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In the Deep South, football is a religion. In the Deep South, football is a religion.

My mother was no-nonsense, even when it came to planning weddings. “For God’s sake, don’t book it on religious holidays: Christmas, Easter, and football season. You’ll have no-shows around New Year’s, spring break, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, and Labor Day.  Mother’s Day is sacred, too. Father’s Day? Oh, men get over it.”

“Forget August,” Mom added. Her excuse was like a bad weather forecast. “Too much humid hair frizz and perspiration.” (In the South, “sweat” is verboten. Yes, we “glisten” on steamy afternoons.)

She waved away any bride’s dithering and checked off the key players within three days of the engagement announcement: the preacher, the church, the florist, the photographer, the caterer, and the reception location. Her lifelong sewing club demanded immediate notification because they were drowning in showers. All their daughters were coming of age.

Mom didn’t sweat some details…

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