Which grandfather, I wonder, owned the clock? Which brought the sun and moon from outer space, wound the weights and listened to the strike? Who built the case and when? Whose loving skill crafted the maple inlay? As I face realization that I'll never know, that when I could I never thought to ask, I recollect tradition long passed down through folk tales back to days when Homer sang. I'll spin my own tradition. Who will now dare to dispute the grandfather I choose to contradict the striking tales I'll tell? My grandchildren will say, ``Oh yeah? That's great,'' and wish they'd listened to me, years too late.