Random Musings on Thanksgiving

Black Friday.  As one who has never participated in this event, I can only imagine what it's like:  snarls of traffic, people fighting for parking spaces, lines outside of Kohl's, Best Buy and Old Navy and other stores that open up at 3:00am  Many of my friends participate in this event, but I just cannot bring myself to do it.  Like anyone else, I love a good sale.  However, I prize my sleep a bit more.  And here in Indiana, we have the added benefit of sub-freezing temperatures.  It's much warmer under the blankets.

So Thanksgiving has come and gone.  They say that it is the busiest travel day of the year ("they" were my mother's dear friends.  I never met them, but she always talked about "them", and whatever "they" said was of paramount importance.  "They" are the experts and so we must listen to them). Thanksgiving is a holiday uniquely American, and one that seems to take paramount importance in our lives.  Everyone wants to get home, wherever that may be, for this great day.  Most of us do not let the day pass without massive preparations, ending in a huge feast together with our loved ones.

It is the one holiday of the big three that does not celebrate a holy event in Christianity.  We trace the initial Thanksgiving back to the pilgrims in the 17th century, who celebrated their first successful harvest and invited some of their Native American allies to a meal; however, it was more than likely not referred to by them as "Thanksgiving".  George Washington, John Adams and James Madison all designated official days of thanks during their terms. But the day was not officially recognized as a national holiday until the presidency of Abraham Lincoln, who, in the midst of the Civil War, issued a proclamation that this be an official day to pray for the healing of the wounds of our nation.

Americans love this day, and as I reflect on why, I am filled with a sense of hope for our nation and our people even in these seemingly dark and dismal days.  True, Thanksgiving can lend itself to gluttony and to endless hours of football.  I confess that I look forward to watching the Lions, despite their abysmal Thanksgiving Day record in the past decade, and yesterday was no exception.  But most would accept that there is something more to this day than massive amounts of food and drink, and going comatose in front of the TV.

Christmas has become so commercialized that I actually dread it.  And we have made almost a joke about Easter, inserting, of all things, a bunny and eggs into the celebration of this holy day (I cannot fathom how the feast of the resurrection of Christ came to be associated with an eerily large rabbit who hops around delivering colored eggs, but that's for another post I think). I would posit that Thanksgiving has remained intact.  It is, quite simply, a day to stop and give thanks and it seems that most people still acknowledge that.There are no arguments or complaints by the ACLU or those who are, during the Christmas season, offended by the appearance of  the creche on the town square.  And yet, the day is, at its heart, a deeply religious holiday. The mere name of the holiday tells us what we are about on this day--giving thanks.  But thanks to whom and for what?  To our employers for a paycheck?  To the school board for days off?  To Meijer's for the big turkey? Clearly, those of us who are employed are thankful for our jobs in this time of large scale unemployment throughout the nation.  And which of us does not appreciate a few days off from work or school?  And who doesn't love a big feast with family and friends?  I am appreciative of my employers for the paycheck, but it would be ludicrous to think that they were the object of a national holiday.  No, in the end, our thanks is and must be directed at the One who made our lives possible, and that One is God.

I find it unusual then, that those without any faith or belief celebrate this day. If, indeed, the day is all about giving thanks, to whom are they directing their attitude of gratefulness?  My hope is that there exists, in all of us, an inherent need to assume an posture of thanksgiving towards our Creator, whether we recognize it as such or not.  And in stopping to give thanks on this special day, perhaps it is a small chip in the armor of those who refuse to accept the benevolence of God on every other day.

It is simply impossible not to accept the religious nature of this day.  As a Catholic, I attend Mass on Thanksgiving.  While it is not what we term a "holy day of obligation"--a day that we are, as faithful Catholics, required to acknowledge by our attendance at Mass, many people still fill the churches because, in so doing, they are expressing their thanks to God, and admitting that all they have and are is a GIFT.  Catholics tend to be "by the book" when it comes to attending Mass.  Usually, if it's not an obligatory holy day or Sunday, attendance is sparse. However, this is not true of Thanksgiving Day.  I have lived in many places and am always heartened to see the church very full on this day.  When I lived in London, the Cathedral offered a special Mass for Americans on Thanksgiving, and large numbers of us attended, acknowledging the need to come together and express thanks on this day--a day not officially recognized in England as any sort of holiday.   The word "Eucharist" comes from the Greek and means, quite simply, "giving thanks."  Among other things, this is what we do when we come together to pray in the Mass.  Therefore, it is a natural act for us to attend Mass on Thanksgiving Day.

I sincerely hope that Thanksgiving does not go the way of Christmas or Easter.  There clearly is an attempt to commercialize it, as we are pushed to dash to the grocery stores, and, it seems, that the turkey wearing the pilgrim hat and belt buckle has become the symbol of the day.  Many of us probably spend gross amounts of money on food for the all-important feast.  And yet, the meal is an important and significant part of our celebration.  Ingrained in Christians is the idea that we celebrate our thanksgiving with a meal, as did Christ at the Last Supper.  And so we do spend money and have more food on the tables than those present can possibly ingest.  But it is also a time of charity amongst us.  In giving thanks, it is difficult to do so without being cognizant of those who suffer and live in dire poverty.  Statistics seem to show that Americans are more charitable during this time than any other both with donations of money and with their time.  Being thankful goes hand in hand with recognizing that there still exists suffering amongst our brothers and sisters.  Hopefully then, this day pushes us to not only remember them, but to actively participate in alleviating their suffering in whatever way is possible for us--even if it is simply in prayer.

So, our thankfulness, or, at least mine, is directed towards God.  And while it is often far easier to dwell on that which is wrong, and pine for that which we don't have, I am grateful that there is a day...a national day that causes us to recall and be thankful for all that we have been given and offered, including our lives and our salvation.

Get off the Expressway

In 1956, after much lobbying by the automobile industry, the Interstate Highway System was authorized under Dwight D. Eisenhower.  We can thank the Federal Aid Highway Act of 1956 then for our expansive and intricate web of expressways that wend throughout our country, allowing us to reach our destinations much more expeditiously and, because of that, less expensively.

I am not opposed to the system we have in place, and, at times, I find myself frustrated that there aren't more such expressways.  The drive from South Bend to Indianapolis is nearly intolerable with two lane highways and seemingly endless stoplights and snarled traffic as one traverses through larger towns such as Kokomo.  However, there are times when the pleasure of the trip comes from the drive itself, and, in getting off of the expressway and onto the lesser traveled roads and two lane highways, one can catch a glimpse of Americana and of a culture that seems to be from time gone by. However, small town life seems alive and well.  It's just that we don't actually see it when we're zipping by on the beltway at 70 miles per hour.

