Late last year, we sold our Red-Orange Toyota Corolla Levin to our son and bought the Mazda from my Art and Indie Scriptorium friend, Elsie King. We have named the Mazda, Antoinette, because she has a habit of telling us how to drive. Good thing at our age. Helps avoid accidents and the “accidental” speeding fine. Perhaps the uninsured, un-Australian licensed Uber driver who crashed into Levin while my son was driving could have done with an “Antoinette” in his Uber car. Fortunately, it all happened at slow speed and although Levin was damaged, my son emerged unscathed.
My son did remark, though, “I’m glad I wasn’t riding my motorbike, or I’d have ended up in hospital.”
On that note, Dad’s midlife crisis vehicles keep rolling in. This time, “Putt-Putt”, the motorbike. Was this new development a reflection of the direction Dad’s midlife crisis was taking? Or was he just having a go?
So, here goes with the 100-word challenge.
Putt-Putt Pa
After lunch at Grandma’s one Sunday, my cousin showed off his prized Ducati. Inspired, Dad resolved to have a go and buy his own motorbike.
The first hint Dad was dissatisfied with his current transport arrangements was expressed in a story game, where he described the money-saving qualities of a motorbike. I pointed out dangers. My cousin’s friend had died in a motorbike accident.
Soon after, Dad came puttering down the driveway on Putt-Putt, a bright orange motorbike. From then on, for a time, Dad puttered from Somerton to work in Port Adelaide. Everyone was happy, until … the accident.
[In 2013, the T-Team, Next Generation, embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few weeks, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre, reliving memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013 with my brother and his family, the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-K Team continues their venture out West of Hermannsburg to explore Tnorala (Gosse Bluff).]
T-Team Next Generation—
Tnorala (Gosse Bluff) Conservation Reserve
—Revisited
[In 2013, the T-Team, Next Generation, embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few weeks, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre, reliving memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013 with my brother and his family, the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-K Team continues their venture out West of Hermannsburg to explore Tnorala (Gosse Bluff).]
Big Day Out West (2)
Afternoon
After eating a snack, we walked the designated paths, taking care not to stray from the designated paths. Off track, the land was reserved for revegetation, and it certainly had revegetated since 1977. Then, the crater had been a barren wasteland. In 2013, green and full of native bushes and trees.
Upon completing the various walking tracks in the crater, we trekked back to the Ford and then trundled out and off the unsealed part of the Mereenie Loop Road, continuing north along it towards the road to Glen Helen.
But not for long. Roadworks rendered the road unsealed, so more crawling. Until we reached the Gosse Range lookout. Hence, in the mellowing sunlight of mid-afternoon, we supped on our cheese and gherkin sandwiches, which we had bought from the store while feasting our eyes on the panoramic view of the Gosse Ranges and the MacDonnell Ranges.
I snapped a few more photos and climbed into the Ford. Hubby was drumming the steering wheel. After I’d fastened the seatbelt, Hubby turned the ignition.
Nothing.
‘O-oh!’ Hubby muttered and tried the ignition again.
The Ford started, then shook and shuddered.
‘Oh, shoot!’ Hubby snapped.
He turned off the protesting Ford. Extracted himself from the car. And looked under the bonnet. While I sat like the queen in the car, he spent some time “working” and exclaiming at intervals, “We’re stuffed!”
I jumped out and joined him in the under-the-bonnet examinations. By this time, Hubby was in the process of reattaching the air filter hose to the air filter. ‘We’ll see if that works,’ he said.
We resumed our positions in the Ford, sent up an arrow-prayer, and Hubby turned the ignition. The engine ticked over smoothly, and we breathed out our sighs of thanks to God. Hubby then climbed out of the car again to close the bonnet.
Just at this particular time, a pair of tourists in a utility truck drove into the viewing area. They noticed the bonnet up on our car and called out, ‘You need some help?’
Hubby, with a tone of pride in his voice, replied, ‘Nah, we are fine. All good.’
They waved, then drove past us to find a park and take in the view of the Gosses.
Late Afternoon
On our return, we passed a group of stranded owners of the land, kids waving. But Hubby kept driving. I guess he wasn’t going to push his luck with mechanical prowess too far. In that way, he was different from Dad, who would’ve stopped and bantered in Aranda with them. And back then, in 1981, we had Richard, our mechanic.
