trees

The Wisdom of Old Trees: A Tale of Drought and Survival

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By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

“Whispers from the Cottonwood”

Old Man Teller always said, “You don’t need a weather app when the trees are talkin’.” Most folks in town rolled their eyes. They dismissed the words as just another tale from a man with more years behind him than teeth. But Maggie believed him—always had.

Each morning, before the sun stretched across the Oklahoma horizon, Maggie walked down to the creek behind her farmhouse. The tall cottonwood trees stood like ancient guardians. She’d place her hand on the bark and close her eyes. She’d listen. She listened not just with her ears, but with her skin, her breath, her bones.

One autumn, the cottonwoods began shedding their leaves earlier than usual. Not the vibrant yellow fall kind, but pale and crisp, like they’d been drained of color. The crickets were fewer, and the frogs that usually croaked a lullaby at dusk had gone strangely silent. A stillness settled in the evenings—not peaceful, but hollow, like a breath being held too long.

Teller nodded solemnly when Maggie brought it up. “Means drought’s comin’. The earth’s tightening its belt.”

Sure enough, by December the ponds were cracked at the edges and even the cattle seemed quieter. Yet it wasn’t just the drought. Coyotes started howling at midday. Raccoons were foraging in broad daylight. Wild plum bushes flowered in January—six weeks early.

Nature, it seemed, was shouting.

In spring, the winds changed direction. Not from the south like usual, but from the east—harsh, dry, and persistent. That’s when Teller warned the town council: “There’s fire in that wind. Better get ready.” They didn’t listen. But when the wildfires crept dangerously close in May, only Maggie’s house stood untouched. She’d cleared brush months ago, just as the cottonwoods had told her to.

The next year, people started listening more. They noticed the ants building their hills higher before rain. The deer migrating sooner. Even the sky’s color at dusk began to carry meaning again.

Nature doesn’t send memos or push notifications. But it tells you everything—if you’re willing to sit still, pay attention, and speak its language.

And as Old Man Teller liked to remind them, with a wink, “The land was here long before you. Trust it to know what’s comin’.”

The Guitar from Jimmy Carter’s Grove

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Groff Media 2024© Truth Endures IMDbPro

Presented by benandsteve.com By: Benjamin Groff II©

3–4 minutes

Long after leaving the White House, Jimmy Carter found solace in the quiet rhythms of nature. On a sunny morning in Plains, Georgia, Jimmy stood at the edge of a grove. He had planted these trees decades ago. These trees—mahogany, maple, and spruce—weren’t native to the region. Carter had brought their seeds home from his travels. He envisioned them growing tall and strong in the fertile Georgian soil.

Jimmy called what others saw as an unusual hobby his “living legacy.” Each tree had a purpose, and he dreamed of turning their wood into something meaningful. One day, while strumming his old guitar on the porch, the idea struck him: 

What if I made a guitar from the trees I grew with my own hands?

The Craft

Years passed before the time was right. Jimmy carefully chose a mahogany tree for the body. He selected a maple tree for the neck. He also picked spruce for the soundboard. He contacted a local luthier, Sam Wainwright, who had a reputation for crafting instruments with heart and precision.

Sam, skeptical at first, raised an eyebrow when Jimmy proposed the project.

“You’re telling me you’ve been growing trees for years just for this?”

Jimmy chuckled.

“A good guitar starts with good wood. I figured, why not grow my own?”

Sam couldn’t argue with the sentiment. They spent hours examining the wood, carefully cutting it, and shaping it to perfection. Jimmy insisted on being part of every step, from sanding the pieces to carving the intricate rosette around the soundhole.

As they worked, Jimmy shared stories—about his childhood in the rural South, his presidency, and his humanitarian efforts. Sam listened intently, realizing the guitar wasn’t just an instrument but a symbol of patience, purpose, and creativity.

The First Song

Months later, the guitar was finished. Its finish glowed like amber honey. Its tone was warm and resonant. It carried the richness of the wood’s decades-long journey. Jimmy held it in his hands. He marveled at how the trees he had nurtured now sang harmoniously. They created a sound that was not just music. It was a testament to the beauty of nature.

During a warm summer evening, friends and family gathered. Jimmy sat on his porch with the guitar resting comfortably in his lap. He strummed the first chords, their notes floating into the peach-scented air.

The song he played was one he had written himself. It was a simple tune about the roots—both in the ground and in life. It spoke of time, care, and the beauty of watching something grow. The crowd swayed to the music. Their faces lit with admiration for the man who had turned trees into tunes. They felt a sense of nostalgia for the simple, yet profound, message of the song.

A Lasting Legacy

In the years that followed, the guitar became more than an instrument. Jimmy used it to teach music to children, play for visitors, and raise funds for Habitat for Humanity. Each time its strings vibrated, it told a story of persistence and hope.

When asked why he had gone to such lengths to make the guitar, Jimmy would smile and say,

“It reminds us that good things take time. The simplest gifts, like a tree or a song, can bring the most joy.”

The guitar from Jimmy Carter’s Grove wasn’t just a piece of wood strung together. It was a testament to a life rooted in purpose and patience. It symbolized the belief that even the smallest seeds can create something extraordinary.

An original report exists in Guitar World, which you can find here!