The Book of Devine

 

One of my prized possessions is the old trunk my father used in 1950's when he was in the military. Notice that it has his Social Security number stenciled right on it.

 

One of the many reasons I wish my Dad were alive is so I could ask him about an insignia on the trunk. With it's iron crosses it looks almost like some Nazi artifact, although my father never served in World War II nor was he ever stationed in Germany.

However, maybe it's a decal my Dad got from his father, who did serve in World War II and who did bring a lot of Nazi stuff back from Europe. My Grandfather served all over Europe but never saw a moment of combat, serving instead as one of the military cooks; a humble wartime calling but an essential one because, as my Grandfather used to say, "An army marches on its stomach."

My Grandfather was full of war stories, which unfortunately I've forgotten most of. It is a shame that when we are young we only half-listen to the tales of our elders, only to wish when we are older that we could rehear them, but alas the tellers have vanished into the realm beyond telling.

One story I remember that my Grandfather used to tell involved an Irish monk and his sacred mission regarding a book. At the end of the war all of Europe was flooded with refugees of various types, people who had been displaced by the war and who were now returning to their homes - if their homes even still existed.

My Grandfather said that one day driving in Germany he came upon an elderly Irish monk who was walking along the road, carrying an old book. He stopped his jeep and asked the monk where he was going. The monk replied that he was trying to return to Ireland, from which he had fled after his monastery had been bombed.

"What is that book you're carrying?" my Grandfather asked.

"It is the only thing I was able to save from the ruins of my monastery," the old monk explained. "It is a book of genealogy dating back to the fourteenth century."

My Grandfather asked to see the book, and then was shocked to read its title - The Book of Devine. In it was the listing of the name, birth, baptism, marriage and death dates of every member of the Devine family going back five hundred years! My Grandfather quickly showed the old monk his dog tags.

"Look!" he cried," My name is Devine! This book is the only known complete record of my family history! I must have it!"

"NO!" the old monk exclaimed, "It is the last remaining relic of my monastery, and I have made a sacred vow that I shall return it to Ireland where it belongs. You cannot have it."

My Grandfather laughed, "Sorry old padre, but if you'll notice I have a gun and you do not, and I'm taking this book back to America with me." Then he walked to his jeep carrying the Book of Devine and returned to the base.

That night my Grandfather went to the tavern with his friends for a night of drinking, and as he walked there he kept thinking that he saw a shadowy figure behind him just out of view. When he got to the bar a small shape slipped in the door just behind him. Soon my grandfather recognized the old monk seated in the corner. He tried to ignore him, but he monk just sat and stared at my Grandfather from across the room the entire evening, making it difficult for my Grandfather to completely relax and enjoy himself. Finally at closing time my Grandfather went up to him demanding, "What are you doing here? Leave me alone!"

"Give me the Book of Devine." the old monk solemnly stated. My Grandfather sternly refused, left the bar and returned to the base.

The next morning, as my Grandfather drove away from the base, and a little down the road he saw a familiar figure standing by the side of the road. "Old man," my grandfather exclaimed, "this is a military installation! What are doing here?"

"You know why I am here." the old monk solemnly stated. "Give me the Book of Devine."

"Go away you old fool!" my Grandfather ordered. "Leave me alone!"

But every day for the next week, when he left in the morning and when he returned at night, there by the base would stand the old monk. Whenever he went to the tavern, there the monk would soon appear sitting in the corner. Always when my Grandfather confronted him he would make the same, solemn demand.

"Give me the Book of Devine."

Soon it became time for my Grandfather to leave to return to America. As he left the base for the last time, driving the jeep to the waiting plane, there as always was the monk waiting down the road, only this time he was standing in the middle of the street, blocking the way.

"Get out of the road, you idiot!" my Grandfather commanded. "Or I'll run you over!"

"Kill me if you must," the old monk replied, "for I prefer death to failing in my sacred duty before God to return the Book of Devine to Ireland."

My Grandfather could see that the monk was serious, and would not get out of the road. The stand-off in which my Grandfather attempted to threaten and cajole the monk to move was both time consuming and futile. The delay soon threatened to cause my Grandfather to miss his plane, and he was anxious to return to his family in the Pine Point section of Springfield. Finally, my Grandfather reached into his duffel bag and took out the ancient text and angrily hurled it at the feet of the old monk. "Take it and get the hell out of the way!"

