Grandpa would fling seeds upon the earth to make food come forth to feed our hunger's needs, walk with hands behind his back and head bowed in deep thought or maybe he was looking for the time he lost. Grandpa Penny would go fishing by the local muddy creek and sit there quietly for hours in the stillness, no doubt, fishing for memories out of his life's rapidly flowing stream . And he would laugh a laugh as clear and pure as polished glass and slap a knee with delight as times and days rolled past. Memories softly flooded his mind, with veins on Bible-holding hands he would preach on Sunday mornings about the troubles of the world, its joys, the many souls yet unsaved, and about America being one vast link of connecting cities reaching from NEW YORK to HOLLYWOOD and beyond. CD's playing electric winking blues moaning and crying. American fusing slowly all of its dark sin, good times, the hell with tomorrow, into one giant mass of group loneliness. It made no difference if he walked down polluted city streets or through spring country fields of black eyed susans or beneath skies blue bright.