For a sticky, steamy, old-fashioned good time, consider growing some sugar cane.
Willard McInnis, of Anacoco, grows about seven rows, 100 yards long, of sugar cane every year, producing enough juice for an old-fashioned syrup making and a sticky, good time the Saturday before Thanksgiving. 
"I just planted it as a hobby to keep the old traditions going," McInnis said. But there's more to it than that, it turns out.
In 1995, McInnis and his brother, Clifford, planted that first patch of sugar cane together, he said, but Clifford passed away before the cane could be harvested.
"This cane is still some of the same cane we planted 13 years ago," McInnis said, explaining that the plant comes back, year after year.
"He kept the sugar cane going, for my uncle," said Lisa Richardson, daughter to Willard. "We do it as a memorial to my uncle every year.
"My dad is the only one left of his whole family," she added. "Everybody else is gone, all his brothers and sisters. Uncle Clifford was the last to go."
The whole process provides  a glimpse back into time for the younger generations, Richardson said.
"This is something that the entire family looks foward to," she said. "A lot of people our age have never seen this before, yet our children look foward to it because it's something that 'Bappaw' does. It's a sweet time for my family before the holiday season."
Early in the week, McInnis begins the hard work of cutting the cane, along with the help of a couple of friends, Delbert Massey and J.D. Haymon.
Hand-cutting cane is hard and dirty work, involving stripping the leaves from the cane with a machete, topping off the green leaves and then cutting the stalk at ground level before bundling it up and hauling it in from the field.
Before daylight on the day of the syrup-making, McInnis and his buddies crank up the two tractors, each of which powers a mill via a beam connected to both the mill and the tractor. As the tractor is driven in a circle around the mill, the beam causes the mill to turn.
"You have to hunt a long time to find trees that crooked," Richardson joked about the beams. "You have to know just when to duck."
The two people who man the mill, one feeding the cane stalks in, while the other guides them out the other side, also have to keep an eye on the beam which is lower than head high and carries a good whallup if they don't duck.
The whole set-up is protected from rain, except the tractor, by an old, recycled satellite.
The mill crushes the cane, producing the juice, which is collected in a barrel before running through a hose to a vat where it is cooked for several hours before it begins to candy.
The vat, as big as a large watering trough, holds close to 200 gallons of juice, is heated by butane and is enclosed on three sides and on top by tarps to conserve the heat. Walking into the enclosure is like walking into a steam bath.
People gather in the sticky, sweet-smelling steam, their heads obscured by the cloud that rises off the bubbling cane juice. Barely able to see each others' faces, they swap stories and jokes or, like this year, discuss the recent elections, all the while stirring the juice or skimming off the impurities that float to the top.
"Nine to ten good stalks make one gallon of juice," McInnis said. "Nine gallons of juice make one gallon of syrup." All told, McInnis produces about 20 or 22 gallons of syrup in one batch which he eats, gives away or sells.
"You can't sell it for what it's worth in time and energy to make it. This is the fun part," he said, referring to the cooking process.
As the juice cooks down, friends and neighbors stop by all day long, Richardson said. Some stop by to chat, others want a cup of juice.
Christine Tolar, of Woodville, Texas, always makes the trip and stays all day, helping out during the whole process.
McInnis, who usually makes about two batches of syrup in as many days, saved about five quarts for himself last year.
"I ran out this summer. I'm real sweet," he said, winking and picking up a stalk of sugar cane that escaped the mill.
Using his knife, he cut a section off and peeled back the skin to reveal the cream-colored fibers that hold the juice. A small boy hopped at his feet, anxious to have a taste.
"It's not going to be too many years from now that kids won't know anything about this," McInnis said as he lopped off a bite-sized piece for the boy who grabbed it up and chomped down, grinning as the sweet juice burst into his mouth.