If you think the most popular month for weddings is June, think again. Actually, September and October lead the way for nuptials. There are also misunderstood superstitions about weddings. What to do and what to avoid, as well as best and worst days to get married. For example, an ancient Celtic poem suggests avoiding Saturday weddings, stating, “Monday for wealth, Tuesday for health, Wednesday’s the best day of all. Thursday for losses, Friday for crosses, and Saturday, no luck at all.”

During the early 1980s, I heard Zig Ziglar, a well-known author, salesman and motivational speaker address a packed house at the Belle Mehus Auditorium in Bismarck. “Hello Bismarck, North Dakota,” he began. “This is my first visit to your city and to North Dakota. It’s beautiful! I had a very enjoyable flight in – sitting beside a fine fellow on the plane. We got to know one another over lengthy discussions on a variety of topics. At some point, I noticed that he wore what looked to be a wedding ring on the third finger of his right hand. Sensing he wouldn’t mind me asking, I quizzed him about the ring. ‘Oh, that’s my wedding band,’ he said. ‘Why do you wear it on the wrong hand,’ I asked further. He explained, ‘Because… I married the wrong woman!'”

Some have postulated that glitches during the planning process or ceremony itself may offer omens of what the future holds in a marriage. My parents were skeptical when my sister announced her plans to marry at age 19. Dad was convinced there were signs it would never last.

Just prior to her nuptials, my brother-in-law-to-be secured his bride’s wedding ring to the four-year-old ring-bearer’s pillow. Unfortunately, my young cousin’s hand holding the pillow was also skewered to the pillow with the hatpin. Frightened and intimidated by the upcoming responsibility, he didn’t cry or say a word about it then – but has reminded everyone of his misery from time to time since. My sister and her husband will celebrate their 61st anniversary next month.

The scheduled start of a wedding we attended years ago was delayed 30 minutes because of a last-minute rift between the groom and his sister over who the flower girl should be. This, plus the ceremony that included a full Catholic mass, required two and a half hours seated on rock-hard church pews. Had I known it would be that long, I would have brought a cushion, popcorn and a cooler of refreshments.

As Rita and I occupied folding chairs on a beach watching a special bride and groom share their vows, storm clouds over the water beyond them billowed and sent rumblings of what was soon to arrive. Just after the exchange of “I do’s,” umbrellas were turned inside out with torrential rain and wind as everyone ran for cover.

Before we were hitched, Rita and I fretted during two days of heavy rain leading up to the outdoor reception planned to follow the marriage. Fortunately, clouds parted the morning of the ceremony, saving any need for hip waders, swim goggles or umbrellas Not only did clouds part, asphalt did too, swallowing up at least one vehicle into a parking lot sinkhole.

One Friday afternoon in the early ’70s I sat in the Dutch Hill Tavern waiting for several classmates to join for a beer and recap of the week’s activities. Three bar stools down, an older fellow chatted up the bartender.

“I’m getting married this weekend,” he announced, to which the bartkeep replied, “You’re kidding. How many times will this make?” The gentleman responded, “Seventeen.” My jaw dropped somewhere near the floor. It was clear the fellow’s selection process was severely flawed — or perhaps no woman could tolerate living with him. Whichever it was, it was hard not to question the blatant disregard for omens. His incredible persistence, however, was impressive.