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.

Chance Encounters with Famous People and Some Not So Famous People (with Stock Photos Borrowed from the Internet)

I haven't run across anyone famous lately, and so I don't know what has really moved me to reflect on this topic, except, perhaps, that I recently viewed a photo of Patrick Stewart and was reminded that I have seen him in person on the street, not once, but TWICE!  I am not ashamed to admit that I do enjoy spotting famous people in person, especially those whom I really, really like or admire.  Those who scorn this idea and stick their noses up at those of us who admit to getting a thrill out of chance encounters such as these are either lying to themselves or they're stuck up prigs.  All of us think it's a big deal to see famous people.  Only some of us are willing to admit to it.

 In the case of Patrick Stewart (Captain Jean luc Picard of Star Trek fame), my first sighting of him was probably in about 1996.  I was walking down Oxford Street in London, and he was coming right towards me.  I am not the autograph type, and am the sort of person that believes that the famous folks would much rather not be bothered when out in public; so, other than almost screaming out loud, which was, in all honesty my first impulse, I stopped in shock, crossed the street, ran ahead of him, and then crossed back so I could walk by him again.  I realize this comes close to stalking, but it's not.  In order to describe true stalking, I will detail my second encounter with Patrick Stewart.

First, it's crucial, in understanding this episode (and to not jump to the conclusion that I am a scary psychopath) to realize that I love Patrick Stewart.  I cannot explain why.  The guy is bald and, comparatively, he's old.  But there is something about him--his bearing, his "Englishness" (whatever that means), the way he speaks, and certainly the way he acts that is extremely attractive, at least as far as I'm concerned.

I have seen Patrick Stewart in two plays.  The first was a play called the Masterbuilder, and he was the sole artist on stage.  That, of course, worked quite well for me, as I was able to watch him non-stop for two hours.  It was also an interesting play and, it goes without saying, very well acted.  It was during his run in the second play that I spotted him.

I had tickets to see Patrick Stewart in a play on the same day I ran into him in the street.  He was starring, with Ian McKellan and Simon Callow (NOT Simon Cowell!) in a play called Waiting for Godot.  Oddly, I saw Ian McKellan earlier that day in the nearly the same spot I later saw Patrick Stewart.  McKellan was sitting at a sidewalk table ("my table" in fact) at a nearby restaurant.  I was walking by, noticed him sitting there, and remember thinking to myself "It's a pity that isn't Patrick Stewart."  Later that evening, I showed up to have a meal before the play.   Stewart was walking out of the restaurant, by himself, with a baseball cap pulled low over his face.  He stepped out of the door onto the sidewalk right in front of me, in fact.  Our eyes met briefly.  I'm sure he saw the startled look  of recognition in mine, and in his I saw, well, suspicion and, could it be fear?  He must have wondered if I would recognize him, and then pester and annoy him for an autograph.  Of course I would never do something so very crass.  I did something so much classier:  Instead of walking into the restaurant, which is where I was initially headed, I followed him as he walked up the street.  Nobody recognized him and I was dying to shout to people:  "You just walked past Patrick Stewart!!!"  However, I do note that the Brits seem much calmer about seeing famous people than Americans.  Or maybe that's just Londoners--they're probably used to it.

Regardless of all this, I continued stalking Patrick up the street until he, quite disappointedly, turned into a shop called Spar.  Apparently, he opted not to eat at my restaurant, and was looking for food prior to his performance.  Spar is a little market that also has (vile) pre-prepared sandwiches and other deli food.  When he went into Spar, it was as if my bubble had burst.  How could I idolize someone who would eat at Spar?????  I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, hoping he would burst out of there as a man breaking the surface of the water and gasping for air.  He did not (perhaps he was hiding from me?)  Disillusioned, I turned around and went back to my restaurant to eat.  I still love Patrick Stewart.  However, when he finally does invite me to dine with him, I will have to decline.  His tastes just aren't on par with mine.

By the way, I didn't really enjoy Waiting for Godot as a play.  The actors' performances were beyond stellar, but the play is just sort of strange and depressing as far as I'm concerned.  Still, I was able to watch dear Patrick on stage all evening. 

