MY FRIEND MELODIE

Recently I received a note from one of my best friends from high school. Her name is Melodie Thomas. Back in the day there was the dynamic foursome; Melodie Thomas (formerly Melodie Brown), Patrice Lincoln (formerly Patrice McGowan), Val Patterson (Formerly Val Pappas) and Cheryl Brown (formerly Cheryl Morehouse). We were very tight. These women are a part of what makes me...me. And they will always hold a special place in my heart and in my very soul. We went to Royal High, in Simi Valley, California. When we were growing up there, it was mostly citrus farms and small post war houses and a bowling alley and k-mart. Parts of it were know for its high rate of domestic violence, and in some neighborhoods, a dangerously high water table. Now it is America's most livable city. Of course, none of us live there anymore.

Melodie wrote to me just few days ago to tell me her mother has just passed away from cancer. She knew her mom was not feeling too good. Her mom did not share many things with Melodie. But to know one has cancer and keep it from your loved ones can really hurt. And her mom kept it from her. So, in a sense, she was not able to have the same kind of closure some of us are gifted by our loved ones when we know they are passing. I think the best way to describe how Melodie feels is to share her writing, with her blessing. There are 3 parts. My personal favorite is a portion of the second essay...(part 3). Here is part 1:

"Mom passed away a few days ago, in Santa Rosa. Margie waited more than 24 hours to tell Margo and I because ... who knows? As it turns out, my mother had a PET scan back in April, and they determined that she had lung cancer, which had originated elsewhere, likely in the colon. Mom refused treatment, as recently as a month ago, and said that she had lived a long time, and wanted to go home to die.

She evidently wanted Margo and I kept out of the loop about the cancer, and her impending death.

Margo lives in Santa Rosa and saw her just last Sunday. It was clear that she was not feeling well recently, and that she was bedridden. However, Margo thought that she had had bouts like this before, but had always eventually rallied. For some reason, I just knew that she was shutting down, although I didn't know about the cancer. But Margo didn't have the same sense I did about it, and she is stunned that she didn't see this coming, and angry at Margie for not letting her know, and hurt that she didn't get a chance to say goodbye.

My thoughts are perhaps more complicated. In some ways I made my peace long ago with the conclusion that I would never really understand why she was the way she was. I also finally got to the point where I could say that what she did to us so many years ago didn't really matter anymore. It makes it easier to have some measure of resolution on my side, but it clearly wasn't resolved on her side, and that feels awful. While it is painful to think of how she lived (?) her last few years, it is a relief to think that she is finally at peace.

In any event, it appears that there will be a small, graveside service at Valley Oaks in Westlake Village, possibly next weekend, or early the following week. I will most likely come out, probably by myself. In many ways, I am dreading it, as this family is now fractured beyond repair.

I will keep you posted as to my plans, as it would be great to see you. Perhaps we could meet up at some point while I'm there."

And then she wrote these two essays. The second essay really got me. I have to say. I did laugh at parts of it, which I am sure Melodie would not object to. It is titled "The Girl Who Stole My Dress" and it feels like a short chapter from Harper Lee's one and only novel. It really does:

ESSAY ONE
Thoughts on Mom’s passing
Or, how my mother’s obituary should actually read

One of my earliest memories of my mother is so telling about who she was. I had to have been three or four, as we were still living in Woodland Hills. We were headed out the front door to visit the next-door neighbors, whose son Johnny was my primary, and much-adored, playmate. For some reason, I asked my mother hold old she was.

I can still remember her reaction, and my shame at having inadvertently done something wrong.

“You NEVER ask a lady her age!”, she thundered, her gorgeous blue eyes flashing with rage. And that was that. It was the first of many questions I had about her that would never get answered, at least not directly. After that, any attempts to find out more about who she was were met with either suspicion or hostility. Once in a blue moon, frequently after she’d had a drink or two, but please-dear-God not more, she’d open a window into her past just a crack and reveal a little about how she came to be the person she was.

But those moments were few and far between, and they had to be initiated by her.

ESSAY TWO
The girl who stole my dress

My mother wanted my sisters and I to look our best at all times. As children growing up in the 60’s and 70’s, we could not even go to the drug store without brushing our hair and running a washcloth over our faces. I shake my head now just thinking of it. As a young girl, it was not unusual to have to wear curlers to bed, so that I could be perfectly coiffed the next day.