This past weekend, I opted to "get off the highway."   A month or so ago, after a trip to Hagar Township, MI to walk my dog on the one remaining beach that allowed dogs (and now, the township has opted to disallow dogs, causing a big ruckus amongst the people, but more on that in another blog post), I discovered a place called Bob's Barn.  Bob's Barn is one of hundreds of "farmer's markets" that you will come across if you bother to get off the expressway while driving through Michigan.  I stopped because I saw the enticing sign offering "pumpkin rolls."  This writer has never, ever bypassed any establishment that offers pumpkin anything, and so I pulled into Bob's, my mouth watering.  Alas, when I walked into the market and inquired about the pumpkin rolls, Bob's wife told me that they were all out. She actually makes them herself, along with pies, pastries and muffins of every sort.  Bob's sells their own produce, grown on the farm behind the market.  There are various and sundry other offerings, such as jams and jellies, pickled produce, honey, soaps and a variety of other products, not all hand grown or hand made by the couple, but most of which come from local growers and manufacturers.  They explained to me that the market used to belong to her parents, and at that time it was just a roadside stand.  They inherited it years back--(they've been married for fifty years now!) and so they have run the market for a good long time.  Six years ago, they experimented and actually erected a building because, they said, "people preferred not to shop in the rain." and told me that, after a slow first year, it took off.  I was indescribably sad about not getting a pumpkin roll, but encouraged as they handed me their card and told me next time to "call ahead" and they would have some waiting for me.  In the meantime, I took a good look around the market.  A couple was sitting at one of two little tables, having a coffee and some ice cream.  I got the impression that they were "townies" and that Bob's was a gathering spot for some of the locals.  Bob (or at least I assume that he's Bob), gave me a tour of the place.  It seemed as if this is what life must have been like for many, many more people before the advent of the superstores and one stop shopping.  I left with a bottle of honey from Benton Harbor and a home made muffin, promising that I would soon return for the pumpkin roll.

So, this past weekend, I planned to travel up to Holland for a family reunion. Making good on my promise, I called Bob's before leaving, and they assured me that they would have pumpkin rolls waiting for me.  I couldn't have been more excited! When I arrived, I learned that they also make "lemon rolls" as well, but was told they had to be pre-ordered.  No worries there.  I purchased two pumpkin rolls, and told them I would stop on my return home on Sunday. They asked if it could be after 1:00pm, as that's when they return from Sunday church services.  It was refreshing to hear folks talk about attending church services without a flutter of embarrassment.  That's the way it should be.  I purchased a home-made pistachio muffin for the road, which Bob happily offered to warm up for me, and I went on my way.  By the way, it was the best pistachio muffin I have ever had!

On Sunday, heading south out of Holland, I decided, instead of hopping onto the 196 expressway, that I would instead take the old Blue Star Highway down through Harbor Country.  This portion of US 31 is most probably the route taken in days of old when folks wanted to travel down to Chicago.  It parallels, for a good part, the shores of Lake Michigan, and goes through Saugatuck, Douglas, Glenn, South Haven, Covert and into Hagar Township.  After my short visit to Bob's Barn the day before, I was curious to see what life was like off of the expressway. I was not disappointed.  First of all, there is minimal traffic.  I was not hurried from behind.  It was a gorgeous day, and there was still a spot of color on the trees bordering the winding highway.  Driving along, I noted the many shops and markets where people grow their own food.  There are countless quaint antique stores along the way with their wares stocked up outside in the fronts of their shops.  There are small, beach front motels that really are called "The Shangri-lah" and "Breezy Acres" and the "Lakeshore Motel".  And, as I expected, there are countless farmer's markets, both small, such as Bob's, and larger ones, like Earl's, pictured above. Many are closed for the season such as Earl's, because we had our first snows on Friday, and so the berry season is long over.  I imagine, also, that many small businesses rely on the throngs of summer tourists who flock to the shore, for much of their trade. The markets still open are offering apples and apple products from their orchards.  I picked up a big jug of apple cider and a couple of apples from Dee's, and had a nice chat with the owners.  I was telling them that I much preferred fresh produce from the source and, obviously, the home-made apple cider, which is always so much tastier than what you pick up in the supermarket.  The ladies responded that it was gratifying, but affirmed the obvious--self sustaining businesses are very hard work.  I can't even imagine...

Dee's

I drove slowly through the neighborhoods around  Saugatuck, where homes are not cookie cutter carbon copies of one another.  There are, sadly in my opinion, too many new developments going up around the lake shore area; consisting of very expensive homes in gated communities.  However, expensive they may be, there is in them, no charm or originality.  These older homes actually have front porches!  I wonder, do people still sit there in the summer, drinking lemonade, listening to the baseball game, and waving to the neighbors as they stroll by, as we used to do many years ago?  It seems so, in these smaller towns and communities.  These are large, older homes with enormous yards for kids to play in, and huge trees and gravel driveways.  The lawns, while beautiful, are not pristinely and uniformly mowed by a landscaping service that has been hired by some home owner's association.  Fallen leaves lie about on the grass, actually allowing us to realize that it is autumn.  Somehow, I can't imagine a neighbor charging over to complain that there are a few leaves about.

I approached a large curve in the road and was treated to the site of a gas station that did not sprout a Shell, BP or even Marathon sign.  Big Curve gas station looks as if it came out of the 50s or 60s.  Pristine and unique, with sort of an art-deco flair, I could almost envision the attendant coming out in his clean, white overalls, checking my oil and cleaning my windshield.  Alas, it was a self-serve station, but it was refreshing to see an independent proprietor along this route.  Somehow, it seemed to fit in better with the general lifestyle off the expressway.  

Along the drive, there are numerous restaurants and diners.  You will not find McDonald's or TGI Friday's along the Blue Star Highway.  You will find places such as The Blue Moon Bar and Grill, the Blue Star Grill,  and, my personal favorite, the What Not Inn.     

                                

Another type of business very prevalent in this area are the antique or gift shops.  Many seem to be run out of the owners' actual homes.  They are quaint and inviting, and it is difficult to drive on by.  I would suspect that business slows quite a bit when the snows fall.  Despite Michigan being a winter sports paradise, I would guess that more people roam about Harbor Country in the summer and autumn than in the winter, and it makes me wonder how these folks get by during the long frigid months from December to April.

