Birthday gatherings

It was a prominent brick house, almost stately, resting unpretentiously on a manicured corner in a fine Chicago suburban neighborhood. The medical doctor and his wife who once dwelt there raised five children and owned a dachshund named Hilde, though I called it their ‘wiener dog.’

One of the two daughters was my age and we shared the same March birthday. Ironically, her father, the doctor, did too. Each March, on the Sunday closest to our shared birth date, we gathered at their large oak table, all twelve of us – their seven and our five.

The house, though not considered fancy, was crafted with the classic hardwood floors, woodwork and massive oak staircase, solid as its dwellers’ faith in God.

To me, this family was the epitome of a Christian family. Each member contributed to the whole. Each knew their role, chores and place. The parents were in charge – not the kids. Neither did any of the children demand more attention than they were due. They shared their lives in a harmony I’ve rarely seen, and now in this age of relativity, seems almost extinct.

The staircase rose up and away from the large main foyer into a large square hall from which all four bedrooms were entered. To a young explorer like me, it was a room of doors, each leading to different worlds. One of those doors opened up a whole new dimension to a house that seemed to never end. It was another staircase.

My friend seemed hesitant to let me go up there when I turned the knob, or at least seemed uninterested in such a venture. Instead, she showed me her room. It had wooden shelves with glass doors that guarded special dolls. Not the kind of dolls I played with, the kind with ratted hair and missing clothes or limbs.

These dolls stood straight as soldiers, held securely by metal stands that reached up from behind and grasped their waists by a half-circle of thick wire. Their dresses and pinafores hid these stands and so, to me they looked like museum statues. As beautiful as they were, I was still more interested in that door with the hidden staircase.

Now, all these decades later, I see that my over-active imagination was a gift that was to aid me in my craft as a writer; then however, it was an untamed force my playmates found hard to avoid. So up those stairs we went.

The attic, with its dormer windows and wide, unfinished hardwood floor was sparsely furnished and was somewhat disappointing for those of us searching for mysterious treasure. Why couldn’t I be like Edmund in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis, the story our school teacher had read to us in third grade?

In this barren attic were two sets of doors on either end of the room, enclosing a type of closet I’ve never seen before. To this day, I can’t remember exactly what we found in those closets or if I was ever able to snoop in them, and it really doesn’t matter. I didn’t find a magical land with talking animals after all. What sticks out in my mind more than anything is the adventure, the house and the family who revered it as they revered God.

Each child was required to learn two musical instruments, learn how to cook and prepare whole meals, memorize scripture and perform household chores. There was no television, at least none like those that have claimed the center of attention of today’s American family. Instead, conversation, crafts, music and merriment entertained this family and it seemed to be all they needed.

Gatherings at the Minsek family table a block away from my childhood school are deeply guarded in my treasure box of birthday memories. I hold those memories as proof that families truly can live in harmony with love and respect. The laughter and attention we all exchanged at their table were among my most cherished birthday gifts and this year I dedicated my musings to this wonderful family, Dr. and Mrs. Minsek, now in heaven with the Savior they served, and their children who still serve God in their own families.