It seems as if the majority of my encounters with famous people have occurred on the streets of London.  My very first famous sighting of someone famous there was back in 1995, when I was walking out of the building where our London school was then located, on Albemarle St.  There were a couple of quite ritzy art galleries on that street and as I popped out the door, on a very cold winter's day, there, in front of me, stood Joan Collins.  She was hanging on the arm of a beautiful blond boy half her age, and she was decked, literally, from head to toe in enormous fur.  They were looking in the window of the art gallery next door which, at the time, was showcasing MY painting--a Holbein copy of Thomas More.  I was dying to purchase it (I think it was listed at L60,000 or something akin to that.  My memory might be faulty here, but suffice to say it cost a teeny bit more than I had in my bank account). 

Seeing Joan Collins was a thrill.  She was such a glorious bitch in Dynasty!  I ran back into our building, wanting to tell someone--ANYONE. Alas, the place was dead as a doornail and there was absolutely nobody to tell.  I ran back out, but by then, she was gone.  I suspect she saw me, and then saw me dart back inside, with the obvious intention of announcing her presence to the world.  She probably hightailed it out of there at the speed of light with her young toyboy.  Or is it boytoy?  I never really know.  Regardless, I have to say that Joan should give out the name of her plastic surgeon.  Most actresses, in an attempt to stay young, end up looking creepy after their plethora of plastic procedures.  Whoever Joan is going to is a cosmetic surgery god or goddess.  It is definitely money well spent.  It almost doesn't look fake.

Other people I came across on the streets of London include Sarah Jessica Parker, and, in all fairness, she looks much better in person.  She was walking alone down Bond Street one afternoon, loaded with shopping bags.  She had done her hair in such a way that it minimized that sort of horse-faced appearance that she is famous for.  On that very same street, but a different day, I saw George Carlin, also walking alone.  He was much shorter than I expected him to be.  Probably the least famous famous person I saw was Jeff Daniels, walking down Piccadilly Street one day.  I like him because he's from Southern Michigan.

My favorite all time sighting though, is the time I saw Judi Dench.  I LOVE Judi Dench.  I will watch her in anything and I don't care how bad the reviews are.  Dame Judi was starring in a Noel Coward Play called Hayfever, and it was at the Haymarket Theatre.  The back stage door of the Haymarket exits onto the little alley where the front door to our London Centre building is located.  Leaving there late one night, I saw a little crowd of people gathered around the backstage door and I almost wet myself when I realized that they were waiting for Judi Dench to exit.  I walked down there, but never crossed over the street.  After all, I just wanted to see her.  I have a sort of fear of actually meeting my famous heroes because I am afraid that they might be jerks and then I will be disillusioned for life.  This happened on several occasions when I worked the senior PGA tour in Indianapolis (but NOT with Arnie Palmer--he was a star!)  Judi finally exited, signed every autograph, and politely spoke to the small crowd.  She entered into the back of a waiting car and as they drove off, she WAVED to me.  Sigh...I love her.  I should edit that last line out since it is repetitive and one should never say the same thing twice in a paragraph, but it's true.  She is awesome.

I saw Dame Maggie Smith one evening at that very same place.  Coming back to the London Centre from a concert with my friend and her young grandson, I noted a small crowd out back and told Fabian, the young boy, that they were more than likely waiting for Maggie Smith who was starring in a play there.  When I told him that she is the actress who plays Professor McGonagall in the Harry Potter movies, he became really excited, and so we wandered over there in hopes of meeting her.  I admired her before, but that night I became a true fan.  She was polite to the people gathered to collect her autograph, but then she turned, looked down and noticed Fabian.  She made a big fuss and said (literally) "OY!  What are you doing out of bed this late on a school night?"  In fact, he was missing a week of school in Wales, having come to London to stay with his grandmother.  She chatted with him for a few moments, and then asked him for something she could autograph. She signed his concert program with both her name and Professor McGonagall's.  The kid was thrilled.  It took her but a minute of kindness but she gave the young boy a great memory.  She's a classy dame.

My closest and longest personal encounter with a famous person was on a 3 hour flight from Phoenix to Chicago.  I was fortunate to be able to upgrade to first class that day; however, when I boarded the plane, there was an enormous man sitting in my seat.  In a very timid voice, I suggested that he was sitting in my seat, and he turned to me and stated that the woman in the window seat (who was elderly and was all wrapped up in a blanket, and already apparently asleep leaning against the window) was sitting in his.  I stood there like a fool.  I was more concerned with my precious first class seat, but I did note something familiar about this gentleman.  The flight attendant came and shuttled the poor woman back to coach seating, and we both sat there feeling like pond scum for having made this poor granny unravel herself from her blankets, and then practically crawl back to the miserable seating in coach.  She clearly had pre-boarded, as she was one of those people who "needed extra time."  As this gi-normous man and I were talking, I noted that as people boarded, they were nodding to him, waving at him and saying hello.  At first, I thought that he must have known other passengers on the plane, but by about the 10th person, I started to realize this guy was "somebody".  I knew I had seen him before, and at first I thought he looked a lot like Charles Barkley, but he was wearing a ballcap and was huge like a football player.  His hands were enormous--I have big hands, so I can say that.  But his hands dwarfed mine and his feet were the size of snow skis.  In fact, I remember thinking at the time that this guy was a freak of nature.

