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.