Of course, not all of the businesses are small.  You'll come across the large flea markets, held inside the big red barns.  These are conglomerations of small business owners, who bring there wares to a central place, offering "one stop shopping" to the consumers.  Still, by shopping at these places, you're supporting the small business owners in the area.  This one below even has a theater attached.

As I wended my way farther south, I realized that I was going to arrive at Bob's for the long awaited lemon roll well before 1:00pm.  I came across a beautiful conservatory.  There wasn't a single car in the little gravel parking lot.  I pulled in, and I and my sidekick Zip took a stroll through a beautiful, pristine, wooded area.  It was an unbelievably gorgeous, if not chilly, day, and I think that both of us enjoyed wandering along the paths.  At one point, I realized that I had not been keeping track of our directions.  There were many paths, going off in all different directions.  Fortunately, we were able to find our way, eventually, back to the little lot.  It had been a magnificent day, but I was thinking about the lemon roll awaiting me at Bob's.

I wound up back at Bob's Barn about 12:45 and they were already open.  Bob was still wearing his suit from church. His wife produced the promised lemon roll, and then helpfully added that she had made another if I was interested.  I thought long and hard, but opted instead for one lemon roll and a home-made pineapple upside-down pie.  I picked up a few honey crisp apples, and said my goodbyes with the promise of returning soon.  

Bob's Barn

I would imagine that the advent of the mega-stores and supermarkets have made life more difficult for folks who have small businesses such as the ones along the Blue Star Highway.  I am not against those stores.  Meijer's one stop idea was probably a godsend for people such as my mother, who was trying to shop for a family of seven.  Being able to pick up everything in one place definitely was a time-saver for busy parents, and, admittedly, the food tends to be less expensive as well.  But I can tell you that I never had a lemon or pumpkin roll from Meijer's that tasted as good as the ones from Bob's Barn.  And I have never, ever seen a pistachio muffin for sale at Meijer's either.  Even more importantly, I think, is the conversation.  In just two trips to Bob's Barn, I learned quite a bit not only about the proprietors, but also about the Township and the area.  When you go into a Meijer's or a Lowe's or a Walmart, you don't often meet people and have a chat with them.  You don't find out where the food or produce comes from, and you certainly don't meet the folks who made the items you're purchasing. With the dissolution of these small businesses, came the dissolution of the notion of the neighborhood.  Somehow, sacrificing that for convenience's sake doesn't seem to be a fair trade.

As I walked out of Bob's with my bag in hand, I looked down and noted that she had placed my purchases in a plastic bag from Meijer's!  Well, what goes around, comes around!  I had a little chuckle at that.

We always seem to be in a hurry, but, every once in awhile, I would urge you to slow down, and get off the expressway.  You might be really surprised and pleased at what you find beyond the beltway.

I Love ArtPrize

Wow, I haven't posted in a long time.  I'm certain my plethora of readers out there have missed my usual clever, perspicacious and insightful discourse. Right?  Can anybody hear me out there?

I have, indeed, been busy.  Very busy.  "Weighed under," and "swamped" are more accurate, with multiple evening meetings, weekend commitments, a little surgery and, in the midst of it all, a move.  But, life is returning, somewhat, to whatever constitutes normal for me.  (Now THAT would make an interesting blog post, but we'll leave that for another time--sometime way in the future when my brain will be able to accommodate thoughts of normalcy and how far away from it I actually am.)

La famiglia after having hogged
 down golumpki and pierogi

Last Saturday, I ventured up to Grand Rapids.  There were two reasons for making the two hour trip. Notably, especially for the Poles, all of Grand Rapids was celebrating Pulaski Days. This week-long festival is in honor of Polish heritage. There was, indeed, a General Pulaski, after whom this celebration was named.  Sorry, I have no clue as to who he is or what he did of note.  I'm basically Italian, but, just as all good people become Irish on St. Patrick's Day, all good Grand Rapidians venture to Polish halls and eat Polish food during Pulaski Days.  So, I did my duty, met my family at a Polish Hall, ate very heavy (but incredibly yummy) polish food and washed it down with a Miller Lite (see photo).

Waiting in line at the Grand Rapids
Art Museum to see ArtPrize stuff

The second thing currently occurring in Grand Rapids is ArtPrize.  ArtPrize is the brainchild of Rick DeVos, grandchild of the more famous Richard DeVos of Amway fame.  It is in it's second year in Grand Rapids and, therefore, is now a tradition.  ArtPrize in a nutshell, is a festival/contest, which invites artists of all media types to secure a venue, mostly in downtown Grand Rapids, and, after paying a very small entry fee, display their art there for several weeks.  The winner of ArtPrize is decided by (gasp) democratic voting by "we, the people". Needless to say, this novel idea has been the source of much controversy and publicity in the press, online, and on the streets.  The winner of ArtPrize receives $250,000.  This is NOT small change (especially by artists' standards!)  The controversy surrounds the two novel ideas of ArtPrize: What in the heck do ordinary people know about art, and, how gauche and pedestrian is it to display one's precious work of art in the hopes of winning dirty, ugly money (and lots of it)?

Em and Rick with "Elephant Walk" at ArtPrize
(the music "Elephant Walk" playing in the background
and the fact that their heads bobbed made this one fun)

I can't remember the title of this painting, but I enjoyed it

Lure/Wave at ArtPrize (loved it)

Apparently, 1,700 artists could care less as to whether it is appropriate for an artist to be a participant in ArtPrize. You can't walk very far in the city without seeing one of the pumpkin colored ArtPrize signs, indicating that a certain restaurant, bar, church, museum or empty warehouse is displaying someone's entry.  I'm going to put myself out on a limb and say that I think ArtPrize is one of the best things to ever happen to the city of Grand Rapids, at least in my lifetime. It's a pity that it's only two weeks long (and that it can't be WARMER outside). Downtown Grand Rapids, during this time, is teeming with people; all there for the purpose of viewing the artists' exhibits.  And when they're not looking at art, because they have been wandering the streets for four or five hours, they are frequenting one of the many newer, chic bars or restaurants in downtown Grand Rapids, resting their feet and having a drink and a meal. Growing up, I often heard the phrase "Downtown Grand Rapids is dead." And it was true. Woodland, Eastbrook and North Kent Malls pulled shoppers out of downtown and into the suburbs.  There was no reason ever, to go downtown, except to the Post Office, or to that one newsstand where my father used to buy his Daily Racing Form.