By the time we reached Glen Helen, the fuel needle sank to less than a quarter of a tank, the gas-guzzler that the Ford is. We filled the tank there and then, now that we were on bitumen road, glided along, enjoying the golden and purple hues of the MacDonnell Ranges in late afternoon. These I captured on my camera, with frequent stops, some with Hubby’s prompting.
Ellery Creek languished in the shade when we arrived there. In the cooling shadows, we walked down the path leading to the water’s edge. Just as I remembered, Ellery Creek offered a big pool of water in which to swim. In fact, it’s the go-to place for swimming for the locals. And, as we walked the track to the pool, we passed a German tourist clad in bathers and hair wet from a dip.
Later, as we drove westward to Hermannsburg, Hubby squinted at the setting sun glaring through the windscreen and whined, ‘I can’t see a thing!’
‘Do you want me to drive?’ I asked.
‘No, no, I’ll be right.’
Just then, a kangaroo darted across the road. Hubby slowed, and we watched the kangaroo and its joey tagging behind her, skitter over the verge, and disappear into the bush.
We arrived back in Hermannsburg at around 7 pm. I rang mum while waiting for tea. After a tasty meal of Chow Mein, we relaxed watching a video and enjoying fellowship with our friends.
For this season, I thought I’d take some time out from cleaning and preparing for the big family gathering with my hubby’s family and reminisce about my Christmas Day fifty years ago.
I will write as written, spelling mistakes, grammar, and rather uninspiring prose, and all. My excuse, according to my diary, I wrote just before bedtime, and my mother would be coming in, hassling me to get to sleep. So, no time for perfect editing. Besides, I was notoriously a bad speller back then. So glad to have spell check on the computer these days.
From my diary entry, Christmas Thursday, 25 December 1975 (Spooky, this year Christmas fell on a Thursday):
Today Kiah and Alinta and Heidi, Peter and the other Jeshkes came to Adelaide. After going to church, I went to see Kiah and Alinta and Heidi. For dinner I ate at Grandma’s. After playing with Peter, Michael and Rich and that, I went home to get changed.
On the way home a car with a bunch of boys in it went past and one of them I think, whistled at me (or some phrase I can’t decipher). He noticed me.
Went to the Rozler’s House to celebrate Christmas.
Received Aquirilic paints, Das, Pink Annual, hankys, films, L necklace, Record Tuned On, Book.
Unpacking
This day was a significant day in the lives and times of the Gross family. All the descendants of my grandma and grandpa (Sam and Elsa Gross) gathered in Adelaide at our church’s Warradale rental homes to celebrate Christmas.
As a girl of 12, most important to me were catching up with my cousins. Lunch at Grandma’s was a weekly Sunday tradition. And it appears I joined in after the Christmas service to have lunch at Grandma’s with the cousins. Grandma, the queen of hospitality, accommodated us all; the table in the small trust home kitchen-dining room would be crammed full of people and we learnt to keep our “wings” tucked in whilst eating. Grandma could never quite master the skill and flapped her elbows about as she ate, knocking me as I attempted to guide my fork to my mouth.
Then, if there were too many guests, the children were relegated to the “kinder tisch” (kid’s table) out in the back garden if the weather was fine, or in the passageway, if not. This day, I recall being in the backyard with my younger cousins, Kiah and Alinta D, and Heidi J.
Christmas dinner, as mentioned, was at what was the recently vacated Roesler’s home. Our church, who owned the property, had kindly loaned us the house in which to spread. And spread the Gross family did.
We girls enjoyed running about, doing acrobatics and cartwheels on the front lawn while the adults loaded up their plates from the potluck buffet. Then, after our feed, the tradition, French Cricket, which is a variation of cricket, where our own legs are the “stumps,” and there are no wickets or runs to score.
Finally, the evening progressed to photos of each family culminating in a big (Gross) family photo with me looking rather awkward, or should I say, inelegant. Comments like “you can see right up Rundle Street” haunted me for decades to come.
Then, once the sun had set and Christmas carolling done, came the opening of the Christmas presents. One by one, we unwrapped our pile of gifts and dutifully thanked each giver. Each person, from youngest to oldest, had to wait their turn. The gift unwrapping went on for hours.
Anyway, that’s all in the past now, just as Christmas is. Hope you all had a good one.