I was considering asking him if he played football.  I was exceedingly glad I kept my mouth closed, because when the flight attendant came around, she referred to him as Mr. Barkley--you know, the basketball player.   She wasn't showing preference--she called me Ms. Hutchinson, so that's just fine.  I didn't recognize him initially, not because I had never seen him.  Sir Charles was, at the time, on television frequently, as a sports commentator.  But he had gained a bit of weight, and therefore did not look the same as he did when I had last viewed him on television. That's fine--I had put on some weight myself, and I'm sure that's why he didn't recognize me. The rest of the flight was uneventful, except he did take my banana from my food tray.  I offered it though (after he asked if I was going to eat it)--it wasn't as if he ripped it off in a sudden fit of low potassium.  And, when we arrived in Chicago, I was taking down my bag from the overhead bin and asked if he wanted me to get his.  He said yes, and when I picked it up, I realized it was made of perhaps the softest leather I had ever felt.  I rested it on my seat, and lovingly ran my hand over it and said "Nice bag, sir."  That's right--I'm full of them--there are many more clever and witty sayings where that one came from.

My least famous encounter of all time, and the one that is most laughable occurred in Grand Rapids at the Festival of the Arts.  I might have barely been in high school and, near the Calder Stage one afternoon, spied Buck Matthews.  Buck was a local weatherman for WOOD TV as it was known at the time.  I went up jokingly (seriously, I WAS joking--I didn't much care for Buck), and asked for his autograph.  His response was:  "I'm sorry, but if I gave you one, everyone else would want one too."  I looked about, and saw absolutely nobody waiting to get Buck's autograph (or even to speak to him).  Hmmm, I think Buck thought he was a bigger deal than, in fact, he was.  I walked away, trying, for politeness' sake, to not smirk and snort Coca Cola through my nose.

In my time, I have come across many other people who are considered famous in one way or another, but the majority of them are well-known because of their academic disciplines, and therefore, people not involved in the world of academia, or in certain disciplines of academia, may not recognize the names.  There is nothing more deflating than saying to someone "GUESS WHO I JUST SAW?" And then, after telling the person, receiving the blank stare of someone who has no idea what you're talking about.

Still, my favorite all-time relationship was with such a famous academic.  And it was my favorite relationship for precisely this reason:  he was extremely well known internationally in his academic discipline of Philosophy, and, on top of that, was equally well-known for his prolific output of fictional writing, and, despite all that, he was genuinely nice, kind, and witty to me every single time we met.  I am talking about Dr. Ralph McInerny.  I think my favorite encounter with Dr. McInerny was when we met coming out of daily Mass one afternoon and he offered to take me to lunch at the Huddle on campus.  I'm sure I sputtered and made an ass out of myself, but I went along, because, frankly, it was about the biggest thrill of my life.  He told me he was buying, as he had just received a big amount of money from the folks who were going to turn his Fr. Dowling mysteries into a television series.  I loved that hour, and learned a lot of very interesting things about him that day.  The most interesting thing I learned is that, until that point, he thought I was a nun.  I forgave him though.  After all, he was buying.

I have a real photo of Ralph, and I'm actually in it, proving that I do really know him.  It is a graduation photo.  Ralph, having garnered his PhD from Laval University in Quebec, was decked out every year in a fabulous academic gown with a luxurious stole made of ermine fur.  I loved his commencement getup and he agreed to pose in a photo with me one year.  I don't show it often, because I look like a bit of a dork in the picture. 

Ralph passed away this year.  When I left work everyday and made the walk across campus to my car, I used to anticipate running into him. I often did meet him in the library and, as he was both famous and too humble to act like it, it was a pretty big highlight for me.  He never, ever acted as if he did not have the time of day to stop, say hello, and have a chat with me.  Alas, I no longer have that to look forward to, as Ralph is with the angels and with far more famous beings that Charles Barkley and, even Patrick Stewart.