"A Matter of Time"--really impressive wood working

My favorite:  "Vision" at ArtPrize

ArtPrize pianos are throughout the city, encouraging
us to sit down and play!

Local renowned artist Larry Blovitz had two entries

Larry Blovitz's second entry

Not really in the running, but I was attracted to this one

My hometown is no longer dead. Downtown Grand Rapids is alive and well, and, regardless of whether one is Republican or Democrat (or neither), one must acknowledge what the DeVos family has done to contribute to the resurrection of life in this city.  We can argue all day and night as to whether what we see in ArtPrize is true "art", and whether local yokels (and I include myself in this, even though I now live in Indiana--so please don't write and attack me for calling anyone a "yokel") have a clue as to what constitutes good art.  It matters not.  There are, clearly, some outstanding works of art amongst the 1,700 entries.  There are some whimsical and fun pieces, that, while they probably will not win, are enjoyable to look at and experience, and might even involve youngsters in the discussion about art (my favorite of this genre was last year's Loch Ness Monster, made of foam and placed in the Grand River.  This year it's "SteamPig" but frankly, I find that one frightening, and it gives me nightmares.)  There are pieces that I look at and puzzle over, and then, finally, shrug my shoulders and say "I don't get it."  I don't have to get it though.  ArtPrize is, in the end, an "event".  It is an attempt to bring people into the city and see just what a fantastic place it has become (and, hopefully, to spend a little bit of their money in local establishments).  It is the cause of multiple and endless conversations about art--something most local yokels would never, ever bother about on any normal day.  It gives artists an opportunity to have their art viewed. The final result of ArtPrize is that we are ALL talking about art.  And really, that can't be such a bad thing, can it?

Just broadcast today on the NBC Today show is a great look at ArtPrize:
TODAY SHOW CLIP ON ARTPRIZE

For me, this one only works if my brother stands there like that

Scary and big:  It's STEAMPIG

Another one I enjoyed looking at

This one looked like something Gooch would put up at Christmas
It lights up.  Su-weeeet

My sister-in-law liked this bronze

Fun textile entry

Never Forget

It has been a strange and odd week, and an even stranger day today, on September 11.

Here at Notre Dame, there is much excitement in the air, as the Fightin' Irish prepare to take on perhaps their biggest rival, the University of Michigan Wolverines (although, really, isn't everyone their biggest rival?  It sure seems that way).  I can't help but post this video clip from one of my all-time favorite shows, The West Wing:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6F1RrKDNlbE, demonstrating the "importance" of this game, fought between the two winning-est college football teams.

Much more importantly, however, we solemnly recall the anniversary of the tragic events of Sept. 11, 2001.  I do not need to recount, in this space, what occurred on that day, here in the United States of America.  Each year, we witness memorials to that event, as this country remembers those who lost their lives on that day.

This year, there are two other events swirling around that directly effect one's emotional state of mind.  There has been an ongoing battle regarding whether it is right and appropriate to erect a mosque on the rather hallowed area called "Ground Zero", where the twin towers and several other buildings went down on that fateful day.  And, in response, there is the threat by a southern Pastor and his 50 member "church" to burn the Qur'an.  This threat is causing all sorts of responses worldwide--most in anger and opposition. Not only are devout Muslims protesting his threat; but also, most faithful Christians, who see it as a foolish act which will accomplish nothing good and only serve to further escalate the violent and unjustified actions by extremist Muslims throughout the world.  I am concerned for my students in Egypt, lest they get caught up in some sort of protest that turns anti-American.  It is not as if any of them have any connection to either of these two events.  It matters not in this turbulent world.  Most people who are injured or lose their lives to terrorism are totally innocent--they are neither combatants nor politicians responsible for policy.  

In the midst of all of this, I find I am rather in a quandary today.  Obviously, I cannot wait to watch the Irish tear apart the Wolverines.  But I remember back to that day in 2001.  Every adult remembers where he or she was when the news of the the attacks was announced.  I remember actually having to go to work after that point and, as a Realtor, show property!  I was stunned when the clients still insisted on going out, because it felt as if it was a day of national mourning, not to mention utter shock.  I remember that all airplanes were grounded across the country, and I shuddered a bit the first time I saw a commercial airliner in the skies again, a week or so later.  I recall the nervousness and anxiety I felt the first time I boarded a plane after those horrific events. Sporting events were cancelled across the country and late night talk shows gave way to ongoing news reports.  It did not seem at all appropriate to watch some silly, flippant comedian commenting on insignificant events.  They, themselves, realized this and opted to remain off the air for some time.  It was a long time before things returned to normal, although I believe that we have never really returned to whatever constituted normal prior to September 11, 2001.

However, I would argue that, in a way that is, perhaps, impossible to avoid, we have "forgotten."  I don't mean that in the sense that we don't remember what happened.  What we cannot recall, nor hang onto, are the powerful emotions that we all experienced during those horrible days.  Shock, sorrow, agony, grief, astonishment, disbelief, rage, resolve, and, yes, even intense hatred. Psychologically, it is probably impossible to recall those emotions such that we feel them in the same way as we did nine years ago.  I think that is what allows us to move forward. Still, it somehow seems inappropriate, in the midst of all that is happening, to be excited about a football game.  

However, if we do mire ourselves in those sorts of attitudes and emotions, I suppose life would not go on.  Next to the events of September 11, everything in my daily life and around me seems so insignificant. Clearly, it is not right, nor helpful to sit in a chair in a dark room and mourn and grieve and ponder those events for the rest of our lives.  Life has to go on.  But we do have to remember, and we need to find ways that resurrect, if only for a moment, some of those feelings and emotions we experienced on that day.  By doing so, we retain our unwavering resoluteness to, as much as is possible, right the wrongs that occurred that day.  The lives can never be brought back, but we must never fail to honor them.  Their sacrifice can never take a back seat.