The highway, so straight, never curving to the right nor the left, was hypnotic. Again, in the late afternoon, the burning sun on the back of my neck, now sinking in the West, and the rushing of air from the open window, lulled me into a state of semi-sleep.
By increments, as sunset turned to dusk, the air cooled. I trusted Rick to keep us safe on the highway to Sydney. I noted Cordelia resting her head on Mitch’s shoulder, and then I sank into a deep, satisfying sleep.
The car slowed to a stop by the side of the road, again. Groggy from sleep and the hypnotic effect of the endless highway, we piled out of the Charger and milled around the non-functioning headlights.
Mitch peered at the offending lights. ‘Are you able to fix them, Rick?’
Rick pulled up the hood and, in the dim light, examined the engine. He poked around in the dark nether regions of the Charger’s insides.
Mitch hovered over Rick’s back while he prodded and poked at the parts in the dimness. ‘Do you need a torch?’
‘Do you have one, Mitch?’
Mitch shrugged. ‘I don’t…didn’t think…would you have one in the glove box?’
‘Might have, but the battery’s gone flat,’ all mumbled to the engine.
Mitch had already left to torch-hunt in the Charger’s glove box. At this time, I watched Jack busy himself sorting through luggage at the rear of the vehicle.
Cordelia sat all hunched over on her duffel bag. ‘I still don’t feel well,’ she said.
‘Are you carsick?’ I asked.
‘No, it’s worse than that,’ she answered. ‘I think I need to see a doctor.’
I gazed around the silent, darkened landscape. ‘Maybe at the next town, we can try to find one.’
Jack called, ‘Hey, I’ve found another torch.’
The feeble light of Rick’s torch wandered over the car engine.
‘It’s the alternator, it’s cactus. Needs replacing,’ Rick said. ‘We’ll need to park here for the night, and in the morning, I’ll fix it at the next town.’
Cordelia, clutching her stomach, walked up to the lads. ‘I need to see a doctor; I’m not feeling at all well.’
Mitch glanced at the girl, his eyes wide and brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps we’d better push on and find a doctor—hospital—something.’
‘How can we?’ Jack said. ‘We have no headlights. It’d be dangerous.’
‘I’m not driving without headlights,’ Rick said.
‘How far to the nearest town?’ Mitch raised his voice. ‘The girl needs help.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘How far is it to Dubbo?’
Mitch grabbed the RAA strip map, Jack handed him the torch, and with the stronger light, Mitch flipped the pages and then studied the relevant page.
At Mitch’s insistence to save this damsel in distress, we piled back in the car and crawled down the highway, torches flashing back and forth from the rear windows.
After a few minutes, Rick shook his head, his curls flopping about his damp forehead. ‘It’s not working.’
‘What about,’ Mitch sighed, ‘what about, if I sit in the front and you and I shine the torches from the front.’
‘If you think it’ll make a difference,’ Rick muttered.
Mitch changed places with Rick, who was driving, and Rick moved into the front passenger seat where Jack had been sitting. Jack then bumped Cordelia into the middle and sat behind Mitch.
The car crawled a few metres with Rick and Mitch waving torches from their front positions.
I looked behind me at the expanse of the dark landscape, and the sky was filled with the Milky Way.
‘I hope the cops don’t catch us,’ I murmured.
‘What cops?’ Jack said.
The Charger slowed and then stopped.
‘It’s not working,’ Rick said.
‘But we’ve hardly moved,’ Mitch said.
‘I think it’ll be better if we don’t use the torches and I drive by the starlight.’ Rick sniffed. ‘I think my eyes will adjust. And we’ll take it slowly.’
‘I can do that,’ Mitch said.
‘No, I’ll drive.’ Rick pushed open his door and marched over to the driver’s side. ‘It’s my car. I know how to handle it.’
Mitch breathed in and out with an emphasised sigh. ‘If you insist.’
Rick forged ahead on the highway to Dubbo at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. I know it was twenty miles (not kilometres) an hour as it took us an hour to reach the outskirts of Dubbo. Mitch couldn’t resist the urge to hang his arm out with Jack’s torch, offering slim beams of light to guide Rick as he drove. Fortunately, we met no police on patrol.
[Heading up to Christmas, reminds me we all have them: the proverbial “black sheep” in our families. Or it might be the skeletons we want remain hidden.
