Twenty-three
years ago today, on a typically fog-shrouded San Francisco summer day, before
105 people, a few of whom actually crashed the ceremony at Golden Gate Park’s
Rose Garden and reception at the Cliff House, I exchanged marital vows with my
best friend, Verna Mercedes Wefald.
I
am flooded with memories without having to watch the video, shot by my friend,
Brad, who is now the director of technology at San Domenico School in San Anselmo:
Struggling to tie my bowtie and swearing, “I don’t need this shit,” before my
brother calmly stepped in and hooked it together; stretching the plastic runner
across the grass with my father before the ceremony; gazing at Verna as she
nervously recited her vows. We’d written humorous and serious ones. In one I
promised to only buy three unique ties a year and she vowed not to always eat
off my plate.
Verna
looked—as always—gorgeous, and I couldn’t believe how blessed and fortunate I
really was. Quiet and determined, she was a perfect complement to my gregarious
and obnoxious side. And she was passionate about politics and dance and
exercise. And fun to be with.
Our
ceremony started nearly an hour late, because of a mix up with the flowers, but
by then it didn’t matter. After nearly losing it over the bowtie, I was basically
relaxed and excited. And just a little nervous.
More
memories: my great-uncle Norman shouting out, “Don’t do it,” as Verna and I
signed our wedding license in the park after the ceremony; my mother downing
two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach at the reception and giggling her
way through the cocktail hour, which is sadly ironic now given that she has
severe Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s, wears diapers, and can longer walk or even
feed herself.
The
reception was a non-stop party filled with endless dancing to classic rock, Dom
Perignon (for Verna and me), delectable entrees, a carrot and chocolate wedding cake, and both of
us being hoisted high in chairs as people circled us to Hava Nagila and other Jewish melodies.
After
our final song, Stevie Wonder’s Jungle
Fever, we retired with several members of the wedding party to the upstairs
bar at the Cliff House. An hour later, I was ready to leave and be alone with
Verna. She didn’t want the magic of the evening to end. When we finally got
home, we shared a bath and I pulled out at least 100 bobby-pins from Verna’s
hair in what was one of the most romantic moments of my life. We reminisced about
the entire day as I piled up the pins on the edge of the tub.
For
the next few years we celebrated our anniversary with dinner at the Cliff
House. In 2009, not quite seven weeks before we found out her cancer had
returned, Verna and I sipped drinks in the remodeled Cliff House and then
walked down the hill for Taco Tuesday at the Park Chalet, where we celebrated
with Miguel, Maya, and Verna’s father. It was the last time we went out for our
anniversary.
Just
a year later, with the original wedding party, except Verna’s mother, in
attendance, we renewed our vows outside our two-bedroom townhouse. Miguel was
the co-best man; Maya was one of two flower girls. Verna recited her vows and
then had to sit during the outdoor buffet we’d sponsored on the street near our
home. By seven o’clock she was asleep for the night, exhausted by the cancer
that had riddled her body with constant pain.
Five
weeks later Verna was gone and July 28 would never be the same.
I
started today by saying goodbye for a week to Maya who is with family outside
San Luis Obispo and ended it by playing nine holes of golf with Miguel. I ache
for Verna, but I am still very blessed.
