rachel_and_madeline fyn gula rachel had her eighth birthday two days ago, and as he was pushing the wheelbarrow full of sod pieces. she was coming up the hill with a paper in her hand. she was wearing her new glasses, "for distance," as her little sister madeline says. he could see it was a crayon drawing as she gave it to him, her light blue eyes averting his gaze. "it looks like a giant," he guessed. "it is!" she shouted, now looking up at him. she let him keep it and he carefully folded it, for these were the things he treasured. pocket to journal, the portable art gallery. madeline would be six tomorrow. she was already busy scooping up sod with his pitchfork, twice the size of herself. rachel, who had jumped inside the empty wheelbarrow, rode squealing to the top as he pushed it. she jumped back out when they reached the plot destined for garden use. "this is the giant's head," rachel said, pointing at the bare earth, "and we're taking all his hair off while he sleeps." so he pretends to be the giant waking up and looking into the mirror. "yikes!" he shouted, and they run about in the mud chanting the word just like he said it, and he wondered if this is what it's like to be a father. 010403 what's it to you? who go blather from