By Cooky McClung

http://www.chronofhorse.com/article/what-we-wanted-christmas

What I really wanted for Christmas was to go skiing and have someone else
cook dinner. Considering the size of our family, it was rare when someone
suggested, "How would the nine of you like to come for the holiday?"

Living on a farm, in a roomy house to accommodate all the folks, fidos and
felines, we were the natural magnet for the rest of the relatives to spend
holidays, especially Christmas. Our tradition was to open gifts, enjoy the
annual Yuletide hunt for a few hours, and return home to feed however many
people lingered in our living room.

This year, for once, I was determined to change tradition. We'd get up
early, have breakfast and open gifts. And then, with the children, head for
the slopes two hours away for a few days of skiing and room service. I'd
already mentioned this to most of the horde who made us their holiday
habitat.

I had neglected, however, to mention it to Aunt Louise, who sat with me one
afternoon in early December, sharing lunch and Christmas wishes. Aunt Louise
was a tiny, quiet woman who had long been a widow, living in the midst of
the city, far from two rather disinterested, grown children. She worked in a
bookstore several days a week, and her passion was visiting our farm.

She loved all the animals, and they loved her back just as fiercely. When we
gathered for the holidays, while Aunt Louise was usually overwhelmed by the
rest of our boisterous Irish clan, the animals went to her first. They knew
she carried treats in her pocket and loved to scratch them behind the ears.
The dogs slobbered on her, the cats curled contentedly in her lap, and the
horses nickered eagerly when she passed down the barn aisle.

Aunt Louise never missed the chance to go car-following during the Christmas
hunt, and she quietly cleaned up while others were entertaining each other.

Just before I announced our change in Christmas plans, Aunt Louise dropped
her bombshell. "You know what I want more than anything in the world for
Christmas?" she asked. Before I could guess a new wok or aloe vera bath oil,
she said, "I want to go hunting with you."

"You've always gone car-following, Aunt Louise," I answered.

"No, dear. I mean I want to go foxhunting this year on a horse."

Had Aunt Louise told me she wanted to learn to ride a Harley Hog and go
riding with the Hell's Angels, I couldn't have been more dumbfounded.

"You've always been the only one to know how much I love horses," Aunt
Louise whispered.

I was, momentarily and uncharacteristically, speechless. Had I missed the
signs she was a genuine horse lover? Perhaps she donned disguises and rode
in point-to-points on Saturdays when she was supposedly delivering Meals on
Wheels. Perhaps she was a closet hot-walker at the racetrack.

"Aunt Louise," I said, "you can go for a hack with me in the woods anytime,
but you can't just get on a horse and go hunting!" I lied, conveniently
forgetting that's exactly what I had done years before, when I thought a
coop was a military maneuver.

"I rode quite a lot when I was ... young," Aunt Louise admitted with
uncustomary candor, "and I was pretty good, too! But I've never been
foxhunting in all my life. And those years I've followed in the car I've
always dreamed about how it would be to sit on one of those beautiful hills
on a horse and watch the fox close up. That would be the most wonderful
Christmas present in the world."

I wanted to say I'd take her hunting after she'd practiced riding for about
six months. But sorry, this Christmas I would be going skiing and not fixing
dinner for anybody, and I'll see you at Easter. What I said, looking at her
shining blue eyes, was, "I think we'd have a grand time. I'd love to take
you. But you'll have to ride old Dilly, and we won't, stay out long.
Hunting's very tiring, you know,"

"I'll come and ride as many days a week as you want me to," Aunt Louise
chirped, clapping her hands in glee.

I told the children and my husband our skiing trip would be postponed one
day and that we were going hunting and feeding the family, again. They were
pleased, really, wanting to be home for Christmas dinner with their beloved
cousins anyway.

But, like the Grinch, I lamented the change of plans, pitying poor little me
for having to fix dinner for a zillion and having to worry about frail Aunt
Louise on a horse in the midst of a hunt on a freezing day. Bah, Humbug!!

