For Sale_ This Old House

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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Fri May 17, 2019 10:22 pm

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On the promenade by the sea at sundown _ a very short distance from my front door...

Shadows, lights…squeals…noise…momentary silence…then a group of youngsters laughing and joking in a kind of merriment hard to describe but easy to understand.

The pleasant clinking of kitchenware and cutlery from nearby open air restaurants…steps of young men and women out walking by the sea in a fall evening of joy…clatter and chatter…a cool breeze keeping company to leaves and convertible's tires rolling on the asphalt, ever so slowly, conveyors of a seemingly never ending happiness_ a sunset that warms the hearts and caresses the smiling gazes.

A sun that vanishes as the moon makes its grand entry into the magic of the evening. Cars being parked…and parked cars beginning to move… a distant wail of desperation…a tolling of bells…a shout of contentment… gently amplified acoustic music of a jug band filling the air…

And so pass the cars, pass the cats, pass the elegant couples…

And so pass the seasons…so pass the years…slowly the noises of life recede in their own retreats… to make room for their colleagues…the silent shadows of the night…but some stragglers don't want to go home…

Night life has shut down… lights and kiosks have been asleep for a while…a yawn comes to keep me company…

The night is what has shown me the road is still there…
Until tomorrow my son.
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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Sun May 19, 2019 8:32 pm

Night life has shut down… lights and kiosks have been asleep for a while…a yawn comes to keep me company…it is always in those final moments of glorious scintillating evenings fading away into the night that I feel an indescribable melancholy and sense of abandonment as I retrace my steps back to my old house, around the villa fiorita and a glance up to my left checking out the 3th floor balcony of the building where my dear friend John lived.

And then...there she is my lovely old house with the mysterious façade I loved so much.

I remember,as a young child, how excited I was_ the first time ever out the front door alone standing across the street gazing at my old house's façade…admiring the structure and loving it so much happy to know it belonged to me... yet overcome by a sense of being on the brink of a well with a strange future, desolation and sadness being reflected to my eyes.

Such fears as a child to contemplate.

And now I find this house in the night... old and lonely…much in need of the love this old house knew only I could give it through the wheel of time.

And I am now inside and seated on the comfortable old sofa of the radio room…always my favorite sitting place....as from this chosen location I can well observe this beloved great room's ambiance_

My father's library, taking up a whole wall, on the right both sides of the balcony is well furnished by books of every category and author_ I would spend the longest hours reading as many books as I could, while holding a beautiful long knife encrusted in ivory …a gift from a friend of my father while in the military stationed in Benghazi…a knife which sparkled behind the glass of the library.

And now, in the silence and the mystery of the moment…the room is basking in the eerie light of a blue moon ...the entire neighborhood below is aglow ...

I see some people sitting at the oval family conference table in the middle of the room_ several are writing their own life stories, others are reading books under the dim light of the moon right over the room's balcony. I don't know who they are but they seem ancestral like, totally ignoring me.

Across the way I see my friend John step out onto the balcony, look down my way and wave his hand.

But as I am feeling a familiar disembodied presence radiating warmth_ I see some of the people stand up _ seemingly overcome by a strange sadness…and head towards the other rooms of the house…but where are they going? What's there at this moment calling on these people to visit?

I remain in my seat and in my deep reflections…yes, I am back in my old house breathing the peace of this sacred space…yes…my first step has been taken I am here to await a new squall of conflicting emotions.
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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Sun May 19, 2019 8:43 pm

I continue to remain in seated in deep reflections. Thoughts of my childhood beckon…

it is a time suspended of memories, smells and tastes. And of times long gone, of sunny Sundays, of home made pasta, of Christmas nights sneaking a peak at presents, of my mother and father always looking the same, never growing old, with the same faces and the same voice.

My mother always waiting at the window for my return_ and the feeling that all was mine, my trees, my garden, my playroom, my streets where I would go out and play, my street lights shining in the night, my beautiful toys, my make believe resplendent future, my dreams of adulthood and adventures.

And of my ancestral old house and all neighborhood and familiar places surrounding it…not just places but sacred surfaces treaded upon by great grandparents…and the stories I know, the secrets I know of these places…knowing when it would rain, and when the clouds would cede to the sun…and of happiness and sadness…the stories of life intersecting with places…becoming one.

Of my grandmother always there visiting waiting and praying…for her son , my uncle, to escape from Nazi labor camps...
Rosary beads slipping through her fingers worn out from a lifetime of family labors…

The need to learn to listen to these magical internal voices_ to learn to see the depth of those places…and understand that a journey is not only a trip to places but also one within the self.

