Meet the "Kids"

Below is Spike. At 11#, he is the smallest member of the family. However, he does have big hair, so you would never know how tiny he is. And he is the mighty mouser of the homestead.

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And this is Trixie. She is the only female in the household. Some may say that there is too much testosterone in the home for her to thrive, but thrive she does. At 150#, she is the fourth largest animal in the abode.

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And let's not forget Max. You've all heard the rumors, but there is no genealogical evidence to prove that he is the second cousin of the devil, no matter how many times you try to remove him. At 20#, he ain't no dainty critter. Oh, and the attitude is normal. He thinks he is da bomb.

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And the beloved lumox, Ralph. Tipping the scales at 200#, he is one mammoth puppy. But a sweeter animal you will never meet. A word of caution, when he stomps his paw, you want to move your foot quickly.

The Richard Update

6:20AM. St. Vincent's Hospital. The Heart Lobby.

First, I need to correct some misinformation that I spewed the last time I traveled to St. Vincent’s. It turns out that the hospital is not in Beaverton as I erroneously reported. You pass a sign that says, “Beaverton, Next 4 Exits”, then you turn off Highway 26 and head right for St. Vincent’s parking garage. So, I jumped to the conclusion that the hospital was in Beaverton. Wrong. It has a Portland mailing address. So, I need to take back all my tirades about Beaverton. Oops, sorry folks.

That being said, St. Vincent’s is still located west of Portland and we still live east of Portland. Getting Richard here by 6AM required leaving home at 4:15AM. Extrapolate the hour it took to get us both ready to leave and you’ll understand why, at 3:30AM, Max screeched out, “Are you two out of your friggin’ minds? Get your sagging, old asses back in bed this minute.” Max hates to sleep alone. But we didn’t. Richard is getting prepped for his procedure as we speak.

8AM - The Cafeteria at St. Vinnie's.

Richard has been whisked off to the mystery chamber where the doctor and crew will install his new stent. Breakfast sounded good to me, so here I sit, glaring at a plate of glop. “Special Eggs and Potatoes.” Yes, these eggs are special. They’re scrambled with cheese, some brown things and some green things. I had hoped the brown things were mushrooms, but upon closer inspection, they seem to be bits of sausage. I had trusted that the green things were spinach. But they will be merely remembered as the “unnamed green stuff.” The potatoes aren’t special. They’re nothing more than your traditional grease-soaked hashbrowns. Just looking at this plate is easing my hunger quite quickly.

8:50AM. St. Vincent's Hospital. The Heart Lobby.

One might think, given my vast experience, that I would be better at keeping myself occupied at hospitals. I pace and let my mind wander. I hum songs and recite poetry. I worry the people sharing the lobby. One minute and thirteen seconds down, only 118 minutes and 47 seconds to go. Yes, time truly does fly when you are having fun.

My mind goes off on a tangent. I am suddenly sitting on the Rembrandtplein, quaffing a beer. I spin and find myself in front of L’église de Ste. Catherine/Sint Katelinekerk. I turn again and I am suddenly walking the streets of Île-St.-Louis. Life is good. With no warning, there is a tap on my shoulder. I jolt to attention. It is one of the volunteers. Apparently, my snoring was disturbing the doctors in the operating theatre.

Noon. Home in the Upper Hood River Valley.

Richards procedure is done. Dr. Williamson gave him an A+. It only took about an hour and a half to place the stent in Richard's Iliac artery. The good doctor started to describe the procedure in way more detail than I cared to hear. I turned pale long before he stopped. Anything that starts with an incision or two in the groin is going nowhere I want to go. I was then allowed to visit Richard. He was still groggy, but good. He dozed. So I came home to deal with the dogs. Now I turn around and go pick Richard back up from the hospital. He should be ready to leave at about 4PM - just in time for rush hour.

You know you're a nerd when...

The highlight of your week is Wednesday night. Not Friday, not Saturday, but Wednesday. Because Wednesday night is PubQuiz night at the Horse and Hound in downtown Hood River. And it makes your life complete. You've given up sex, drugs and rock and roll. You get no kick from champagne. Your only joy in life is PubQuiz. It's something like Jeopardy! with Guinness on the side.

