Aunt Christine

Aunt Christine was our Aunt, and our favorite. She was English, proper, and made the best scones and oatmeal. In our eyes, she had only one fault. She insisted we have Veggemite on our toast. On the brighter side she was full of stories, and fun.

Some nights before bed there was a game Aunt Christine called “mouse watch”. We all sat at the kitchen table; she with a “cupper” of tea, and we with hot Ovaltine and cookies. We dare not say a word. After what seemed like an eternity, one little gray mouse crept in, then another. She put her finger to her lips, and we watched, motionlessly. Three mice were soon scampering around looking for breadcrumbs she had spread the base board. She clapped her hand and they scattered. Aunt Christine then set four traps. Next morning, she caught one mouse out of the three we had seen on “mouse watch” the night before.

 “Two mice are better than three, 1 even better, and none preferred”, she announced, putting the oatmeal with currants and cream on the table. We were all proud of our nights work and couldn’t wait for "mouse watch" again. Every day was truly a Mary Poppins day; you never knew what was going to happen.

Our parents worked in the diplomatic service. We really didn’t know what they did, but they were occasionally called to Washington, New York, or overseas in their work. During those time, Aunt Christine was called to act as our “nanny.”

Aunt Christine’s husband, my father’s brother, had died a few years back. She made it clear that to my parents her services were free, but that we children needed a good dose alternative educational opportunity. How could we children make our way in this world without real world skills?  Mother and Father just laughed, and said, “Whatever, Christine”. That was code for let the games begin.

Scavenger hunts were a favorite.  We learned to braid rope from honeysuckle vines, follow bees to their home, ID animal tracks, mouse watch, construct an igloo, and build a proper fire in snowy or rainy weather. She taught us to shop for fruit and vegetables, how to pick choice meats. We learned to cook, bake, wash and iron our clothes. She made it fun. Our parents were amazed, to say the least.

Aunt Christine had spent her childhood in India. Her father was in government service, her mother an advocate developing schools for village children. They were very busy and often away for a week at a time. That left Christine and her two older brothers in the care of the capable house servants, and in their own custody. They had run of the village, and the childhood mischief it offered. Their schooling did not interfere with their education.

When prompted, Aunt Christine would tell us of snake charmers, soothsayers, hermits, priests, magicians, village tiger attacks, and bathing elephants at the river. She told of street markets with fruits, vegetables, monkeys and birds for sale, and things we couldn’t believe anyone would eat. These stories made dreams pleasant, others, not so.

One Christmas season, school out and Mother and Father away for a week, we asked how they celebrated Christmas in India. She told us that the English-speaking Christians in the government service celebrated all Christian holidays. There was no roast goose, plum puddings, and proper Christmas tree. We asked what they ate. It was too hot to eat heavy foods, like back home in England, so we ate fruits, nuts and candy, cake and syrupy drinks. That did make us laugh. She was making that up; it be hot somewhere on earth when we were freezing in Pennsylvania.

Some years later, in 1943, I found myself in India. Aunt Christine was right, it was miserably hot in India in December. I was stationed in Bombay. My job was to recieve the reports from our field agents, edit them, and forward it to news agencies back home. The job was routine, but life was a far cry from my home in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, USA.

Out my open window, above the whirring of the overhead fan, came the bawling of cattle, the distinct calls of street vendors, the clang of bicycles bells, trucks, screams of monkeys and birds. The sensory distraction of everyday life in this huge city made it hard to concentrate. I needed a break.

The Army Post had a small retreat some twenty mile outside the sprawling city near a small village. I received permission, as a reporter, to use that facility.  I took the train out of the city, watching the countryside glide by. There were frequent stops at small villages and delays to chase cattle from the track, and workmen repairing the track. We made the trip two hours behind schedule in sweltering heat, and overcrowded cars, with some people riding on the roof.

 I was picked up at the station and escorted to my quarters. It was a small cabin, sparse, clean, and equipped with a bevy of small, curious green lizards. The staff were attentive, the fare was not fancy, but well prepared, and the gin and tonic, with ice, was a delightful treat. After a proper bath, a long nap beneath the hum of the ever-present overhead fan brought some peace to my weary soul.

It always took a day of decompression before I was able to venture out into the surroundings. It was a small village that had sprung up along the railroad. Many residents were employees of the rail system, or the government. The rest of the villagers farmed.

