A sis to be named later

Life rolls along on fuel such as this: Every time fate knocks on your door, garbage gets dumped on your porch.

Then there comes a time when the Man who moves the pieces sends you a festival of wine and song.

These rare events of euphoria, as a rule, come as the kind of great surprise that makes you stand around with your mouth hanging open.

For me, this past Monday, the event was meeting my sister for the first time.

BANGO!

Yes, it’s true—my father is a very potent man. During his post-Korea Army days, I imagine he repopulated most of the free world. At any rate, when he returned to Chicago after his hitch was up, he got a call informing him he was the father of a red-headed girl in Washington state named Renee.

Being a man of damned strong moral fiber, he offered to do his part in raising the lass, but was denied. And he never heard another word about his daughter, although he tried to locate her several times.

So the years rolled on, and dad married and had Mark. Then he lost Ron Jr. and his wife. Remember what I said about garbage hitting life’s porch?

The years kept rolling, and dad married mom. Tom and Colette later, I was born. Joan followed to round out the infield.

One day a couple of summers ago, dad told me the story about my sister in Washington. I wasn’t too blown away, knowing what a randy guy my dad was in his younger days. And probably still is, I’m guessing.

Anyway, I remember the sound of my dad’s voice as he told me about the daughter he had never seen. Have you ever heard of hoping against hope?

Then last Sunday, as dad prepared to watch Mike Tyson beat the stuff out of Tony Tubbs, he got another phone call that moved the earth off its axis. “My name is Renee,” the caller said. Dad could only manage, “I knew your mother.”

He would later say he felt like he had had a baby.

And that’s how my family felt when we all assembled back in Chicago on Monday—like we were waiting for a new baby to come home. There we were, me and my siblings, my niece and my mother, gathered again in the house we grew up in and had left for one reason or another.

Come on, boys and girls—imagine the ackwardness and anxiety as dad brought her in. We all sat like museum pieces as he went around the room introducing us.

We talked about the weather. I mean it.

I sat there amazed. “This woman is beautiful. She looks like Colette in about 10 years. Well, jeez, she’s my sister—of course she looks like Colette. Quit talking to yourself.”

So we went out to get loaded up at a good Pasta Palace. While we waited for the lasagna and ravioli to be shipped in from Milwaukee, we finally got down to the serious questions.

When Renee was in eighth grade or so, she had asked her mother who her father was. She was given a name and a town, and when she hit Chicago for a convention, she looked in the phone book and placed the gutsiest phone call I’ve ever heard of.

Here is a 33-year-old mother of two, living and prospering in the Pacific Northwest. No one and nothing required her to make the move she made. She had the gumption to take on a father and four new brothers and sisters—and one very active young niece—in one day.

By the time we returned home, we were not only feeling much more comfortable with each other, but man were we stuffed. Italian food is murder. Anyway, we showed her a bunch of old pictures, took some new ones and generally sealed a new bond.

When she was leaving, I said, “You know, I didn’t think I could handle two sisters, but it’s still nice to have a third.”

And it is.

Now she’s back in Washington, I’m back in DeKalb, Tom’s in Glen Ellyn, Colette’s in Hyde Park, mom’s in Elmhurst. I wonder how long it’ll be before we’re all together again.

It’s Friday. If you have nothing to do this weekend, go home and see your family.