Adrienne Gallagher

In 1977, my fiancé and I were in my hometown for our wedding. Before our out-of-town guests arrived, my dad arranged for us to visit a family friend at his place of business. He wouldn’t say why. He just dropped us off at a nondescript building somewhere in Cleveland.

Hy Sibul sold surplus, and for a fellow war veteran’s daughter and future son-in-law, he wasted little time with small talk. The man who was normally overshadowed by his artistic and articulate wife, Martha, suddenly reminded me of Tigger. Happy, outgoing, friendly, and caring, he took us on a magical tour of his warehouse, pulling objects out of boxes and handing them to us as if each were a treasure.

Hy insisted that we needed these random things because we were just starting out. We quickly realized that our job was simply to take whatever he gave us and smile appreciatively. About an hour later, we walked out to my dad’s car, our hands full, our heads spinning.

The vision of us carrying a pile of mostly useless stuff definitely pleased my dad. All he wanted was for us to have the experience of seeing Hy in action.

A shiny new cake server engraved with the names “Don & Joyce” was the only item we kept. The names weren’t our names, but we didn’t really care. A cake server was something we could use. Likely an engraving mistake that was meant for another soon-to-be-married couple became a cherished wedding gift after all.