Man of the 72 Hours
So, I should write some things about Marc since we were celebrating him this weekend, but I know Marc, and I know he wouldn't want a lot said about him, so I'm going to keep it short.
I've always loved Marc, but when he was born and for many years afterward...I didn't like him. I wasn't too comfy as a big brother, I got easily irritated playing with him, and he pinched my arms when he got mad to the point where I was covered in scars and my elementary school teachers thought I was being abused.
Then we both got older and I realized how special Marc is. People think I'm creative...I have nothing on him. We used to sit together in the basement for two hours at a time while he would spin elaborate stories of fake countries, TV networks, bands, sports teams, politicans and religious leaders, entire civilizations and cultures from out of nowhere, fueled by an immensely curious mind.
Last night at his graduation party (before he heads for Ohio State to study political science...for now...) I was looking at all the awards and honors he received in Boardman: top sixteen in the Ohio State Speech and Debate, Homecoming Court, Editor of the Bugle and AMAZINGLY FUNNY columnist (I need to share "The Cynic's Guide to a Boardman Education" with my friends)...and I felt a little sad I wasn't there to see it all happen...but mostly so happy and so full of love that he accomplished even more than me.
He's smart, handsome, and has enough friends to rival George Bailey. He's going to do amazing things in the future, no matter what. And I know he'll kick my ass if I keep on writing about him, so now it's time to talk about the weekend.
Marc's the last of our generation of Rostans, so this gave us an excuse for a big family get-together. Not that we ever need much of an excuse to share a weekend of eating and drinking to the point where I gain three pounds easy as pie...and love every minute of it, except for a few minutes on Saturday when my "try everything once" attitude landed me with a killer stomachache.
Six of the eight siblings were here, except for Aunt Mary and Uncle Donald. And selfishly, it was sort of the best homecoming I could have wanted because it was so great to see everybody, and nobody ever changes.
Uncle Tom walks around with booming voice (and boomier chest) declaring how Obama and the Communists and liberals will ruin America, light the flame for the Bananas Foster, and lock his keys in the car, forcing Dad to drive to the Travelodge to help him get them while Aunt Angie (wife number three, as tiny and quiet as he's big and loud) only smiles and sighs. Uncle Frank takes charge of champagne and tries to pay for everything. Aunt Susie gushes over everyone and tends to CC, the most adorable dog in the world. Uncle Bill shares stories about community theatre and Aunt Candy talks up a hurricane. Aunt Nancy and Uncle Joe bustle around their home, cooking the food and mixing the drinks and being the great mother and father to us all. Uncle Richard and Aunt Jodi are yelled at for not coming to anything but Marc's party because they drive in from North Carolina and Uncle Richard, as always, is too tired. John Paul and Diana stay with us...Diana works out in the mornings, too, and they both give me advice on graduate school. Mom laughs long and loud and does her best to help out. Dad makes martinis and shoots 101 when I caddy for him at Avalon Lakes, but we enjoy every step of the spoiled walk. Maureen's son Marc the younger plays catch, shares every intimate detail of his life, and squirts whipped cream in our mouths.
New additions. Michael's fiancee Kate, a fantastic cook and even more fantastic woman (she's sending me recipes), gives us a peek at her wedding dress. I suggest "All the Way" when she frets about choosing a Sinatra song for the dance. (I can tell Aunt Nancy's having a ball right now.) Both of them, who work for OSU, share important tidbits with Marc...I always looked up to Mike as an older brother and love seeing him happy...and around Kate, he talks a little more than usual. Michelle brings home her new boyfriend David, a heck of a guy who takes it in stride when Marc kisses his hand and asks him his opinion on gays (as a Texas native)...in the first minute of meeting him. The Rostans do not mess around.
We eat Belleria pizza and Handel's ice cream the first night, sausages and burgers with homemade salads (including my black-eyed peas) and baked beans the second, and MVR catering for Marc's party. There's beer, wine, champagne, Hendrick's Gin, and sangrias courtesy of Kate and Michelle, plus Diet Coke. No wonder I get a tummyache. But it's the most beautiful pain you can go through.
And watching over us all is Grandma--Kathryn--88 next month and still sinking 25-foot putts and holding sway over her children, even those above 60.
I have many blessings in my life, and the greatest is that God gave me my parents and my brother and a family whom I would charge up a hill full of anti-American terrorists with an AK-47 and a hydrogen bomb strapped to my back for if ever called to do so. Marc and I are lucky men. And we're only a quarter-Irish!
Now it's over and I'm back in reality...until Thanksgiving...Christmas...Michael and Kate's wedding...and who knows what else.
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