Clearly, appearances were very important to my mother. She bought us beautiful clothes. There was a store one town over that sold “designer clothes for children”. Nowadays, that would not be so unusual, the recession notwithstanding. In those days, however, that was most unusual. I’m sure we must have stood out like sore thumbs in our largely middle-class town in Southern California, where the fortunes of the local families largely rose and fell with those of the aerospace industry.

In any event, she loved that store and would buy clothes for us there. As I recall, we girls didn’t even go along for the shopping – she’d just come home with some dresses for us, and expect us to wear them.

So that’s how I came to be wearing a lovely purple dress my freshman year of junior high. I came back from gym class one day to discover that the dress was gone from my locker.

Eventually, the 8th or 9th grader who took the dress made the mistake of wearing it to school. It was simply implausible to think that the dress belonged to her. She eventually confessed her theft, and was punished by the school.

However, my mother couldn’t let it rest there. She pored repeatedly over a yearbook photo of the girl, which showed a huge cyst on her forehead. My mother, ever-obsessed with appearances, couldn’t stand it.

In the end, my mother paid to have the cyst removed from the girl’s forehead, and even sent flowers to her as she was recuperating.

*********

She died the way she had lived the last twenty-plus years of her life – hidden away from those who loved her. Why she isolated herself is anyone’s guess. At the end, she had cut herself off from all but two of her four daughters. She gave only one of them the knowledge that she was dying, and the chance to say goodbye to her.

She was scared of life.

She pitted her daughters against each other, yet told us she wished we’d get along better.

She could hold a grudge about the smallest thing forever.

She could be incredibly, ridiculously generous to a fault.

She could be completely impossible.

She never apologized or explained herself.

My high school friends adored her, and still remember her fondly.

She leaves behind a family fractured beyond repair.


But I loved her nonetheless, and feel the ache of the lost opportunities to connect, for us to just know and accept each other. I dearly wish she had given all of us the gift of knowing her more fully.

My heart to you, dear friend. Dear Melodie. I look forward to spending some time with you very soon.

My first pie-in-the-sky-tweet-tweet-in-your-facebook-myspace kind of experience.

Welcome to my first hike on the trail of virtual exploration.

We all read blogs. Sometimes we write them. Sometimes we scratch our head and look over our shoulder to see if we have anyone witness our inability to interact with a dialogue because we are not sure how to use the tools.

But here it is. I took the plunge.

My name is Dina Pielaet. I was born and raised for the first third of my life in new Jersey. My mom and dad moved us all out to California in the 70's and we landed in Simi Valley. I went to Royal High. Graduated in 1977. I have 12 brothers and sisters.

I have a great life partner. Her name is Amy Jones. We settled in Ventura, California. (there is another Ventura...it is in Spain) We own a small, full-service print and web design agency called 451 Media. We also started Ventura Magazine (around 9 years ago), Ventura Life & Style magazine (around 8 years ago), VC life & Style magazine and Ventura Life magazine. That's because we really love our town. Producing those mags was a constant dedication. We never made a dime. We did spent a lot of money on it...though...a true labor-of-love.

My father found out he had cancer around the same time we started Ventura Life & Style magazine.
He fought the disease as best he could. 8 years of many doctors and specialists and their bad advice. 8 years of a lot of toxic chemicals being pumped through his body. 8 years and hundreds of thousands of dollars. He passed away in December. 2008.

My mom misses him every moment of every day. 56 years together. I guess it must feel like losing your legs. At first it hurts a lot. Then it feels like they are still there...but they do not work. Then you look down and see they are gone. "oh yeah...their gone". But, you still feel them. Kind of. You just cannot see them...and they do not hold your body up anymore. She needs to learn how to walk all over again.

I recently found out my mom and dad have really high IQ's. I mean...really high. Mom's IQ is 165. My dad's is (was), believe it or not...204. Now, a lot of people told me the tests only go up to 200. But that is not true. Some tests rate up to 230. Crazy...huh? With a mind like that...I know he has figured out a way to still be with us. I feel him all the time. "A beautiful mind". He had a big heart...and really blue eyes too. He was gruff. But very, very real. Big hank. Always knew what was on his mind.

My mom is a concert Pianist. Up until dad got really really sick, she had 40 piano students. Then she had to give up her practice to take care of him.

My dad died in a hospital bed in my parents living room. It was his island for 91 days. I moved back home for that time and I guess you could say that the living room became my planet for 91 days. I slept, worked and did everything I could for mom and dad. I was his caregiver. I was also his counselor. And his buddy. It was a very precious time for me.