Inside of us is the real journey, inside us live places and past dreams…and future dreams.

But before an arrival there is a departure that means a voyage . The coming and going, departing again…the thoughts slide with speed along the railroad tracks, and the dreams chase one another between the tracks' crushed stones ballast.

A journey is that segment of time suspended between points of departure and arrival. But as the train speeds to destination, we are prisoners of the mind. And when the train slows and stops at stations along the way, there is an awakening and a release from that lockup…the locomotive's engine winds down its mesmerizing huff…

Then puffs and whistles anew …the swarming of passengers that alight …walk and get aboard… …and it is there in the stations that there are welcoming hugs and goodbyes, and when the smokestack trembles, it signals impending separations, smiles and tears, as a daily mocking metaphor of life…

a reality theater that flashes through the eyes and the minds of travelers as they look outside their window seats and suddenly see their image reflected while the train whistles and picks up speed.

In the whistling and the shuffling madness of locomotive breath…your thoughts release their grip and you find yourself on green wooden seats worn out by time with your heart open to the journey.

And all that bringing to mind the importance of time, the necessity of the voyage, a trip that must take place in the landscape of the heart.

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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Sun May 19, 2019 8:49 pm

In my subconscious mind _ the long dark corridor of my old house, flanking the railroad station, is one of the repositories of my memories…of old and more recent. Something strange…

But memoirs belong to a strange category_ The reliving of the past provokes shifting mind states. The returning to the past, even if driven by subliminal forces, in particular _when we were very young or as children_ generates that strange sense of tenderness and melancholy of a "time gone by never to return"_

But then there are memories that are heartbreaking causing deep regrets and guilt.

In 'the space' we evoke in us even the 'thoughts' of those times and years_ the 'thinking' we did then_ and that we had completely forgotten, or decided unworthy of giving reflection to , or even the thinking we had sought to suppress them or continuously seek to obliterate as our lives move on presently.

Very often a simple 'input' is enough to suddenly trigger a mysterious world of reminiscence opening before our eyes.

And our subconscious_ knowing the really unique primal method the brain has for never forgetting_ is allowing those past moments to continuously live on _in our intimate self.

There, in the sealed drawers of the mind , memoirs remain in custody, care ... in love and jealousy, to impede in all manners possible that someone or something might contaminate them.

They belong to us, they are our story , our refuge from the sometimes and inevitable darkness of life.

Each single experience lived and linked together with others, remains inscribed in our remembrances in different ways. Each one of us 'locks in' different moments and sensation very unique to the self.

At some point in our lives _the time always comes when we begin to look at our past and ask the inner self what our existence has really been like.

What or who has remained in our minds, even the things and people we, try as we will, are not able to eradicate from consciousness, because a word, a phrase, a sensation, a strange springtime 'air' _ or a smell in the air or in the rain carries us to reminiscence.

Tonight there are thunders and lightning outside my window.

If we all stopped to reflect and remember of times past, we would certainly notice that life is an alternating of events and situations, at times most welcome, at times unsolicited _frustrating, maddening_ and at other times_ instead _causing much suffering.

And in the circumstances particularly saddening and tragic, we have the habit of saying that what occurred was maybe a malediction, a family curse...night shadows...

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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Sun Jul 14, 2019 8:21 pm

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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Wed Oct 02, 2019 10:26 pm

This is a truly BEAUTIFUL piece. Please
read this at a slow pace, digesting every word and in
leisure...do not hurry....this is a treasure...

For those lucky to still be blessed with your Mom,
this is beautiful. For those of us who aren't, this is
even more beautiful. For those who are moms, you'll love this.

MOTHER


>>>> The young mother set her foot on the path of life. "Is

this the long way?" she asked. And the guide said: "Yes, and the way
is hard.


And you will be old before you reach the end of it. But
the end will be better than the beginning."


But the young mother was happy, and she would not
believe that anything could be better than these years. So she
played with her children, and gathered flowers for
them along the way, and bathed them in the clear streams; and
the sun shone on them, and the young Mother cried,

"Nothing will ever be lovelier than this."


Then the night came, and the storm, and the path was
dark, and the children shook with fear and cold, and the mother
drew them close and covered them with her mantle, and the children
said,

"Mother, we are not afraid, for you are near, and no harm can come."