There were a few other foreigners in the village, including a missionary doctor. Dr. John had started a small clinic, funded by his Christian denomination and was quite busy delivering babies, tending sick adults and children. His wife ran a school, teaching basic three R’s to those children whose parents approved of such. He held a service every Sunday, not well attended, but I was always there when I came down from the city. We became good friends, as the only news he got from the outside world was on a battery powered radio that had seen its better days. I sent him our newspapers by rail every week.

 The village children followed my every step from day one. I don’t know where came from. I stepped off the porch and they would appear. On my walks, I would suddenly turn, they would run, giggling wildly, only fall in behind me as I started off again. There was one small boy who came to my side and took my finger in his small brown hand and walked solemnly, looking straight ahead, beside me for a minute or so. Seems the smallest is always the bravest. The rest kept a respectful distance.

One afternoon, while walking a small road toward the river, my entourage began shout excitedly and run ahead. Suddenly, out of the woods came a huge elephant, followed by three smaller ones; a mahout atop each. I stopped dead in my tracks, not knowing whether to run or climb a tree. One of the elephants stopped, curved its trunk and a lifted the small boy who had held my hand up to its head, where the mahout grabbed his arm and settled the child in front of him. The child smiled down at me.

Fascinated, I was now the follower. The mahouts dismounted and walked the elephants to the river; they rumbled and murmured in apparent anticipation.

Entering the river, they took water into their trunks, spraying it into their mouths. Satiating their thirst, they began to spray themselves, each other, the gaggle of kids, and me.  The mahouts ordered the elephants to lie down; they were descended upon by a group of young men and girls armed with brushes and buckets. They scrubbed and rinsed the gray wrinkled skinned elephants, who murmured their thanks, keeping a spray of water in the air. This, it turned out, was a village daily ritual after a long day’s work for elephants and men alike. The elephants were the moving force in this village. They hauled logs out of the forest to the railhead, amongst other chores.

Bath time over, the mahouts brought the elephants out of the river and onto the road to the village followed by the children, and me. I had never imagined seeing such a spectacle in my lifetime, and it brought back memories of Aunt Christine’s stories of riding elephants. We children thought that preposterous.

Christmas week was brutally hot. There had been a lull in the fighting in Burma, and the holiday recess for government workers had begun. I went to the retreat early to avoid the thousands that were sure to be going back to their homes as the recess gave the native employees that opportunity.

I had become familiar with the children and could call most by name. I was always met at the train and they insisted in carrying, or dragging, my bags to the cottage. On this trip, I packed boxes of small candy canes and brightly painted colored ornaments. I cut a small tree behind the cottage and decorated it with the colored balls.  That evening, Christmas Eve, I placed it on the porch surrounded by candles. Within minutes, every child in the village was staring, open mouthed, at the tree. I called them by name and presented each a candy cane, hoping I had enough. They were overjoyed.

 “Merry Christmas”, I shouted.

To hear them trying to wrap their tongues around “Merry Christmas” caused me to I laughed until I cried.

The next morning, Christmas Morning, Dr. John and his wife came with breakfast. As we sat in the relative quiet. He said off handedly, “You know, you have given the children a gift, and now they have a gift for you.”

Five minutes later, I saw the big elephant surrounded by children, coming toward the cabin. It stopped in from of me. The mahout slid down and the children bought a small ladder and placed it against the animal and motioned me to climb up. I was speechless and somewhat terrified. Dr. John calmed my fears. “Go ahead, It’s a great honor to be asked to ride the “Star of India.”

I climbed up onto the huge beast. The mahout then mounted by the trunk and took his seat in front of me. The missionary snapped a few pictures, and I was off on the back of an elephant. After a half hour gliding through the forest 12 feet off the ground, we found ourselves at the river. The whole village was there. The mahout guided the elephant into the water, and smiling, motioned me to slide off, fully dressed. The villagers laughed and cheered and waded into the river. The elephant was ordered to lie down. I was given a brush and bucket. I knew the drill and began to brush. Everyone began to lay hands on the massive, gray, wrinkled beast in the river. He was indeed “The Star of India”.

 I sent the pictures home to the family. Toward the end of January, I received a package from Pennsylvania. Carefully wrapped was a small framed picture of a young girl in a white dress, barefooted, and suntanned, standing atop a huge elephant with a mahout stick in her crossed arms and a look of utmost confidence in her position.

It was Aunt Christine! Her stories were true, at least some of them. As true as this one, anyway

 Merry Christmas, and may you dream of elephants instead of reindeer!