There is an introduction my wife likes to use when she wants a stranger’s complete attention: “My name is Jennifer Plum from St. Paul.” She first used this phrase to successfully sit three feet away from Prince during his iconic performance at the Dakota Jazz Club even though she arrived at the venue without a ticket for one of the most coveted shows in recent memory. While her name is indeed Jennifer Plum, she is neither from St. Paul nor does she live their now. To her defense, she has called the Capitol City her home at various points and has taught English in its Eastside neighborhood for the past twenty-five years.
When she evoked the phrase in the back seat of the car on our drive to Eau Claire for a book signing, my ears perked up because I knew she meant serious business.
What was surprising was who she had chosen to be in her cross hairs: “My name is Jennifer Plum from St. Paul and I have some questions about your cemetery.” There was some confused back and forth before Jennifer hung up the phone. She turned to the rest of the passengers in the car, “I pretty sure the person I was talking to works in a call center.”
“For a cemetery?” I responded.
“Yeah,” she said. “They had no idea what was going on but said someone would call me back soon.”
We all agreed the odds of that happening were as likely as the Vikings winning the Super Bowl.
“I guess we will have to figure it out ourselves,” I stated summarizing the general feeling of the group.
“I hope not,” Jennifer replied, “I don’t want to figure out the gate on our own.”
Jennifer had reason for her concern. The “gate” was the major obstacle the last time this car full of people had driven a long distance to visit a cemetery. In that instance it almost kept us from seeing my father who had passed away two years earlier after a long illness. Gates blocking the way to loved ones was especially challenging for my mother since she was in a wheelchair.
Thankfully, the story had a happy ending: somehow the gate was left open well beyond visiting hours. We concluded that my father from his heavenly post had interceded.
We sat in silence at the prospect of confronting another gate and not wanting to tempt fate twice.
Half an hour later, Jennifer’s cell phone was ringing.
A much different voice than before opened with, “Hi this is Bill,” (or was it Phil?) “I heard you had some questions about Calvary Catholic Cemetery.”
Jennifer was in a bit of a shock but preceded with her inquiry. She explained that she was, “Jennifer Plum from St. Paul,” and that she was traveling from the Twin Cities to Eau Claire with the hopes of visiting the final resting place of some relatives buried there. Adding urgency to the situation, she went on, is that for one of the passengers, “this might be the only opportunity for her to see the grave of her grandparents.”
Without hesitation Bill or Phil responded, “I can meet you there in 45 minutes.”
Jennifer clarified that we were going to an event first between 12:00 – 2:00.
“Okay, how about 2:30,” he countered
There was the matter of lunch after the event.
“Shall we say 4:00?” Bill/Phil said, undeterred.
But then you had to account for the Devine long goodbye and so we settled for 5:00 PM. Just enough time before the February sun sets. Bill/Phil asked for the names we were looking for so he could “do a little research.”
Jennifer was about to hang up when our daughter, Ava, reminded her to ask about the most pressing question. “Don’t forget about the gate.”
“Oh, one more thing. Will you be able to get us through the gate?” Jennifer interjected.
From our end of the conversation, we could only hear Jennifer respond with a few “okays” followed by a “really?”
Then the phone call ended.
“Well, what did he say about the gate?” I asked.
“Uh, he said ‘Just look for the maroon Chevy Impala.’”
“Well, that is unexpected,” Ava noted, also summarizing the general feeling of the group.
A well-attended book signing, followed by a nice lunch, concluded with pictures and a very long Devine goodbye. We called Bill, or was it Phil, to tell him we were on our way.
He told us to meet him at the mausoleum where two of the five relatives we hoped to pay our respects to resided.
After a busy and fruitful day, we hardly had time to think much about this whole set up, but at least one complication was resolved when we reached the entrance of Calvary Catholic Cemetery. While there was an archway, missing was any trace of a gate.
Our sense of relief was momentary as other questions started to mount now that we had gained access to the grounds. The cemetery was filled with only flat plaques for markers and the night before, Eau Claire was blanketed with several inches of snow. How on earth would we be able to find the grave with everything covered?