I have pondered the two issues--the burning of the Qur'an and the building of the Mosque.  I am opposed to that idiotic pastor and his community's wish to go forward with this stupid and misguided idea.  However, I must defend, without exception or reservation, his right to freedom of expression.  That is what sets America apart from many countries. I think the guy is a right idiot, but the bigger wrong is to allow official or government intervention prohibiting his actions.  Our national clinging to personal rights and freedoms is, in one sense, why others sought to attack us; and they used those very rights and freedoms, which we see as sacred, against us.  I was horrified to find out that Saudi citizens came to our country, were admitted freely and then were taking flying lessons a mere 25 miles from where I was living so that they would know how to pilot a commercial airliner into the World Trade Center.  Does that mean we should close our borders to everyone? Does that mean we should corral all people in this country who arrived from the Middle East and deport them? Emotionally, I want to scream YES!!!! Quit letting people in that may do us harm!  Send the rest away, at least for now, because we cannot determine who is here to harm us and who is here innocently.  As a reasonable person, however, I realize that is not the right thing to do and to respond with extreme fear would do us, as a nation and a people, much more harm than good.  

As for the mosque...I do not believe it should be built there.  In the same way I do not believe any sane person should burn the Qur'an, I do not believe any sane person should build a mosque on what is considered hallowed ground. Both actions show intense disrespect and both actions are inciting hatred.  It does not HAVE to be done and, despite all claims, it will accomplish nothing positive and will only serve to further divisiveness amongst people.  I would claim that they have the right to build their center there, if they can purchase the land and get the permits, but, as I have said many times before, just because we have a right, it does not mean we have to take the opportunity. Having a right and doing the right thing--often two separate things.

Well, in the end, I am going to watch the ND/U of M football game today.  But I will not forget, and will go through great lengths to try and recall those very intense emotions that I felt on Sept. 11, 2001.  I'll continue to pray, most fervently, for those poor and innocent victims who tragically and horrifically lost their lives, and, most hopefully pray for some sort of peace in this world. I'm going to post a link to the Thomas More Law Center.  There is a video entitled "Lest We Forget".  I have seen many, many tributes to the victims of that day, but this one, at least for me, is the most powerful.  It is difficult to watch--with graphic pictures and sounds, but I believe we owe it to those who lost their lives that day to "remember".  http://www.thomasmore.org/default-sb_thomasmore.html?781316483.

I wish, most of all, that all of the battles in this world could be confined to the football field...

Visiting Cemeteries

Monday, Labor Day, I packed the dog in the car and made the two hour drive up to Grand Rapids, mainly for the purpose of visiting the cemetery.  It was the 3 year anniversary of the death of my mother, and, as I had the day off from work, felt inclined to go and visit.

I will admit, quite freely, that had it not been for one or two conversations with my mother prior to her death, I probably wouldn't make frequent visits to the cemetery.  However, every time I went home to visit, I waited for her to ask me to take her out there, so she could visit my father.  I never quite wrapped my head around why we had to drive all the way out there, almost always in the midst of a bleak, blustery, and frigid winter day.  When I looked up at the cold stone up at the top row of that mausoleum, I never felt the presence of my dad. Inevitably, while there, mom would say, quite wistfully, something akin to "When I'm gone, nobody will come here."  Nobody has ever been able to lay a guilt trip on me in quite the way my mother could.  So, of course, I try to get there several times a year.

I've been reflecting a lot on this tradition of cemetery visiting.  Frankly, it seems to be dying out...pardon the pun.  As a kid, I remember that the visit to the cemetery was an obligatory ritual.  My family in New Orleans has a massive, above ground tomb--as only New Orleans cemetery tombs can be, and my great grandparents stated that any family member could use it when the time came.  On Memorial Day, All Souls Day,  Independence Day, anniversaries of deaths, or any other sort of national holiday, I remember going with my grandparents, and my mother, out to the tomb.  It was a half day affair, while my grandmother and mother weeded the whole area, swept it, washed down the tomb, replaced dead flowers, and basically did housekeeping.  Given the time spent there, one could almost compare it to a vacation home (but not one I'm too anxious to visit anytime soon.)

I remember dreading those visits because, as a child, I was bored to tears. And, as most children would, I found it a little bit creepy and morose, spending all that time hanging about a cemetery.  However, in retrospect, I understand why it was so very important.  We honor our parents and grandparents while they are with us, and this is a way of doing so after they depart.  More importantly, on a personal level, I remember that there were always stories told during those hours.  If it hadn't been for those visits to the cemetery, I would probably know much, much less about my great grandparents, great uncles and aunts, cousins and all the many souls in my family who have found their final resting place in that massive tomb.

I do not believe that my mother and father are hanging about on the top row of the mausoleum up in Grand Rapids.  But I have come to be a bit more like my mother and my grandmother in regards to cemetery visiting.  The frustrating thing is that my parents did not opt for a grave below ground. They are, literally, high up in a wall.  Yesterday, when I arrived, it was cold and rainy.  Stupidly, I was attired in shorts and a t-shirt, and therefore, I sat in the car and stared at the stone, containing their names and their birth dates, and the dates of their deaths.  I did pray, and I admit to talking to them.  More so, I was moved to remember things about them and about our lives together as a family.  It is a good place to remember, honor and reminisce.  I guess, in the end, I'm grateful that I don't have to spend time weeding and cleaning the area around the tomb because I hate yard work as much as I hate death.  But there is something disturbingly untraditional about the wall.  I have this strange urge to want to touch the headstone, as if, somehow, that will bring me closer to my parents--but it is too high up and too far removed.  And yet, writing that now, it seems a silly concept, since I keep telling myself that they are not there.  I suppose it's human to have a need for the tactile--something to touch when the actual person is not there.

When I was in Louisiana back in July, I spent some time walking through a very old cemetery.  I was surprised to see graves going back to the early 1800s that were still cared for.  Some had flowers resting over the stone. Some had little civil war flags waving next to them, indicating, I suppose that the person had been a soldier.  But there were quite a few, as one would imagine, that had gone neglected for years.  There were, disturbingly, too many little graves, indicating the burial of small children or infants--something that was probably all too common during the 19th century.  Many of the stones were illegible, and I could not help but stand there, sadly, and wonder about the stories behind those graves.  There was nobody left to remember them, to tell stories, and to care for their tombs.  And yet, it was not too difficult to imagine the scene, much like the one from my own memory, of the spouses, parents and siblings, coming out and tending to the graves of their loved ones all those years ago, and desperately trying to find ways to reconnect with the one whom they lost.  Now that I am the cemetery visitor, I no longer think it is a silly thing and I regret that many of my own contemporaries don't seem to consider it an important tradition to continue.

Pride Goeth Before the Fall

"Humility is the root of all obedience; and patience is obedience made perfect."  I read these words recently in Cardinal Henry Manning's work "The Eternal Priesthood".  Apt words, too, as humility is something about which I have been forced, perhaps somewhat unwillingly, to ponder these past months.