We had some beautiful people associated with the Livingston Memorial Visiting Nurses Association guiding us and tending to my father as well. I love those people for that. He adored 2 of them especially well. Teresa his nurse. Alma his attendant. They taught me how to be his caregiver along with my sister, Maria. She is the doctor in the family. She was my lifeline too. She taught me how to be dads right hand. She taught me how to manage his chemistry in way that really gave him quality of life. She helped us all to give dad clarity of thought and comfort of body so he could have more time with his wife and kids. She is a pretty amazing person. My big sister. I only have one big sis. The rest are younger than me. All my sisters, and brothers, were there. Everyday. Even now. Coming and going and making the air around them vibrate with happiness. Life. God. Love.

Amy, my partner was my counselor during all of this. And she was totally supportive of my choices. Even though I know she was lonely and really missed me a lot. I missed her a lot too. It was hard...but "bittersweet". Hard to explain. I will try in a later blog.

I am a photographer. I took pictures of the whole experience. I also kept a diary. very soon, I will post some links to some very sepcial photo galleries. I will also post my diary. I call it "91 days".

I guess it seems weird to spend so much time on this subject matter instead of the "all-about-me" stuff people who create their own blogs usually write...but this has been what has changed my life recently. Has changed me forever.

My dad lay on his island, and looked over my shoulder as I produced the last "Ventura Life" magazine. At the time, I did not know it was the last issue. Only my underwriter (yes- we had someone help underwrite the magazine this past year because we simply ran out of money) knew it was the last one. But our financial partner did not tell amy and I until after we produced, printed and distributed 18,000 magazines. Amy and I will do whatever it takes to dig out. We always find a way.

She left a note on our door that said she was pulling out because we were not profitable enoough for her investment. We were very sad. She left the note on our door right around my 50th birthday. In february. The ultimate gift? Maybe. I cried. So did amy. Not so much because of the note... but because of the timing. I felt the loss all the more because...well...my dad just died. But I always say "timing has no conscience". Well...time does heal wounds...right?

People keep calling me and emailing me and asking me "why?". You see...she really wanted to give her money to concert events (like the Ventura Music Festival) and playhouses (like the Rubicon) instead. She also gives lots of money to politicians. Not Obama, though. She does not like him. It seems...archiving life about our ventura, in photo and word, is just not a priority to the people of means in our town right now. Oh well. Politics is politics. Business is business. And it was her money...right?

You can log onto: www.venturalifemag.com to check out past issues, and see some cool photo galleries and so forth, to get a feel for what Amy and I have poured our soul into for the past 8 years. You can see what Ann Deal has decided was not worth her "salt"...

But who knows. Never question fate. Maybe my dad reached out across the vapor between here and "THERE" and intervened. Maybe he gave us all a virtual slap in the head. "Move on dina-beans...time for something REALLY special..." He always said I worked too hard. Too many hours...days... weeks... months at a time on that publication. He said that what Amy and I did with that magazine was just never really appreciated enough. He said that from his deathbed.

Maybe....but....I do not think we are done with it. I think we just need to come up with a new plan...one that does not depend upon our local business owners. A plan that moves beyond "small minds in powerful positions"...mamybe we can turn the magazine into a non-profit. A celebration of life, folk, ocean, land, ventura. Perhaps a teaching tool. Never question fate.

So for now my life is filled with my family, my partner and her family, our funky property on the hillside, re-building 451 media and our client base, photography and community of loved ones. I would like to encourage everyone reading this blog to think about the people in YOUR life and how your relationships with your family, friends, partners can be enriched. I would also encourage you to find out if there are people in your world that need your love. People that need your commitment.

As Dickens said "Mankind IS our business". Maybe somene needs your help. Maybe someone needs YOUR shoulder to lean on.

I would also encourage you to find out more about the Livingston Memorial hospice care program before it is perhaps a service you may need to rely on. You will be better empowered to make decisions on behalf of your loved ones when the time comes. They are a wonderful resource. All are welcome in their eyes. A beautiful community of caring professionals during our most intense time of transition. caring for loved ones in the final transition from this life to the next.

So that's it for now. I have a lot more to say. About a lot of stuff...
I have a lot more to show you too. But it will take time. Thanks for sharing my thoughts with your busy day...and please tell me whats on your mind at this very intstant...before it passes and feels like the faintest tingle of a phantom limb. xod