Six of us have banded together to form an unstoppable juggernaut, mauling our opponents on a regular basis. (Well, okay tonight we were in third place, but we usually kick butt.) Lets meet the team:
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Raquel:

In an uplifting moment, Raquel searches for the answer to one of the QuizMaster’s pointed questions.
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Brad:

Brad always has a lot of fun at PubQuiz. No, really, he does. This is his happy face.
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Anna:

The irrepressible Anna: when she’s not lap dancing or throwing herself at the QuizMaster (something about bonus points), she’s really quite demure.

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Alix:

It’s not that Alix doesn’t enjoy our company, it’s just that the questions are too elementary to keep her in a state of consciousness. __________________________________________________
Ryan:

Ryan is, hmmm, how do I say this politely? Ryan is from The Dalles. That should pretty much sum it all up.
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Mac:

Yours truly. Not the brightest star in the sky, but I do get a question right every once in while.

Robert Munnell Cornelison, 1917-2005

Most of my memories of my dad include laughter, Ice Cream and Johnny Sauce and really bad singing.

But for me, right now, the most poignant memory is that of my father and his sister, Kathie. My sister, Karla and I had flown to Phoenix, picked Dad up, and flown with him to Albuquerque, NM to see his sister. My cousin, Carol (Aunt Kathryn’s daughter) was instrumental in bringing about this event. My dad was 87 and suffering from Parkinson’s disease, and Aunt Kathryn was 96. Dad was soft spoken all his life, but Parkinson’s disease had made him even softer and slower. And he was dealing with either Parkinson’s related dementia or Alzheimer’s disease. Aunt Kathryn’s sight was almost gone and her hearing was, well that of a 96 year old woman.

The first night we were in Albuquerque, Kathie was absolutely delighted that her brother was by her side. Unfortunately, Dad wasn’t completely sure he knew the woman who was sitting next to him.

The next day was somewhat brighter, in that Dad recognized his sister. But the communication was very difficult. Kathie was getting irritated that her brother wouldn’t or couldn’t talk to her.

As our time in Albuquerque drew to a close, we were sitting in a small lobby at the residence Aunt Kathryn lived in. She was frustrated by not being able to communicate with her brother. She asked to be taken to her room. I leaned down to Dad and said, “You’re sister is leaving, Dad. You’ll never see her again. Isn’t there something you’d like to say to her.”

Dad indicated there was, and Carol wheeled her mother so they were close. Dad still couldn’t get the words out, so he leaned over and kissed his sister. Over eight decades of love, expressed with a simple kiss on the cheek. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Dad died about 4 months later, Aunt Kathryn died about a year later.

Dad, thank you for the humor. Thank you for Johnny Sauce. However, I will not thank you for the bad singing.

But most of all, thank you for the love.

My Mountain

Majestic Mount Hood, Oregon, with the Upper Hood River Valley in the foreground. I wish I could claim that this was the view out of my front window, but alas, it is not.

Wahoo, NE

The winter of 1961/1962. My four sisters and I hanging out in front of our home. And such a photogenic group we were.

The Dalles, OR

This business was unsuccessful. I guess it just proves the importance of having a safe access route for your potential customers.

Irises and Peonies

The first of my Auntie Bea's heirloom irises to bloom this year and my peony almost open.

My father's sister, Bernice Celestine Cornelison Lowry gave starts to my parents before she died in 1979. Somehow I ended up with these. Whether they would be jugded heirloom in a scientific sense or not, I'm not sure. But they are heirloom to me.

A word about the name of this blog.

“Sleeping with Saints” refers inanely to how I spend a third of my life. Sleeping with two furry mammoths. Ralph is 200# and Trixie is 150#. There’s no missing the Saints on the bed. They can’t be mistaken for pairs of errant socks. As the nights warm, they spend less time on the bed, but their snores carry from the floor at the foot.

As they have already been slighted by the title, it is imperative that I mention that I also sleep with my partner, Richard and a pair of cats, Max and Spike. (Spike can be mistaken for a pair of errant socks.) I use “Saints” only because I thought it more theatrical. Somehow it would make my blog classier. I do question the wisdom of my decision. But I have been going from title to title for three weeks. It was critical that I finally decide.