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later in the year, that has pointed teeth with fibrous hairs in the leaf joints.

I examined some photos online, then took a good, hard look at my own plants. And that’s when I made the revelation: My “Christmas cacti”—every single one I’ve cultivated and shared over the years—are actually Thanksgiving cacti! Those sharp, spiky-looking edges on the leaves are the giveaway.

Many of us know-italls in the family fancy ourselves armchair botanists, horticulturists and master gardeners, but we’ve been wrong all these years. Dead wrong!

I think it’s kind of like Coke. Coke is my family’s term for every dark carbonated soda in the refrigerator—Pepsi, RC, store brand sodas, etc. We call them all “Coke,” even though that’s wrong. Another example? Kleenex.

I doubt I’ll start calling my cactus plants by their proper name now. They will always be my Christmas cacti—the ones from Grandmother Jarriel’s screened porch, the ones that connect me to her memory, the ones that bloom faithfully each year during the holidays. Sometimes the stories we tell about our plants matter a whole lot more than their botanical accuracy.

But for now, my cacti sure are beautiful. You should see them. I think Grandmother Jarriel would be pleased.

Amber’s Grandmother’s Cactus