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

By Alex Haigood

I never knew my grandfather, Millard Haigood. He died in his mid-40s in 1956. At the time of his death, he was serving as a county commissioner in Clay County. I feel like you kind of miss out on something when you don’t get to be around one of your grandparents. Even though I never got to spend time with him, I still learned a valuable lesson from him.

The year was around 1930. Our country was in the midst of the Great Depression. My grandfather would have been about 19 years old. Times were obviously tough, and money and jobs were hard to come by. My great-uncle (my grandfather’s much younger brother) told me this story of how he got by during those hard times.

My grandfather and another of his brothers hired on to grub mesquites—not with a dozer or tractor, but by hand. Apparently, the mesquites were thick and good-sized. They used an axe, pick, and grubbing hoe to clear the land. They were paid $10 an acre. It’s said that if they worked hard, they could clear an acre a week. That’s $5 a week, or less than a dollar per day per brother. I can’t imagine swinging an axe, pick, or grubbing hoe all day. I appreciate that even though jobs were scarce, they worked at what they could find.

My great-uncle gave me an old axe, pick, and grubbing hoe that came out of my great-grandmother’s shed. I suspect those were the very tools those young men used on those mesquites many years ago.

We all have bad days and discouraging times. We probably feel sorry for ourselves from time to time because of the circumstances we’re going through. I can look at those old tools hanging on the wall and remind myself that I have it pretty good. Sometimes we need to stop and realize how much God has blessed us.

Even though I never knew my grandfather, he still left me an example of hard work, determination, and perseverance. Sometimes I just have to put things in the right perspective.

Few inventions altered the American landscape as quickly or as permanently as barbed wire. At first glance, it was nothing more than twisted strands of metal with sharp points. But in the 1870s and 1880s, it transformed open prairies into enclosed pastures, reshaped cattle ranching, and set the stage for modern agriculture across Oklahoma, Texas, and the Great Plains.

For generations, settlers and ranchers wrestled with the challenge of fencing the open prairie. Traditional wooden fences required lumber, which was scarce on the plains. Stone walls were impractical across vast tracts of land. Homesteaders needed a boundary that was durable, affordable, and easy to construct.

The solution arrived in 1874, when Joseph Glidden of DeKalb, Illinois, received a patent for his version of barbed wire. He twisted two wires together, anchoring sharp barbs in place so they would not slide. His design proved cheap to produce and easy to stretch across posts. Within just a few years, Glidden’s invention spread like wildfire across the West.

For farmers, barbed wire was liberation. They could protect crops from roaming livestock, keep their own animals contained, and finally bring order to what had been the open range. Small homesteads suddenly had a way to defend their fields from massive cattle herds being driven north to railheads.

But not everyone welcomed the wire. Large cattle outfits, used to driving herds across unfenced land, saw it as a threat. Cowboys called it “the devil’s rope.” Tensions boiled over in the 1880s during the so-called “fence-cutting wars,” particularly in Texas. Cattlemen and farmers clashed as hired hands cut through miles of wire to reopen blocked trails and water sources. Violence erupted in some areas, leading to new laws that punished fence cutting as a felony.

Despite the resistance, the march of barbed wire could not be stopped. Its low cost and effectiveness made it indispensable. By the end of the 19th century, millions of miles of barbed wire crisscrossed the United States, dividing prairies into ranches, farms, and towns.

Once established, barbed wire did more than mark boundaries. It changed the very nature of ranching and agriculture. No longer could cattle roam freely over open ranges; instead, ranchers had to provide feed and water within enclosed pastures. This spurred improvements in breeding, grazing management, and stewardship of land. The great cattle drives that once defined Texas and Oklahoma largely faded, replaced by fenced ranching operations closer to railroads and towns.

The wire also influenced settlement patterns. Homesteads became more secure, encouraging more families to take root on the prairie. Conflicts with Native tribes intensified, as traditional hunting grounds were fenced off. In this sense, barbed wire became a physical symbol of westward expansion—an emblem of progress to some, a barrier to freedom for others.

Culturally, barbed wire has carried layered meaning ever since. Cowboys and poets have written about its sting, while farmers praised its dependability. During World War I, it found new use on battlefields, stretched across trenches as a weapon of defense. In art and literature, it often stands for confinement, conflict, or the taming of wild places.

Even today, the sight of rusty wire strung across weathered posts remains iconic. Drive through Oklahoma or North Texas, and you’ll see it outlining pastures, sometimes still holding cattle, sometimes falling into the grass like a relic of earlier generations. Ranchers continue to rely on barbed wire alongside newer fencing materials, proof that a 150-year-old invention still holds its ground.

The story of barbed wire is not just about technology. It is about how a simple invention shifted the balance between open freedom and private control, between the frontier and settlement. It made agriculture sustainable in places where farming had once seemed impossible. It forced ranchers to rethink livestock management. It even gave rise to laws, conflicts, and a new rhythm of life on the plains.

Like the cowboy hat, barbed wire transcended its original purpose. It became a defining feature of the American West—sharp, unyielding, and practical. It reminds us of the challenges faced by those who carved out lives in Oklahoma, Texas, and across the Great Plains, and how innovation, for better or worse, can change landscapes and livelihoods forever.

References

• McCallum, Henry. The Wire That Fenced the West. University of Oklahoma Press, 1965.
• Oklahoma Historical Society. Barbed Wire. https://www.okhistory.org
• Texas State Historical Association. Barbed Wire and the Fence Cutting Wars. https://www.tshaonline.org
• Smithsonian Institution. “How Barbed Wire Changed the West.” (2018).
• Library of Congress. Joseph Glidden and the Invention of Barbed Wire.