By Alex Haigood

It seems today that the ability to drive a standard transmission is becoming a lost art. In my younger days, if you couldn’t use a clutch, you couldn’t drive. My first three vehicles, two trucks and a car, were all standard transmissions. I would say many young people today have no idea how to drive a car unless it has an automatic transmission.

That probably has a lot to do with the fact that not many stick shifts are made anymore. Everything, even trucks, comes standard with automatic transmissions. There are some sports cars you can still get with a standard, but even those are few and far between.

I knew as a kid that if I wanted to drive and get my license as soon as I could, I would have to learn how to drive a standard. Fortunately, I had a lot of relatives who lived in the country, so I did most of my learning on dirt roads and in the pasture.

I suspect that not many young folks today have any idea what “three on the tree” even means. For the record, that means you had three forward gears, and the gearshift was on the steering column.

I have two memorable stories from my early days of learning to drive a standard. The first was when my dad let me drive a flatbed truck carrying some sheet metal. I popped the clutch a little too fast and almost completely unloaded the truck. We had to back into something to push the material back up on the bed.

The second story involved my uncle, who let me drive while I was on his ranch. I had pulled up to a stop sign on a gravel road that crossed a farm-to-market road. I was stopped on an incline, and my uncle pulled his truck right up behind me. I sat there thinking that when I let off the brake, I was going to start rolling backward into his truck. I sure didn’t want to do that.

So I overcompensated, hit the gas, spun the tires, and threw gravel and dirt all over his truck. All I could see in my rearview mirror was a cloud of dust and dirt. Fortunately for me, he was good-natured and laughed about it. To tell you how long ago that was, he radioed me on his CB and asked if I did that on purpose.

I was fortunate to get to drive early in life in the country and learn the lost art of the standard transmission. Those were fun times. Maybe I need to order me a sports car.

By Norman Winter – The Garden Guy

There will be a lot of temptation for gardeners in 2026, so many new plants are showing up at the garden center. Being the astute gardener you are, you probably can guess I am yanking your chain a little as I introduce you to the Totally Tempted cuphea series.

If you are a hummingbird lover you already know some cupheas. The Totally Tempted cupheas come in 4 color or varieties, Richly Red, Watermelon Wine, Frosted Violets and Vivid Violet. They have the potential of reaching 16-inches tall with an 18-inch spread.eas

They are known botanically as Cuphea procumbens with a common name creeping waxweed. Don’t let that name cause any concern. They are native to Southern Mexico and perennial in zones 9 and warmer. They are rock solid, tough and worth every penny as annuals in containers, whether you choose to design a mix or go solo. Your beds will also sizzle with a new artistic touch.

These caught the eye of my good friend, Dr. Allen Owings while at the Young’s Plant Farm Annual Garden Tour in Auburn AL. Allen, formerly a Horticulture Professor at LSU AgCenter is now Horticulturist for Clegg’s Nursery and Bracy’s Nursery. So when he posted the photos on Facebook they caught my attention.

Kim Smith Owner of Smiths Country Gardens in Taylorsville Indiana also went to Facebook. With her trials. She said the violet purple, blush rimmed blooms make it easy to fall in love with Totally Tempted Frosted Violets. Her antique looking urn was filled to overflowing with just Frosted Violets.

She says they are self-cleaning with a continuous blooming habit. She says her zone 5 climate dictates growing as an annual. She recommends plenty of sunlight to keep it from stretching. She went on to say trimming off a little in late July or August can help promote new growth if needed. Kim, feeds weekly with water soluble fertilizer.

Neighbor Dave and his bride Cynthia created a stunning combination in a rectangular concrete planter. They used both Totally Tempted Richly Red and Watermelon Wine with Augusta Lavender heliotrope and Virtuoso Dayglo Yellow dahlia. It is easy for The Garden Guy to peek over the fence and admire.

Son James and the Eden Estate Management team used Totally Tempted Vivid Violet in a window box with Virtuoso Vibrant Violet dahlias. And Supertunia Mini Vista Yellow petunias for a dash of contrasting color.

The Garden Guy went with the Totally Tempted red selections. In the front flower bed at the entrance I used Sunshine Blue II caryopteris with the chartreuse colored foliage. In the backyard I used both Richly Red and Watermelon Wine with the new ColorBlaze Mini Me Chartreuse coleus. In all plantings the flash of red and chartreuse dazzled with color.