And the morning came, and there was a hill ahead, and
the children climbed and grew weary, and the mother was weary.

But at all times she said to the children," A little patience and we
are there."

So the children climbed, and when they reached the top
they said, "Mother, we would not have done it without you."

And the mother, when she lay down at night looked up
at the stars and said, "This is a better day than the last, for my
children have learned fortitude in the face of hardness.

Yesterday I
gave them courage.
Today, I've given them strength."

And the next day came strange clouds which darkened
the earth, clouds of war and hate and evil, and the children groped
and stumbled, and the mother said: "Look up. Lift your eyes to the
light.


"And the children looked and saw above the clouds
an everlasting glory, and it guided them beyond the
darkness.
And that night the Mother said,
"This is the best day of all, for
I have shown my children God."


And the days went on, and the weeks and the months and
the years, and the mother grew old and she was little and bent.

But her children were tall and strong, and walked with
courage. And when the way was rough, they lifted her,
for she was as light as a feather; and at last they came to a hill,
and beyond they could see a shining road and golden gates flung wide.


And
mother said, "I have reached the end of my journey. And now I know the
end
is better than the beginning, for my children can
walk alone, and their children after them."


And the children said, "You will always walk with us,
Mother, even when you have gone through the gates."
And they stood and watched her as she went on alone, and the gates
closed after her.

And they said: "We cannot see her
but she is with us still. A Mother like ours is more than a memory.

She
is a living presence......."


Your Mother is always with you.... She's the whisper
of the leaves as you walk down the street; she's the smell of bleach
in your freshly laundered socks; she's the cool hand
on your brow when you're not well.

Your Mother lives
inside your laughter. And she's crystallized in every tear drop.

She's the place you came from, your first home; and
she's the map you follow with every step you take. She's your first
love
and your first heartbreak, and nothing on earth can
separate you.


Not time, not space... not even death!


If you still have Her near, then Cherish and Adore Her!
For once she's gone, there's no going back!

If she has passed, then never forget her, not even for a second!

For when you have passed, she will be the first waiting for you!
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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Thu Oct 03, 2019 10:07 pm

WHAT WILL MATTER
By Michael Josephson

Ready or not, someday it will all come to an end.

There will be no more sunrises, no minutes, hours, or days.

All the things you collected, whether treasured or forgotten, will pass to
someone else.

Your wealth, fame, and temporal power will shrivel to irrelevance.

It will not matter what you owned or what you were owed.

Your grudges, resentments, frustrations, and jealousies will finally
disappear.

So, too, your hopes, ambitions, plans, and to-do lists will expire.

The wins and losses that once seemed so important will fade away.

It won't matter where you came from, or on what side of the tracks you
lived, at the end.

It won't matter whether you were beautiful or brilliant
Even your gender and skin color will be irrelevant.

So what will matter? How will the value of your days be measured?

What will matter is not what you bought, but what you built; not what you
got, but what you gave.

What will matter is not your success, but your significance.
What will matter is not what you learned, but what you taught.

What will matter is every act of integrity, compassion, courage or sacrifice
that enriched, empowered or encouraged others to emulate your example.

What will matter is not your competence, but your character.

What will matter is not how many people you knew, but how many will feel a
lasting loss when you're gone.

What will matter is not your memories, but the memories that live in those
who loved you.

What will matter is how long you will be remembered, by whom and for what.

Living a life that matters doesn't happen by accident. It's not a matter of
circumstance but of choice.

Choose to live a life that matters.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

And make and keep friends, don't be shallow, be forgiving_

Don't die a lonely death.
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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Wed Nov 13, 2019 8:37 pm

