"Everybody was somebody"

Barbara and the Wolfgang Puck maitre d'

It was a night not to forget. The one-and-only responsibility of the parents of the groom was to choose the eatery for the post-rehearsal dinner and make sure of its readiness. We'd stopped that afternoon. She'd chatted amicably with the staff, reminded them of their commitment. It was a downtown Tulsa, a Mexican food place, lots of five-stars on the website, a popular place the bride told us had a great reputation.

As indeed it did. When we showed up that night, the rehearsal behind us, the place was hopping, with a line of customers waiting for tables. The wedding crew counted a couple dozen or so, parents and close friends, so many we didn't fit even in the pint-sized waiting area. 

The dirty, rotten truth was they hadn't reserved a room. Or, if they had, the news hadn't found its way to the evening crew. There was literally no room in the inn. The place was rocking, and my wife--who'd been the one to do all the work--was at a place on her emotional register I'd never seen her before. "Why, sure, we can take you," the waitress said, "but you'll have to wait, and, no, I don't think we can seat you all together." 

The mother of the groom could have spit fire. I tried to calm her, told her we could get pizzas and go back to the motel, bring the  whole gang along or something.

"Or something" wasn't going to do it that night, so with the heart of Napoleon, she left, shook the dust off a new pair of shoes, and marched right down the street, downtown Tulsa, me behind, startled by the high octane determination on a face I'd seen daily for 30 years, her adamant determination shockingly visible to the whole wedding party. Dang it (I'm sure the vocab was rougher), her son was going to have a fine rehearsal dinner come hell or high water right there in the Arkansas River. 

It wasn't early, but when we came to a Wolfgang Puck with outside seating, she walked in, pulled on a gracious but grieving face, found the maitre d', and then explained the horror of what had happened and asked for grace. Honestly, the place was emptying.

"Let me ask the cooks if they can handle a big group yet," the woman said before leaving the front. When she returned, she was smiling. We had a place for a rehearsal dinner, and we had just one long table. 

She never told me the story I'm about to tell you until a day ago or so, when it came up somehow--how it was that our friends Marv and Helene were there at Wolfgang Puck. They'd come all to Tulsa for David's wedding. 

We were talking about Marv because he passed away last week, somewhat unexpectedly to those who hadn't known or seen him as of late. He died getting off a plane, in a wheelchair. He and his wife were returning from Mexico, a place they visited with beloved regularity. I don't know--but I can't help thinking they shouldn't have gone, not in his shape. But it was like him to go anyway because it would have been tougher not to. 

Barbara told me that she'd tipped that gracious Wolfgang Puck maitre d' royally and thanked her bountifully for setting up a wonderful rehearsal dinner, but she also said she remembered the way Marv had purposely gone to the back to find her after the meal, to speak to her. "I thought then, and I still do," she said, "that Marv pulled out his wallet and tipped her too." 

We may never know whether he did, but Barbara has always harbored the suspicion that Marv simply could not help rewarding that young woman's blessed grace. 

And, you know? --whether he did or not is immaterial. That, today, on the day of his funeral, we both believe he did is itself a testimony to his great heart because, well, it would have been like him to do just that. That's the character of the man the family will bury today.

"He made people feel seen and known," his son Kurt says in his eulogy. "Everybody was somebody to Marv Rietema."

Kurt has it right.