S I S T E R S

On our way back to mother's house from the art fair in Flint, Michigan, we saw two ten-speed bicycle wheels in the neighbor's trash. "Oooh," said Deborah, eyeing the wheels.

"Do you want to take a look at those wheels," I asked, hoping not. We had already kept my sisters waiting for dinner.

"Maybe, if they're still there later," Deborah said, adding, "I don't want to pack one more thing right now."

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My four sisters had, more or less independently, decided to meet up for dinner in Flint while Deborah and I were in town for the Flint Art Fair. Janet, the youngest sister, and Diane, the eldest, both live in the area and work together at the Flint Library, on whose grounds the art fair was being hosted. Our mother, RoseAnn, lives in nearby Grand Blanc. My younger sister, Sharon, drove in from Plymouth and my older sister, Maureen, drop up from Harrison Township.

My mother ran communications. Maureen was supposed to come to dinner the night before, but couldn't make it. Sharon's availability was in doubt until the last moment. Janet helped us tear down the booth and pack the van. She got to Mother's house just ahead of Deborah and me.

Finding dinner was a sad commentary on the state of the economy in Flint, Michigan. We had planned to go to a chain fine-dining restaurant known for great ribs. Diane got there first, with my nephew, Brian, in the passenger seat. Diane was on the phone with my mother, who was riding with Sharon (Brian's mother), and Janet. Deborah and I were in Maureen's car. We were all soon together in the vacant parking lot at the defunct restaurant talking to each other on cell phones.

Most of Flint was like this now: hit or miss if the store you want to go to is still in business. The locals just took it in stride. They decided on a nearby barbeque joint. We could get take-out and head back to Mom's house to eat.

The barbeque joint was closed on Sunday. The parking lot was chaotic with cars pulling in and out of the strip mall with four closed retail outlets. Across the street loomed Halo Burger, a bastion of indigestion, open, willing and able to serve our gastronomical needs. The sisters opted for Sophia's, a diner in Grand Blanc they were sure was open.

But not for long. We got to Sophia's at almost 8:00 p.m. and they were closing at 9:00. We had to eat it and beat it. We ordered appetizers and entrees at the same time, ordered drinks, and when the fruit smoothies came, things started to get interesting.

A peach smoothie and a chocolate shake were passed around, resulting in a couple more orders for peach smoothies, which were likewise passed around. In fact, it seemed that virtually every dish was shared with all comers until everything was gone.

Eating with my siblings can get interesting immediately. Even with just my four sisters (and none of my four brothers), the conversation can get hot in a hurry. They will gang up to take you down a peg or two if the opportunity presents itself. Which it always does. Being around my family can be intimidating for newcomers like Deborah, especially if they are not used to siblings. There are always four conversations going on at any given time, and it is customary for people to suddenly drop out of one and into another without pause or parting words.

My sister, Janet, has a booming voice and can sound off negatively on almost any topic. But lately she's been "New Janet," genuinely smiling and happy to see people, and much more civil and radiant than she used to be.

Sharon, the next youngest, is an attorney and makes her living being clever with words. She knows interrogation techniques and torture: using your own words agains you. You have to watch out for Sharon.

Maureen is my nearest older sibling. We look alike -- both dark -- and we used to be able to convince stranger we were twins. We behaved like twins growing up, except I got caught for most of my misdeeds and she did not. She enjoys nothing better than putting a younger sibling in his place, except maybe sticking it to an older sibling, especially her sister, Diane.

Diane is a librarian and know-it-all. A two-time Jeopardy contestant, she is also family genealogist chronicling the photos, news clippings, history and doings of two clans -- one Irish, one Itlaian -- from whom we have all descended. Diane is not only the authority on who did what in our childhoods, she also keeps the memories of past generations and all the kings and queens of England and the capitol cities of all 50 states and the formula for converting Celsius to Fahrenheit tucked inside her head and available for instant recall, especially if the purpose is to put a sibling in his place.

That's a tough room! Presiding over all of it is the mother hen, RoseAnn, who, at age 82, was vying with pre-teen Brian for the status of youngest in the room. She likes to sit back, listen to all the chaos she has created, and laugh. She lets us do the heavy lifting of putting siblings into place. Her job is to keep things from getting out of hand -- and also taking advantage of any openings anyone leaves in the conversation for her to get a few licks in of her own.

I did not think Deborah stood a chance with this crew.

Boy, was I wrong. Deborah not only didn't object to having someone else's hand in her plate every few minutes, she was grabbing from the others with gusto while relaying tidbits about me to my sisters which they would then use against me. When I said the peach smoothie gave me a brain freeze in my throat, Deborah was kind enough to relay my sister Sharon's comment that my brain must have moved up. She reminded me of it again the next morning, and has probably shared the comment in emails to friends.

I was lucky to get out of that dinner alive. Thanks to Deborah's presence, my sisters didn't tear me to pieces and pass me around like a plate. At the end of the meal, one of my sisters called Deborah a "fifth sister." She's not a family member yet, but one day, the pack of sisters will turn on her. That's when you really know you're in the clan.

~ ~ ~

When we left town the next morning, we passed the neighbor's house and the bicycle wheels were gone. "I knew someone would take those wheels," Deborah said. I smiled. In Toledo, she discovered the wheels in the rear luggage compartment. A week later, after lunch at the Staunton Grocery, I asked her to marry me. She said yes.

Anyone who can thrive -- let alone survive -- in a meal with my four sisters is woman enough for me.

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