Most of our questions, however, revolved around the man we were supposed to meet, Bill or Phil. Perhaps we had seen too many horror movies. I mean, a guy who is this accommodating, works for a cemetery, and has seemingly nothing else to do but to go grave hunting with complete strangers on a Saturday evening? Either Bill/Phil is one hell of a guy or . . .
We approached the mausoleum and, parked in front, was a maroon Chevy Impala. No turning back now as we placed the “or” on the back burner. To hedge our bets, though, we told my mom and daughter to wait in the car and keep it running. I’m not sure exactly how a 14-year-old and a grammy in a wheelchair would make a hasty escape by Subaru Forester, but it seemed the sensible thing to do.
My wife and I exited the car and was greeted by a man with a full head of wispy gray hair, dressed in a light coat and jeans, and carrying a three ringed binder.
“Hello Jennifer from St. Paul, I’m Bill.”
Well, at least one mystery deciphered.
He then turned to me and said, “And you must be the Devine.”
“What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Oh, I can tell by the eyes that you are a Devine.”
It was at this point all my fears subsided as Bill had completely won me over.
I am going to cut to the quick as to the reason why, so we don’t have to dance around the obvious: I am a dark skinned, bearded guy who isn’t often classified at first glance to be of Irish descent. When I was younger, I would wince a little to tell people that I was the grandson of Hall of Fame football coach, Dan Devine, anticipating the inevitable pause as their mind took the time to compute how this could be possible. When the pause was longer than usual, I would follow up with “my father is Pakistani.” That bit of information seemed to unclog their processor.
People have grown more sophisticated over time, and I have grown more comfortable in my own skin. To not even have to go through a single verse of this song and dance, though, was meaningful.
“Thank you,” I told Bill, “those who know me best say the same thing.”
“Well its obvious. I know lots of Devines and you’re the spittin’ image.”
I signaled to my mom and daughter that the coast was clear and we all entered the mausoleum with our new found guide.
I introduce Bill to my mother as, “Jennifer Husain, the oldest of Dan and Joanne Devine’s children.”
Bill shot me a look and said, “So, there are two Jennifers?”
I nodded in confirmation.
“I take it this one’s not from St. Paul,” Bill pointed at my mother. “But where are my manners, let’s get inside where its warm.”
The enclosure was peaceful and cozy. I could see it would be nice place to sit, reflect, and pay due respect to loved ones.
Jennifer from St. Paul was wandering and quickly spotted the first objective on our quest. Near the top of the Mausoleum was a gray-brown rectangular stone with “KURTZ” in capital letters. Underneath was inscribed EDWARD JR on one side and MARY T on the other. Mary, the bond that kept the Devine siblings together. The two founded and ran B&E Supply in Chippewa Falls and were born one year apart and died one year a part.
Bill gathered us around the table and gave a brief history of the cemetery. Afterward, he opened the three ringed binder and showed us a map of the plots.
“The rest of your family members are buried next to each other, here and here,” touching the map.
He then flipped to another page to show us the transaction records.
“An Erma B. Devine purchased the first couple of plots on 3/19/68. She came back the following year and purchased more.”
A complex family tale was hidden in these few simple lines.
The ones procured on March 19th, 1968 was undoubtedly for Jerome, JJ Devine, who would die two days later. My thoughts started wandering to the part of the Nine Devines that shed light on Erma’s compassionate choices when her husband passed away.
“Shall we go see them before it gets dark?” Bill said bringing me back to the present day.
Bill disappeared around a corner and returned with a broom in his hand. That answered another question: how we’d be able to see the grave markers.
We traveled a short distance by car and Bill exited and went directly to work. He started sweeping vigorously as the rest 
of us started suiting up to encounter the cold. Bill was stationed only about 20 feet from the road, but the snow was so thick that my mom in her wheelchair signaled us to go on without her.
By the time we reached Bill, he was finishing his work on the first plaque. All the site map could tell us was that Erma purchased the plot and not who was buried there.
