and possibly much tougher to repair.
This is certain: An “extraordinary” gust of wind — recorded as 53 miles per hour at 4:54 p.m. October 27, 2010 — knocked over the Marklift MT40G hydraulic scissor lift and dropped 20-year-old Declan Sullivan to his death while the junior from Long Grove, Illinois, was filming football practice.
I have always been comfortable living with questions. The world is an infinitely fascinating place, beguiling mysteries remain unsolved and my reply is a pilgrim’s curiosity and cheerful puzzlement. Besides, I always figured that to ask, to question was to enter into a dialogue with God.
It’s been a tough year for Notre Dame, a year of serial troubles. The police raids on off-campus parties back at the beginning of the school year — causing rifts among police and students, Notre Dame and South Bend — seem almost inconsequential now. So do lost football games and payouts to former coaches.
After a decade as a doctoral student, Geoffrey Keating ’00M.A. finds his true calling as a furniture maker.
A funny thing happened on my way to writing this editor’s column. I knew the theme would be life moving on. But where to start?
It’s one of the best benefits of working at this magazine — developing very good friends, despite the distances, whom you come to know through their writing, by talking out story ideas and life and writing with them.
I wasn’t disappointed that none of my three kindergartners got an award during their elementary school’s assembly. But awards: an interesting topic, especially now with a national debate ignited by a Chinese Tiger Mom scolding America for its leniently errant parenting style.
Declan Sullivan, no ordinary life.
What’s in America’s future?
We hope for gifts and — more — the meaning behind them. We hope for the good times and comforts of family. We hope for peace and well-being. We hope for Jesus Christ to come to earth, to come into our lives.
When I finished writing the Joseph Brennan obituary for our winter print edition, I knew I had more to say. It has gone unsaid for decades, and it’s too late now.
Like many folks, including John Steinbeck and William Least Heat Moon, I prefer two-lane roads to interstate highways. I like to see people and places, get a sense of life from the ground up.
The truth is, I have never flown a kite. It isn’t that I haven’t tried. I have tried and failed.
Sometimes you get blindsided.There I was, happily getting ready for the season opener. Notre Dame-Purdue. Launch of the Brian Kelly era. Then my wife reported the weather forecast. That’s when it happened.