A grave for a squirrel on Memorial Day
I just dug a grave for a squirrel.
Two graves in fact–both in shady cool spots.
In which hollow it finds a final resting place–is a decision that must wait Meredith’s return from her Memorial Day ceremonies.
The fully grown red squirrel with its long bushy tail, made me jump as I swung the watering can round, early this morning.
There it was, lying peacefully stretched out and unmauled–at the corner of the vegetable patch; like a perfect specimen in a taxidermist’s shop.
No doubt a cadeau [a present] for Meredith–thought one of our six, well-enough-fed cats.
The reds are one of the many joys of living here in southwest France. They lift the spirits with their antics in the trees and their hop-along gait.
We’ve a mulberry tree dropping its tiny ripe black berries on the lawn and the roof of the car; that’s what attracted the poor mite. It ate one too many, too close to the ground and BANG!
We’ll find a stone or heavy tree stump to mark the spot–not far from its last temptation–and place some flowers there. Meredith planned to do the same this morning– honouring the fallen.
Mulberry trees are a source of food for silkworms (leaves) and squirrels (berries).
It’s the fruit of its beautiful, deep-red cousin that I covert.
Succulent, melt-in-the-mouth delicious; they are too delicate to harvest in large quantities. I’ve never seen them in the markets here.
Best to know a private mulberry tree–and not tell anyone about it!
Schoolfriend Chris Fordyce and I feasted–like the squirrel–from the overhanging branches of just such a tree, on the outsikirts of Delphi in Greece–in 1961!
We reached up with bare arms–popping them straight into our hungry mouths.
There was no disguising our indulgence as we quickly signed the youth hostel register for the night, trying to hide our red-stained hands.
When Meredith returned from the ceremony–we agreed the appropriate resting place was under the mulberry tree; on the fringe of our cat cemetery.
