I harbor mixed emotions about squirrels. On the one hand, they are industrious, persistent, and agile high wire artists who sometimes meet an unfortunate yet most likely spectacular demise by short-circuiting a transformer and rendering entire neighborhoods powerless. On the other hand, they bury things in the wrong places, like in our raised garden beds. They burrow and dig (well, more digging than burrowing) in search of their stash of acorns and black walnuts, and in the process lay waste to large sections of perfectly good rows of spinach. I’ve pondered various courses of action: build a wall, post a guard, erect a No Trespassing sign. I’m aware of their prowess when it comes to bird feeders. So currently I have no plans to do anything, hoping this will be a short-lived battle of attrition- that their search for winter’s storehouse will move elsewhere. Shortly.

In the meantime, our attention turns to straw bale gardening. After flipping one of the bales over, I noticed the beginnings of some sort of bee’s nest (?), surprisingly intact and sort of perfect. Took my mind off the squirrels.

 

I’m not sure what constitutes a pilgrimage. I guess my trip to Israel would count as such. But my roughly semi-annual trips to Gettysburg feel almost like a necessity. The place calls me back year after year. I go to the same places. I take the same pictures…! Regardless of the program being offered at the seminary, I make sure to take time to get to Little Round Top and the 20th Maine monument. If I’m lucky, there will be no one else around, which heightens the senses and aids the feeble attempt to grasp the chaos and violence unfolding on this very spot on July 2, 1863.

It’s just woods and rocks now- a mix of hardwoods, pines, redbud. Low stone walls built in the approximate locations of the originals. An exposed, treeless face. Honeysuckle tucked between the rocks. Birds singing, squirrels scampering.  Peaceful, even.

But oh, if the stones could speak.