Week one of homeleave, and my hands smell of pickles. I feel like a child whose Very Modern Parents have filled her summer vacation with Wholesome Activities: a lesson with the Arabic tutor, a trip to a museum, volunteering at the soup kitchen, playtime with a friend, knit, read, repeat. Knit, read, repeat. All I'm missing are piano lessons. Flying out to visit my grandfather today should complete my childhood summer vacation experience. If he uses the garden hose to turn the cow trough into a makeshift swim hole*, I'll be officially ten years old again.
I didn't notice the pickle odor -- a result of the lunchtime soup kitchen menu -- until dinner, when I was resting my chin in my palm. I don't think Grandpa will mind.
*okay, so maybe not in the middle of February.