“Patrick T. Devine,” Bill said with emphasis. The rest of the letters on the marker were highlighted by flakes of white snow:
CPT US ARMY
WORLD WAR II VEITNAM
REVEREND FATHER
Missing from the description was his iconic nickname, “Blood & Guts Devine.”
It dawns on us the sensibility of Erma purchasing a site for Fr. Pat Devine as he had no spouse to be buried next to, nor any children to bear the responsibility. Erma would be gone long before her son, so this was an investment that would pay off well after her death.
Bill, then, shuffled off to a spot a little closer to the road and took to his sweeping once again.
This one took a little more time as there were two names to reveal.
My mom was cranking her neck and inching a little closer to the embankment eager to get a better look.
“Should we just give it a go,” I asked, sensing her anxiousness. “You may never get another chance.”
My mom agreed and we positioned ourselves for a big push like a couple of olympic bobsleders. My hope was the wheels would eventually act like a skis, but the snow was so thick it behaved more like an anchor.
Able to walk a little bit, she told me, “I’ll follow your footsteps.” And she did, saturating with snowy wetness the crocks she wore everywhere regardless of the conditions. I am reminded that while she may have been born in the North Country, she did not grow up here.
I retrieved the wheelchair so she could rest after her polar expedition and she watched up close as Bill finished his work.
DEVINE
ERMA B JEROME J.
Bill turned to my mother and in his kindest tone announced, “Jennifer, here are your grandparents.”
My mother hovered over the gravesite. The oldest grandchild of Erma and Jerome Devine had only seen her grandmother once or twice. But, this would be the closest that Jennifer Devine Husain would ever be to meeting her grandfather.
“Notice how it’s of different material,” Bill said to no one in particular. “Father Pat’s plaque is military issued. There are several of these types in the cemetery.” Each commemorated with an American Flag.
Erma and Jerome’s marker looked like it could have been installed last week.
We huddled together as the wind picked up from the west and said a prayer of gratitude. Dusk was upon us and it was time to say goodbye. My mother was surely succumbing to cold since she hadn’t dressed for a Wisconsin winter. I dreaded the thought of my mom’s return trek to the road, but when I turned around Ava had somehow defied physics and dragged her and the wheelchair back to the car.
We stood on the road and Bill oriented us as to where we were in the cemetery so we could visit anytime we please. “And if you get lost, you can always call me.”
“Before we go,” I said to Bill, “can we go back to the mausoleum for a quick minute. I have something to show you.”
We drove the way we came, Bill leading the way in his maroon Chevy Impala. We entered back into the enclosure and gathered around the table where he had shown us the map of the plots.
I handed Bill a copy of the Nine Devines of Chippewa Falls.
“I want you to have this. It’s the story of my family. I wrote it with my Great Uncle, Deacon Jerry Devine. He is the last living sibling of the nine Devines. The main reason we were in Eau Claire was actually for a book signing.”
“Well, you don’t say?” He then read out loud the author’s names. “Deacon Jerry Devine and then there’s you, A. Darius Husain.”
Having not needed to cover the topic beforehand, my mother tells Bill that our last name is Husain because her late husband was born in India and grew up in Pakistan. “My husband and Darius wrote a book together as well. He would have gotten such a kick out of this moment. I think he had a hand in bringing us together.”
“India?,” Bill replies. “My wife and I just got back from two weeks in New Dehli.”
The birthplace of my father. Something grander indeed is at play here.
“Do you mind if I sign the book for you?” I ask Bill.
“I would be deeply honored” he replies.
I reach into my pocket and discover that I misplaced my pen. “Well, a whole day of signing books and I can’t find anything to write with.”
Bill opens his binder and says, “Here, take mine.”
I allow a moment to think about what I want to say and then I smile with approval.
In the mausoleum, under the watchful eye of Mary and Ed Kurtz, Bill and I stand arm and arm and Ava snaps a photo of us holding The Nine Devines.
He opens the book to the title page.
Inscribed:
“To our new friend Bill, thanks for helping us uncover our history.”