Modern day interpertations of humility have, I think, somewhat skewed our reactions to the idea of humility so that it can take on a somewhat negative tone.  Sometimes, we think more of humiliation, or shame, or being lowly (in a bad way).  In this day and age, our society encourages us to be great.  We want to be number one (or at least those of us at Notre Dame at the start of a new football season share that attitude.)  Humility is not a trait that headhunters will encourage when one is searching for a job.  We need to pump ourselves up, and to exaggerate our qualities and talents so that we will rise above the rest of the masses and be noticed by potential employers in hopes of achieving the great job and salary of a lifetime.  No matter whether these traits we exhibit on our resumes are based in total truth.

Manning said something else though:  “Humility does not consist in ignorance of truth. If a man is above the average height of men, he cannot help knowing it.” Now, recently, someone took offense at my posting of this quotation, thinking that I was making veiled comments about someone's less than average height.  However, I was not; because I am not nearly clever enough to come up with those sorts of "read between the line" jokes.  What I wanted to convey was that, in order to be humble, we need to openly and totally accept what is true about us.  If I possess a fantastic talent, it is up to me to admit to that talent, but also to acknowledge the SOURCE of that talent.  For example, I happen to be a fantastic violin player (which, of course, is an outright lie, since I am only able to play one piece with any accomplishment whatsoever, and that is "Drunken Sailor").  But, let's pretend that I am a virtuoso on the violin.  In that case, it would be no good to go around saying that I absolutely suck as a violinist.  There's nothing more annoying than proffering a compliment to someone, only to have him or her respond in a falsley modest way, in an attempt to downplay the talent that s/he actually possesses.  False modestly is NOT humility.  I don't know what it IS, but I hate when people respond that way.  It makes me wish I had not offered the complimentary words in the first place and, in the end, I just want the person to go away.

Being humble means also admitting the not so good things about ourselves, as well as acknowledging THAT source.  As a person of faith, I give gratitude for my talents and gifts to God, whom I acknowledge as the Creator of all good and beautiful things.  That is why, in accepting a compliment, I am not being a pompous, proud jerk.  I don't actuallly take the credit for my astonishing interpretation of "Drunken Sailor" but, rather, in receiving and accepting praise, give praise to Him who allowed me to have and develop this amazing ability.  However, the same is not true for my screw ups.  God does not create screw ups.  When I fail in life (far too often these days), to be humble is to accept the truth--that it was I who fell short of the mark, of my own volition.  To respond any other way is to live a life of falsehood.  It is to deny the truth, and, therefore, to let go of any semblance of humility.

I can speak from personal experience in saying that not accepting responsibility for those failings is to opt for the path that spirals downwards.  I do believe we were given a sort of road map to assist us in our time here on earth.  Part of traveling through life demands that we look inward and discover what we have been given, and what we do possess, and find ways to use those things in order to give glory to God.  The other part, which I think is much harder, is to acknowledge that our imperfect selves make huge mistakes, sometimes way too often.  When we lack humility, we go on doing the same things over and over again, hurting others, and, just as equally, hurting ourselves.  Until we openly and humbly look at ourselves truthfully, we will never get beyond those ugly things that hold us back from achieving our potential, and from carrying out that which were are here to do.  I'm not sure, but I think pride might be the opposite of humility, and, you know what "they" say about pride?  (In case you don't:  it goeth before the fall.)  As an aside, I always used to ask my mother who "they" were.  She seemed to know "them" pretty well, as she always used to quote them.  Well, they must be pretty wise, because they say a lot of things that seem to be true, and, regarding pride, and probably humility too, I think they're right.

Seriously! Who Writes Like That?

I have a friend who likes to use big words.  In fact, his writing and his speaking style are what one might call diffuse or circumlocutory.  Recently, he posted something causing me to respond "Seriously!  Who talks like that?"  Well, despite the arguments I expect to get to the contrary, I admire his knowledge and command of the English language, and my statements, therefore, are uttered more out of envy than anything else. 


My own writing style is very straightforward, and my speaking style borders on the pedestrian.  Basically, it's bland, blunt and boring.  One doesn't need a dictionary at the elbow in order to understand what I am trying to convey.  But there is very little beauty or rhythm in the prose, and perhaps that is why I have so few followers.  No matter, that.  I write more for catharsis than the great hope that I will be discovered as the next Hemingway.


I do enjoy coming across literary works employing language that is different from the way I, or society or modern culture expresses itself.  My favorite example of this are the writings of Jane Austen, and, more specifically, the book Pride and Prejudice.  I have not read this work for years, but I do remember my first attempt, as a teen.  I recall, clearly, struggling with the opening lines:  It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.  When I finished reading that paragraph I was moved to utter "HUH?" and I am certain it was followed by the thought "seriously, who writes like that?  Not only does Austen use such language to tell her tale but, also, her characters actually employ such a style when speaking!  Consider this exchange between sisters, Elizabeth and Jane Bennet: 


"Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life."


"I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak what I think."

"I know you do; and it is that which makes the wonder. With your good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough — one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design — to take the good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad — belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his."

After reading Pride and Prejudice, I often wondered if English people really took all that time to convey their thoughts, and if they were always so very polite.  Years later, I had the opportunity to live there, and can relate with some authority that I have heard everything from  a rather working class  "OY, luv!"  to an  upper crust pronunciation of a monosyllabic word that took hours to utter.  But I have never been privileged to be in the company of anyone who spoke as they do in Austen's books, unless they were on the stage.  Simply, the answer to my question is "no".

I tried, on several occasions to emulate this way of communicating.  However, here in South Bend, Indiana, it doesn't translate very well, and so now, to avoid causing guffaws or, worse, being thought of as unbelievably pompous and pretentious, I stick to the more well known phrase "It's as plain as the nose on your face," instead of saying "It is a truth universally acknowledged."  

Economy was not one of Jane's literary traits.  However, if she had just "got to the point", I am relatively sure none of us would have heard of her.  The style of writing sparks the imagination and causes the reader to actually experience emotions and feelings.  Gasp!  And I don't care what anyone tells you--it is true for men as well as for women.  The difference is that women will admit it.  I love her style of writing, quite simply, because it is romantic.  I don't think Austen necessarily caved in to the Romanticist movement of her century, but her literary technique is incredibly evocative.  Here, Darcy proposes to Elizabeth:  “In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”  WHO, in their right mind, would not want to have that spoken to them (unless by their stalker against whom a restraining order had been placed).  All I can do after reading that is to sigh...heavily.