Both son James and I found that cutting back kept the plants with a bushier habit. Like Kim Smith recommended, sunlight and frequent fertilization is mandatory. You will find that the Totally Tempted cupheas like others will bring in an assortment of bees, butterflies and hummingbirds. If you will check out Proven Winners Totally Tempted cupheas online you will find recipes for each color, further leading to ……you guessed it, the temptation for the 2025 new plants coming your way. Follow me on Facebook @NormanWinterTheGardenGuy for more photos and garden inspiration.

By Savannah Magoteaux

There’s a clump of green growing high in the oak tree at the edge of our pasture that I used to mistake for a bird’s nest. It’s there every winter, long after the leaves have fallen, standing out like it’s proud to be different. I didn’t give it much thought until one December morning, when I realized that the same plant people hang in doorways for Christmas kisses was quietly thriving right there on my land—mistletoe.

We’ve all heard of mistletoe, but I’ll admit I didn’t know much about it beyond the tradition. Turns out, it’s one of the more fascinating plants in nature—and one with a reputation that’s as mixed as fruitcake.

Mistletoe isn’t exactly the innocent greenery we hang with ribbons. It’s a parasitic plant, which means it survives by attaching itself to the branches of trees and shrubs, stealing water and nutrients from its host. In North Texas, the most common variety is Phoradendron leucarpum, sometimes called “American mistletoe.” You’ll find it growing on mesquites, hackberries, oaks, and pecans—trees tough enough to handle its stubborn ways.

Despite its reputation, mistletoe doesn’t always kill the trees it lives on. In small amounts, it’s more of an annoyance than a death sentence. But when trees are stressed by drought, age, or damage, too much mistletoe can sap their strength. It’s a slow drain—like a house guest who never quite leaves.

If you want to control it, pruning the infected limb well below where the mistletoe attaches is the best option. Spraying won’t do much good. Most ranchers, myself included, tend to shrug and let it be. After all, it’s part of the landscape—green when everything else is brown, defiant when winter sets in.

Before it was tied up in red ribbons, mistletoe had ancient symbolism. The Druids in Europe saw it as a sacred plant, believing it had healing powers and could bring peace and fertility. Warriors would supposedly lay down their weapons if they met beneath it.

That tradition of “peace under the mistletoe” evolved over centuries. The Norse myth of Baldur, the god of light and joy, tells of his death by an arrow made of mistletoe. His mother’s tears became the plant’s white berries, and she declared that mistletoe would never again cause harm—instead, it would inspire love and forgiveness. From that legend came the idea of kissing beneath it.

By the 18th century, English servants were hanging mistletoe in doorways, and it became a symbol of romance during the holidays. If a man caught a woman standing under it, he could steal a kiss—though tradition said he had to pluck one of the berries each time. Once the berries were gone, the kissing privileges ended.

Those little white berries are one reason to be cautious. They’re mildly toxic to people and pets, though birds eat them without issue. In fact, birds are the main reason mistletoe spreads. They eat the berries, then leave the seeds behind—often stuck to a branch with a little help from nature’s glue.

The seeds sprout and send out a specialized root system called a haustorium, which penetrates the bark of the host tree. From there, mistletoe grows its own leaves and even flowers in late winter, producing the next generation of berries by spring.

So, while it may have a romantic image, mistletoe’s life cycle is all about survival. It’s a little opportunistic, a little resilient—and maybe that’s why it fits so well into the Christmas season.

Around here, mistletoe isn’t just a decoration—it’s a familiar winter sight. Cowboys once sold it to make extra money during the holidays, harvesting clumps from trees with long poles and bundling them for markets. It was one of the few green plants available in winter, so it made its way into homes, churches, and holiday dances across the South.

Today, most mistletoe used in Christmas décor is still the real deal—often gathered from oak or mesquite trees just like mine. There’s something fitting about that: a plant that thrives in hard places becoming a symbol of love and celebration.

When I look up at the mistletoe on our ranch now, I see more than just a tangle of green. It’s a reminder that even something a little rough around the edges can bring beauty and connection. It’s part parasite, part peace offering—a contradiction hanging high in the trees.

So this Christmas, if you find yourself standing under the mistletoe, remember: it’s not just about a kiss. It’s about resilience, tradition, and finding something living and green when the rest of the world looks cold and bare.

References:

• Texas A&M Forest Service, Parasitic Plants of Texas Trees: Mistletoe
• Oklahoma State University Extension, Controlling Mistletoe on Trees
• Smithsonian Magazine, The Strange History of Kissing Under the Mistletoe
• U.S. Forest Service, Mistletoe Ecology and Management in the South