THE TREES HAVE EYES, BUT NO ONE IS LISTENING By Kurt Zuelsdorf

In 2024, the landscape of Florida is changing. Towering centurions—ancient oaks that have watched over neighborhoods for centuries—are being felled at an alarming rate. Insurance companies are mandating their removal, citing the ever-looming threat of storms, and homeowners, caught in a tangle of policy and fear, comply to safeguard their properties. Yet, as each great tree is cut down, there is an unmistakable sense of mourning, a communal recognition of loss that runs deeper than the act itself.
These trees, with roots sunk deep into the earth and branches that stretch toward the heavens, are not just silent witnesses to history—they are living chronicles. A peculiar kind of reverence settles around the freshly cut stumps, drawing passersby like mourners to a gravesite. Dog walkers pause, joggers and cyclists stop to lay a hand on the weathered bark, marveling at the girth of what remains. It is a moment of unspoken tribute: an acknowledgment that what stands before them is more than just wood, but a vessel of stories.
Do these trees, even in death, retain the energy they once radiated? I believe they do. Here’s the story one whispered to me.
Toppled, Yet Resilient
Picture the late 1800s, when men on horseback first surveyed these lands. Perhaps Hamilton Disston, the ambitious entrepreneur who famously purchased four million acres of Florida for just 25 cents an acre, dropped a seed or two that grew into one of these sentinels. The tree witnessed holidays spent on porches filled with laughter, children growing up and having children of their own. It saw the timeless cycles of life unfold beneath its canopy.
Over millennia, some of these ancient oaks have been graced by 3,600 sunrises and sunsets. They have seen the true, unfiltered spirit of America. Indigenous tribes such as the Calusa and Seminoles relied on them for sustenance, finding comfort in their shade and sustenance from their sturdy branches. Long before modern politics complicated their simple majesty, these trees filtered the air, rooted deeply in their purpose.
As one tree's story recounts, “I have stood by the graves of those felled by chainsaw and storm, and I remember. There is a majesty in holding your ground for decades, providing a service that transcends the visible. I have watched Gulfport transform, from a quiet town without electricity to a bustling neighborhood with brick streets, trolley tracks, and steamboats chugging along the waterfront. We were here before power lines buzzed and cement roads stretched across the city. We offered shade to generations, watched children climb and swing from our branches, and held up against fierce winds that would have torn the world apart without us.”
The Forgotten Guardians
The roots of these trees, now deemed nuisances for cracking driveways and foundations, have served as anchors for entire ecosystems. They have sustained life and offered stability long before urbanization measured value in dollars and square footage. Their worth, however, is a currency of another kind, one not recognized in courts or insurance boardrooms. It is a standard of living measured not by profit but by legacy.
“Remember us,” the tree seemed to plead, as the saw bit through its life ring by ring. “We were more than timber. We were home, refuge, and history.”
Florida’s changing skyline tells the story of progress, but with it comes a deeper question: Are we listening to the wisdom of those who stood long before us? Are we recognizing the quiet strength of those who provided shelter, not just for homes but for hearts and memories?
Let us measure life by what has lasted and by what truly stands the test of time. The trees, with eyes unseen and voices now hushed, still have stories to tell—if only we would listen.