Perhaps the main purpose of language is to convey thoughts and ideas.  But beautiful language does so much more than that, for it can penetrate and awaken the soul, bringing forth profound and impassioned emotions. That is why I love Austen's books.  She does more than tell a tale, but, in so doing, draws us in and allows us to experience, with her masterful use of the English language, consummate and intense sentiments, as if we were actually there, in her story.  In reading Pride and Prejudice, it is surprisingly easy for me to imagine myself, standing face to face with Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy, listening to him account for his love:  "I cannot fix on the hour, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun."

Through a Glass Darkly

I have been thinking a lot about mirrors lately.  Soon, I have to move my big dresser mirror, and I'm worried about breaking it, not because I believe in the superstition of seven years of bad luck, but rather, because it was handcrafted by the Amish, was quite expensive, and I am worried about losing something that I really like a lot.  For other reasons, I have been thinking about mirrors a bit more metaphorically.

Looking at my reflection has not been a pleasant experience these days. Too much sun has caused skin damage.  I'm noticing more and more wrinkles around my eyes, and am constantly trying to hide the facial sag that comes with age.  I am having a hard time finding any black hair underneath the ever-increasing stands of gray. But that's not really what I'm referring to.  I'm talking about what I see past the accidentals.  I'm talking about what I see underneath all of that.

I am no Scripture scholar, and, in fact, I find that, despite my years of studying theology, I tend to misinterpret Scripture or just plain miss the point. But there is no missing the point of 1 Corinthians 13, and it speaks of seeing through a mirror; echoing my thoughts and, in fact, stating them much better than I am able.  So, instead of my usual ramblings, I thought I'd let St. Paul speak today.  Even if you are reluctant to read scripture, or are not a religious person, this passage speaks volumes to all of us:

1 And I point out to you a yet more excellent way.  If I should speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have charity, I have become as sounding brass or a tinkling symbol.

2 And if I have prophecy and know all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith so as to remove mountains, yet do not have charity, I am nothing.

3 And if I distribute all my goods to feed the poor, and if I deliver my body to be burned, yet do not have charity, it profits me nothing.

4 Charity is patient, is kind, charity does not envy, is not pretentious, is not puffed up, 5 is not ambitious, is not self-seeking, is not provoked, thinks no evil, 6 does not rejoice over wickedness, but rejoices with the truth; 7 bears with all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

8 Charity never fails, whereas prophecies will disappear, and tongues will cease, and knowledge will be destroyed. 9 For we know in part, and we prophesy in part; 10 but when that which is perfect has come, that which is imperfect will be done away with.  11 When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I felt as a child, I thought as a child. Now that I have become a man, I have put away the things of a child.  12 We see now through a mirror in an obscure manner, but then face to face.  Now I know in part, but then I shall know even as I have been known. 13 So there abide faith, hope and charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.

A New Year, Not Quite the Same

Here at Notre Dame, we are amping up for a new semester.  The first year students are all here, and I have been stopped on campus four times today to offer directions to them and/or their parents.  It is a picture perfect, albeit rather warm day, which is fortunate for those moving in and for the parents, who are excitedly snapping photographs of every Notre Dame landmark:  the Golden Dome with Our Lady atop, the grotto, the stadium, Touchdown Jesus (forgive me Lord), and other monuments that they might think are important or iconic.


With all things new, there is an accompanying feel of excitement in the air; and yet, I can't help experiencing a profound sense of sadness this time around.  Notre Dame does not feel the same to me this August because of some losses we suffered in the past year.  As with any University, things are fluid.  People come and people go, and yet the community of Notre Dame, the spirit of Notre Dame, somehow has kept a sort of steady identity. However, a massive void has been created as a result of the deaths of three individuals who WERE Notre Dame.  Their absences are felt keenly on this campus by many, and my heart is heavy as we begin a new academic year without them. Perhaps it is true that nobody is indispensable--I am certain that qualified and competent people can step in and perform their jobs and tasks. However, each of them was, in their own way, irreplaceable.  Even though two of these individuals had recently retired, they were still as much a part of the spirit and mystique of Notre Dame as Touchdown Jesus or the Golden Dome.  


I am fortunate in that I have had the honor and pleasure of knowing all three personally, and working with one of them.


Last August, just after the start of a new semester, we lost Jim Phillips.  Jim was, for 34 years, the Associate Director of Bands.  Before that, Jim was a "double domer", meaning that he received two degrees from the University of Notre Dame.  To use a cliche, if you cut Jim, he would bleed blue and gold. Jim was dedicated to this place.  I don't think I was ever in his presence when we didn't enter into a conversation about Notre Dame (usually discussing what needed to be changed--much to the chagrin of those around us.)  Years back, when I was in charge of Breen Phillips Hall, quite a number of my young female charges were members of the marching band.  Anyone who has spent any time around members of the marching band understand their uniqueness.  They sort of form a culture of their own, in which they tend to have a lot of fun, but their activities and conversations are often times beyond the understanding of those of us who are "outsiders."  Regardless, I can attest to the fact that, across the board, each and every one of these band students adored Jim Phillips, as Associate Director.  They liked and admired him over and above the Director at the time.  Suffice to say, he was universally beloved by all of the students he taught.  At Jim's funeral, at the Basilica on campus, I ran into a surprising number of people who had, years back, been students and members of the band under Jim's direction. Their presence there was a testament to the positive influence that he had upon them.  Clearly, they still held great affection and admiration for him.


Students, alums and fans live to see the band.  It is difficult to describe accurately just how important the band is to the culture and lore of this University, but I can tell you that, when they march through campus on a Friday afternoon, preceeding a home football weekend, people will trample you in their attempt to get a good look as they file past, playing the Notre Dame Fight Song.  To be associated with the band is to be an integral part of those intangible things that make up the Notre Dame spirit.  Although Jim had recently retired, it was clear that Notre Dame, and his position with the band were intrinsic and significant to who he was as a person. His positive presence and influence are still very much a part of the Notre Dame Marching Band, and, whenever I watch them take the field prior to a game, I cannot help but think, quite sadly, of Jim.


On January 29th, one day after the Feast of St. Thomas Aquinas, we lost Dr. Ralph McInerny.  Upon Ralph's death, a multitude of eulogies, obituaries and tributes were published and, as I admired him perhaps more than any other person I have ever met, I think I read every single one of them.  I could not do justice to Ralph as many of these people have though.  But I was fortunate enough to come to know him personally, and the times he spent talking to me are memories that I will treasure forever.