MY NAME IS ROSE
>
>
>
The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn't already know. I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder.
>
> I turned around to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.
>
> She said, "Hi handsome. My name is Rose. I'm eighty-seven years old. Can I give you a hug?"
>
> I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant squeeze.
>
> "Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked.
>
>
> She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, and have a couple of kids..."
>
> "No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
>
> "I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!" she told me.
>
> After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake.
>
> We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months we would leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she sh ared her wisdom and experience with me.
>
> Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.
>
> At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium. As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her three by five cards on the floor.
>
> Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, "I'm sorry I'm so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know."
>
> As we laughed she cleared her throat and began, " We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing.
>
> There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success. You have to laugh and find humor every day. You've got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die.
>
> We have so many people walking around who are dead and don't even know it!
>
> There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up.
>
> If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one productive thing, you will turn twenty years old. If I am eighty-seven years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn eighty-eight.
>
> Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding opportunity in change. Have no regrets.
>
> The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets."
>
> She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose."
>
> She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives. At the year's end Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago.
>
> One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep.
>
> Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all you can possibly be.
>
> When you finish reading this, please send this peaceful word of advice to your friends and family, they'll really enjoy it!
>
> These words have been passed along in loving memory of ROSE.
>
> REMEMBER, GROWING OLDER IS MANDATORY. GROWING UP IS OPTIONAL. We make a Living by what we get. We make a Life by what we give.
>
> God promises a safe landing, not a calm passage. If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it.
>
> Pass this message to 7 people except you and me. You will receive a miracle tomorrow ( if you don't think so...look out your window when you wake in the morning and think about it )
>
> If you choose not, then you refuse to bless someone else.
>
> "Good friends are like stars........You don't always see them, but you know they are always there."
>
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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Wed Nov 27, 2019 8:51 am

It is I who am lost, not he. I am lost in my search for him, knowing he is nowhere in this world. And still, so many times he has been besides me in dreams and real life places in ways hard to describe. Sometimes I hear his voice 'I love you dad'... But when I look over my shoulder, he is not there.

I am always inventing stories trying to cope with this unbearable sorrow... My son is not dead; he is out in his yard cutting the grass sitting on the Club Cadet riding lawn mower_ he is just turning the corner into our driveway to visit and tune up my PC.

He is in his dorm room at Boston College , where he will graduate Summa Cum Laude in computer sciences_ talking deep into the night with his buddies. He is lingering with new friends on the rooftop of his software firm where he works as a vice president of International engineering.

He is with me at the Acura dealership where we went to purchase his new TL. He was so excited.

We were always invited at his home for Thanksgiving dinner, he was such a gracious host, and so considerate and loved by all on and off the job. He had so many loving friends. One thanksgiving Holiday he invited for dinner several Russians colleagues who had been working at his firm on an exchange program and feeling lonely. They were so grateful for his kindness.

“Where are you, my son?” I shout the question to the sky when I am strong enough to bear the silence that follows. “Why did you die?” Even that has no real answer. His doctors and all of us at home were convinced he was going to recover… he was doing so well after his hellish surgeries. He kept telling us "not to worry... I will be fine...I feel fine"

This cloud of uncertainty does not obscure what I know: My child is dead.

I feel guilty about his death...I feel a sense of failure for not having been able to protect/save him from his fate...still living when he is gone defies the natural order, a violation of the basic canon of parenthood.

So unbearable is my occluded heart that I call out to him in desperation so many times at his grave site. "get up off the ground and get into my car so I can take you home" Then I realize the futility of my shouts...I look down and see a couple of large round stones placed neatly side by side upon his tomb. Don't know who put them there.

Most often...while at the grave...My eyes closed in grief, when suddenly I seem to see him before me, In my mind’s eye, his face was suffused with love.

"love always, Dad" he says.
“But where are you?” I ask.
“I’m here!” he answers… "Thank you for coming'_ 'Just love me Dad' And then he is gone.

As he lay in his own bed dying unable to move or speak, I had told I loved him, I begged him to just get up and walk away, as this was just a bad dream…he never answered but gently twitched his arm upon which my hand was resting.

His last words written/emailed to me were ' Dad, you were always there when I needed you, love always'

“love always, Dad”

His words always unleash a torrent. My tears stream. I feel breathless … I would continue to try to find new ways to love him.

This Thanksgiving I will again drive by his beautiful home where he lived with his family...strange thing...every time I drive by there, the house seems almost ghostly, with windows curtains drawn and dark inside, as there were nobody living there.

But I look for him everywhere, in every full moon, in each brilliant day...or when it rains hard as id did at his funeral...just writing this seems to place a weight in my heart making each breath shallow and every step an effort.

On the worst days I sit before my PC and pour out my feelings to the only entity who can take in my sorrow and remain unbowed. The keyboard is damp at the final touch…the final refrain leaves my fingertips: I love you, my son , I love you. I miss you. I'll wait for you on Christmas eve to knock on the front door.

He lives within me, forever a young man … always compassionate, kind, helpful, altruistic, determined to excel and brave even in death.

I still search for him, but without desperation. I look for him in others. My search is lifted by his words: “Just love me. I’m here.”- " Love always. Dad"


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Re: For Sale_ This Old House

Postby Van Canna » Mon Dec 09, 2019 6:18 am

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