The old monk snatched up the book, "Bless you my son!" he said as he quickly ran off and vanished from view. My Grandfather made it to his plane with only minutes to spare. 

So is that story true? My Grandfather had the gift of blarney (that's Celtic for bullshit) so one can never be sure. But whenever he heard that anyone was returning for a visit to the old country, he would always tell that story and then urge the traveler, "Keep an eye out for The Book of Devine!" but no one has ever found it.

 

Returning to 2011, all it ever seems to do in this new year is snow. Here the usually congested King Street in downtown Northampton is left deserted by the weather.

Even local media dude David Pakman had to dig his own car out from the snow. 

The view out the window of Dunkin Donuts.

 



A few months ago I showed you this tasteless graffiti on a dumpster outside a UMass frat-house.

 



Since then someone has painted something more politically correct over it.

 



Filmed entirely at the Jones Library in Amherst.

Sunrise on Springfield's Porter Lake by Burt Freedman. 

A Grave in Pine Point

In Saint Michaels.

Last night's snow and ice storm was really a hardship for my Big Green friend at Amherst College, since he never wears anything but a toga. 

Downtown Amherst was transformed into an icy wonderland, quite beautiful if you were looking at it through a window.

However, if you were outdoors walking around it wasn't so nice. What a winter - repetitive snow and ice storms interrupted only by arctic blasts!

Anyway, in Saint Michael's Cemetery in ol' Pine Point there stands a grave that is very meaningful in my family history. It is located near this area of statues that really frightened me when I was a kid. As a little boy, I remember I had nightmares about the statues coming alive!

The stone is above the grave of John Devine, who died tragically in 1911. Here is the article on the terrible event as it appeared in the Springfield newspaper. 

John M. Devine, 43, 438 State Street, died in Mercy Hospital this morning at 3 o'clock as the result of injuries received yesterday morning when he plunged his right arm through the glass in a door at his home. The sharp glass severed an artery, and Devine lost a large quantity of blood before he was removed to the hospital. But little hope was entertained of his recovery and he sank gradually until the end.

Yesterday morning Devine arose in perfect health to go to his work on a plumbing job, but while about to leave the bedroom to go to the washroom he tripped and fell on a loose piece of straw matting and in an effort to steady himself plunged his arm through the glass. He leaves a widow and seven children totally unprovided for.

When visited by a reporter for The Daily News this morning the family seemed unable to realize that the husband and father is dead. The eldest son, James A. Devine, 18, seemed the only one to appreciate the loss that the family has sustained, and he expressed the idea of digging in at any kind of work to support his mother and the remainder of the family.

Besides his widow, Mr. Devine leaves seven children, Raymond J., Helen E., Frances, Gervase, Bertrand, John E. and James A., two brothers, Joseph of Buffalo, N.Y., and James of Russell, and two sisters, Mrs. P.J. Griffin and Miss Elizabeth Devine, both of Willimansett. 

The article is wrong about my relative's name, his middle initial being R and not M as reported (see above). Certain details not included in the article have been handed down, such as that he was taken to the hospital by a passing horse and wagon. If you consider the distance from State Street to Mercy hospital, and the speed with which one can transverse it by horse, then it it easy to understand how he bled to death.

I have long searched in vain for a photograph of the building where the tragedy occurred. This picture of the location taken in 1939 shows that the building had by that time been torn down and replaced by a one story commercial structure which itself has since been torn down. The address is currently a parking lot.

 

Also, I was often told when growing up that the newspaper story is simply a cover version my family made-up for the press. In reality, on the day of the accident John Devine was falling down drunk. A good clue as to the true nature of the mishap is the fact that it occurred around 3 in the morning. In any case, the part about being left in "destitute circumstances" was certainly true. It took a whole generation for my family to recover from the desperate poverty they fell into because of that terrible tragedy.

With the students gone for winter break, the UMass maintenance staff has the opportunity to do things that are not practical to do during the semester, such as polishing the floor of the ballroom to a glassy finish. 