Dr. McInerny was one of the most eminent Thomist philosophers of our time. In fact, he once wrote an introductory book on Aquinas which he subtitled "A Handbook for the Peeping Thomist." He had a thing for bad puns.  Notre Dame had the great honor of being able to retain Ralph as a professor here since 1955 and it would be impossible to count the staggering number of young lives who were positively affected by his unbelievable intelligence, his charming wit, his graciousness, his unwavering and courageous commitment to orthodox Catholicism, his willingness to act as a guide and mentor and, most of all, his genuine and sincere kindness.  


What made Ralph special, in my mind, was his constancy in defending all things Catholic, often within this very university that claims to be just that. And, because he was a powerhouse in academia, he was never one to be taken lightly, much less ignored.  I had a few occasions to talk to him about this, and would state, categorically, that his vision of what Notre Dame should be and what he hoped it would be someday again is a vision I share.  


I arrived early for his funeral, thinking, quite rightly, that the Basilica would be packed.  Somewhere in the midst of it all, I began sobbing uncontrollably, because I found myself feeling unsure as to whether we will see his like again here on this campus.  There was a reception afterwards, and it was almost a joyful event.  It was a veritable "who's who" of great Catholic scholars and eminent academics, many of whom stood up to tell stories of this giant of a man.  I found myself sitting at table with Jude Dougherty, and related to him that the thing I loved most about Ralph was that, despite his fame and renown, he was still humble enough to be friends with the likes of me.  I was somewhat flattered when Jude stood up, went to the microphone, and stole my line (getting a laugh in the process).  


I stated in an earlier blog post that, when I used to leave my office, I would, from time to time, encounter Ralph in and around the library.  I began to eagerly anticipate seeing him, and felt happily rewarded on those few fortunate occasions.  True to his nature, he always had time to stop and chat, and sometimes offer up a really bad pun.  I often thought, when speaking with him, that he was the sort of Catholic I really wanted to emulate.  I still think that, now more than ever.  I am certain that he was happily rewarded for the life he lived on this earth and yet I feel ineffably sad that this new generation of Notre Dame students will not ever have the opportunity to encounter him in the classroom and be personally touched by this amazing man.


In February of this year, Dr. Gail Walton, Director of Music at Sacred Heart Basilica, succumbed to cancer.  Again, Gail was one of those people that was part and parcel of "Notre Dame". Years back, I worked in the Office of Campus Ministry and therefore, for a brief period, was able to call Gail a colleague.  While I never had the fortunate opportunity to be a member of one of the many choirs which she directed, I was impressed with Gail on so many levels.  As a musician and director, she was nothing short of brilliant. The music at Sacred Heart Basilica on this campus is some of the best you will hear anywhere in the land.  As a teacher and mentor, she was beloved, again, by the countless numbers who progressed through this university. Many of those who sang in her choirs went on to have professional careers in music, inspired by her guidance and tutoring.  Countless others today, work in church music as a direct result of their contact with Gail.  Some even confessed to having converted to Catholicism because of their experiences singing sacred music with Gail's choir.


From the opening of the school year Mass to the graduation Baccaulaureate Mass, and with a multitude of Masses and liturgical events in between, one could always look forward to experiencing the most beautiful and expertly performed sacred music ever.  When members of the Notre Dame community reflect upon the poignant moments of our time here on this campus, inevitably, we have to conclude that listening to the Liturgical Choir or one of Gail's other choirs at some very special event trumps just about any other memory or experience.


St. Augustine said in his Confessions: "What tears were shed, as I felt myself embracing the heart of the sweet melody of the hymns and canticles that re-echo in Thy Church! What psalm-melodies entered my ears, and truth poured itself into my heart and stirred up the flame of affection, and I wept with consolation."   Sacred music allows us to transcend, and draws us ever closer to our Creator in the context of the liturgy.  Gail Walton was truly one of the great masters, and it was her life's work to provide the music that aided us in that magnificent experience of  transcendence.


Life goes on for those of us who are left behind.  Notre Dame goes on, but it will never be quite the same. 

To Jim Phillips, Ralph McInerny and Gail Walton:  Resquiat in pacem.

And On Into Autumn

“Then summer fades and passes and October comes. We’ll smell smoke then, and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill of nervousness, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure.” 

White Field at the University of Notre Dame

And so we are on the brink.  The days growing ever shorter as the sun sinks ever earlier each evening below the horizon, leaving us in darkness now well before 9:00pm.  A cold front blew through on Sunday evening, and for the first night in awhile, I turned off the air conditioning and opened the windows.  

I have written about the seasons before; always in high praise of summer and low praise of any season that has anything to do with summer's end and winter's approach.  Our students are starting to flow onto campus in huge masses, returning for a new semester.  The parking lots are full; even where student parking is prohibited (aggravating, that).  Restaurants now all have a standard long waiting period for a table, as parents who have accompanied their first year son or daughter take them out for their last meals before being exposed to dining hall fare.  Tomorrow, the Marching Band will make it's first journey of the semester through campus, playing the hallowed Notre Dame Fight Song.  People will file out of buildings in droves, all clapping excitedly along in rhythm.  

Around these parts, people love the autumn.  I grudgingly admit that it is a stunning season in the Midwest.  Try as I might, my camera can never quite capture the brilliant beauty of the leaves as the trees begin to change.  The mosaic of colors will be too outstanding to describe accurately.  Anticipation here on campus will be high, as everyone awaits the first football game, showcasing our new, genius coach.  Folks can't wait to pull out jeans and Notre Dame sweatshirts.

But I am not a member in the ranks of autumn lovers, nor, I fear, will I ever be. Yes, I marvel at the beauty of nature around us, and, typically, I will not miss a football game, either college or pro.  Yet, even before summer's end, I find myself ever saddened by the darkening of days and the ever so slight warning in the breeze that, all too soon, the temperatures will descend and, along with them, we will be descending into the long, dark, dreary period called winter.  If only I could freeze time and keep this day forever--the sun shining brightly against a brilliant blue sky and a warm breeze softly blowing. Thoughts of snow and ice should be miles away but, alas, I cannot help but dwell, perhaps unhealthily so, on that much despised (at least by me) season with it's relentless howling winds and frigid temperatures.  Some days it feels as if we will never see sunlight again.

God give me the strength to get through it!