True to her word, Aunt Louise arrived at least four days a week to ride. The
old mare loved her, partially because she brought endless treats and
partially because Aunt Louise pretty much left her alone to do her job,
which the old mare had always known she could do best without human
assistance. Aunt Louise's balance was better than I'd hoped, and she soon
mastered posting to the trot and sitting to the canter without listing too
dangerously in any direction.

She also asked me to help her choose some proper riding clothes. "So I don't
embarrass you, dearie," she said. I offered to lend her mine, since I didn't
think this would be a sport she'd take up seriously, but Aunt Louise took
credit card in hand and bought herself a stunning habit.

Suddenly, it was Christmas morning. I'd been awake "what.iffing" since 3
a.m. What if Aunt Louise fell off? Would her frail little frame shatter in a
million pieces? What if the old mare took off, bit in teeth, in the heat of
the hunt and scared Aunt Louise into a stroke? Why hadn't I just listened to
myself and gone skiing in the first place?

Aunt Louise appeared hours before we were scheduled to leave, laden with
gifts for all and, with the grandest present for the Grinch, a promise that
when we returned from the hunt, dinner would arrive via a caterer she knew.

The morning was brittle with a promise of snow. The horses looked splendid,
even ancient Dilly was brushed and braided, doing credit to Aunt Louise and
her finery. I wanted desperately to hook a leadshank to Dilly, but I knew
Aunt Louise and the old mare would be humiliated. So I simply crossed my
fingers, prayed to every religious icon I could think of, and mounted up.

The elderly mare was impeccably behaved as hounds scrambled off the truck
and surrounding horses fretted. My mare, who had been hunting at least
25,000 times, bounced around as if she'd never seen any of it before. I
planned to try and hang back a bit, out of the melee should hounds take off.

And take off they did, finding almost immediately and heading across a long
meadow, through a wooded area and up the Big Hill. The old mare's ears
perked, but she seemed content to canter along behind the thundering field.
I glanced at Aunt Louise; I saw her smiling at the lovely view. We let the
horses out a bit and finally reached the top of the long, big slope, where
we paused. Aunt Louise looked a bit pale, and the field, now at the bottom
of the Big Hill, had thankfully checked. Hounds, noses down to the ground,
frantically attempted to find the lost scent.

Aunt Louise and I sat at the top of the hill watching the scene below us. It
had started to snow lightly, so the grass and pine trees looked like a true
holiday scene. Suddenly, silently, from the edge of the woods to the right,
an enormous, dark red fox, white-tipped tail waving, trotted out of the
copse. He came directly toward us, seemingly unafraid. Stopping briefly in
front of Aunt Louise, the fox barked once sharply and then disappeared
quietly into the far side of the wooded hill.

Aunt Louise's hand came up to her mouth and a single, crystal tear rolled
down her cheek. "Oh my," she whispered. "That's just about the best present
I've ever had. Thank you."

Mission accomplished, we headed back home. Our holiday dinner was a smashing
success, with, for once, Aunt Louise taking center stage to describe her
stunning hunt with great detail and enthusiasm. Suddenly, skiing and being
pampered by chefs and wine stewards didn't seem SO awfully important.

Two months later Aunt Louise died. We knew she was ill. We never discussed
it, though I was certain that was why she was so insistent to fulfill her
dream of foxhunting that year. At the funeral her two children thanked me
for taking their mother out with hounds.

"She told us you knew how much she'd always wanted to go," they said. "I
guess we just weren't around enough lately to know how much she wanted that.
Who would have thought she'd want to be buried in riding clothes?" her
daughter said, puzzled.

"Mother was most thrilled about seeing the fox," she added. "In fact, she
even told us he talked to her, but," the daughter winked, "I can't imagine
what he said."

I can. I saw him too, and I'm sure she understood exactly what he said.
"Merry Christmas, Aunt Louise."

-----------