 

This is a Jefferson Starship video from 1976.

The Devine Way

The ceremony dedicating a portion of Forest Park in honor of my mother, Joyce Devine, was held at the Forest Park skate house (above) yesterday. A much larger crowd than was anticipated showed up, over 60 people. It was a beautiful and sometimes emotional event. Here is a picture of my mother as she was as a student at Springfield's Technical High School in 1949.

The skate house where the ceremony was held is right on Porter Lake. This stone says it was named after someone named Sherman Porter, but why he deserved that honor I have no idea.

The skate house has the official ECOS flag on the front. ECOS stands for the Environmental Center for Our Schools. My mother, along with the late Clifford Phaneuf and others, were among the pioneers of ecological education, not just in Springfield, but nationally. One of the speakers said that Phaneuf was "the brains" behind the ecology center, while my mother was "the heart."

Cliff Phaneuf's son, Wayne Phaneuf, the Executive Editor of the Springfield Newspapers was there, shown here chatting with my sister Beverly.

There will be something in the paper about the ceremony in the coming days, but I don't know exactly when. The newspaper reporter sure did interview a lot of people and take a lot of pictures!

My mother taught at the ecology center for decades, until declining health forced her to come inside the skatehouse and become the program's secretary, where she worked right up until her death. In her teaching years she was known to be especially effective with problem children who were hard to handle, having earned the equivalent of her doctorate in that field by raising me.

My mom's life had an odd symmetry in that she died the morning of her 70th birthday, living from May 1st 1933 to May 1st 2003. The only similarly tidy life and death span I know of is Hartford's Mark Twain, who was born during the appearance of Halley's Comet, and then died exactly 75 years later on the night when Haley's Comet returned.

The event was mostly organized and arranged by my mother's dear friend and fellow ECOS person Burt Freedman.

Also in attendance was Springfield's retired Insurance Director Chris Collins (now School Committee member) who had once been the head of ECOS.

Also representing the School Committee was Antonette Pepe, who I hadn't realized before was a friend of my mother's and the head of her union.

Here is my cousin Roger, my Uncle Wallace Devine and my Dad.

Also present was the infamous Springfield activist Karen Powell.

You might think that on this occasion I would be serious for once, but of course not. Here I am pretending to be choked by my tie (a Jerry Garcia tie, of course).

It's hard enough to get me to put a shirt on, let alone a tie, and this was in fact the first time this year that I have worn a tie, and unless there's a funeral or something, it may well be the only time. Following some speeches in the skatehouse, we all went and followed the trail leading to the marker bearing my mother's name. The trail is a bit like life, I guess. A stretch of the way was just a stroll alongside the lake.

Other parts of the way were a uphill climb along rough terrain. Maybe your life is a little like The Devine Way too.

The Devine Way was especially tough to traverse for some of the older people present. Below is my brother Dick with my 82 year old Uncle John Devine, a retired professor from the Texas wing of the clan, who came north to read the poem he wrote about my mother, titled The Lodge at Porter Lake. Beside him is my sister Donna and her husband Steve Schneider.

 The Lodge at Porter Lake

by John E. Devine Jr. 

 

In Springfield's Forest Park there stands

a lodge at Porter Lake

Rustic

Apart from city noise

Aloof in friendly loneliness

This lodge gives witness

Spring and Summer

To the lover's kiss;

In Fall, the gleeful laughter of children

Playing in the leaves,

In Winter's snow,

The lake now froze,

The flash of light on sunlit skates.

All nature, each season in its turn, 

Reveals its wonders

To those with eyes to see. 

"You love this place, I said. 

And in reply, 

She turned and looked at me

And in that glance, 

But for a moment 

She briefly revealed her soul

And her love for this,

 her sacred place, 

The Lodge at Porter Lake.

 

At the end of the trail we had the unveiling of the official sign, located beside a wooden bridge over a swampy part of the trail, which was constructed by the Americorps program Youthbuild. The kids who worked on it posed by the sign as the cloth was removed.

A photographer, Michael Doran, sent along this picture he took of an Iris blooming near the bridge and sign.

He also took this picture of those of us who were willing to have our picture taken standing in the swamp at the end of The Devine Way.