As it was, in the past week, I didn’t intend to, but it happened. I made another discovery which I can’t wait to tell my mum. I tell my mum everything.
It all began when I did some research on backyard burning and the iconic Besser block incinerator from the 1960s. A fellow writer in our writers’ group was adamant that burning was banned during the summer months back then. However, I remember things differently, and so does Hubby. Anyway, as I was researching, I came across a map of Adelaide CBD during the 1920s. Don’t I just love incidental detective work! After a little more “digging,” I think I’ve found my great-uncle’s clothing shop location. Amazing!
Then, as I delved into the relatives from that branch, My Heritage offered some fascinating information which kept me burrowing down another rabbit hole. I will not bore you with the details, but I will be telling my mum.
So, on another note, here’s a refined re-blog from not so long ago.]
In the Steps of Sherlock Holmes
Some time ago, Hubby and I received our DNA results. Dear Hubby received his a few days before me.
So, over the last year, I have been familiarising myself with the process and slowly building our family trees. Early on, I discovered a truth, which could be said to be a “skeleton” in one of our ancestral lines. I added the details to see if anything further came up. My Heritage calls this a “smart match”. Nothing did, but I left it there.
For certain family members, this truth appeared absurd and too difficult to comprehend. Surely, that ancestor wouldn’t. Didn’t. No one told us that. You have it all wrong, Lee-Anne.
Hence, Lee-Anne (me), being a good person, only wanting the best for the family, deleted the suspect members from that branch of the family.
Then, curiosity set in. Who was that ancestor’s mother? Father? My husband suggested we go down the line to the descendants and put in a particular name.
This I did.
You wouldn’t believe it, but the same results, only this time verified by the official birth and marriage records. My original hunch had been correct. Moreover, in the spirit of Sherlock Holmes, I managed to cross-match the added, yet odd, family members with DNA, and behold, a match.
Now, the reason I’m being so vague about the whole ancestral situation, which I might add, is responsible for our existence, is because out of respect for some people, the details of such conceptions are to remain private/personal; too personal to be published.
Isn’t it interesting that for people who want to protect their reputation, the unacceptable behaviour of other members of their family, ancestors, or close relatives must remain hidden, buried, and plainly, not discussed. Such individuals may even be ostracised from the family.
Yet, such flawed individuals can still be in other circles and be a valued and much-loved member of the community.
My dad’s cousin, Dr. Malcolm Trudinger, for instance. The story goes that he had a problem with alcohol. Legend has it that he couldn’t do surgery without a nip or two before the operation.
Malcolm’s alcohol addiction was too much for his immediate family, who, it would seem, distanced themselves from him. Maybe it was the other way around, and he felt not good enough for them. Whatever…
According to articles about Malcolm on Trove, he was regularly in trouble with the law. Infractions that in the 21st century, we’d consider a nuisance, or minor, but in the 1940’s and 50’s were important. For example, his car making too much noise at night in town. Or even one time, merely driving his car late at night. Another time, he was charged with causing a scene at a function.
Despite these misdemeanours, as I see them (glad my brother and I didn’t live in those times—in his youth, my brother loved doing “donuts” and “burnouts” in his car like in Top Gear at night with his mates), the folk on the West Coast of South Australia loved Dr. Malcolm Trudinger. He was their hero. He once helped rescue people from a shipwreck off the coast during a storm. He cared and was always there for the sick and injured.
I remember my mother telling me the story of how a person, upon meeting my father, and learning his name was Trudinger, sang high praises for his cousin Malcolm. The sad thing was that although he was still alive when Mum and Dad were first married, Mum never got to meet Malcolm.
Dr. Malcolm Trudinger was such a vital part of the West Coast community that they established a rose garden in his honour after he passed away in the early 1960s. We have heard that rose cultivation was his passion, and his roses were prize-winning. My niece discovered the garden when she and her partner were on a road trip passing through Elliston. She couldn’t have been more chuffed having found a Trudinger with a rose garden to his name. It showed Malcolm was a loved member of the community despite his demons.
This is what, I believe, grace is all about—valuing and loving people as they are. We are all flawed. Rather than hide the imperfections, celebrate the person, their life, and the goodness they brought to the community. It’s our pride and wanting to look good to others that makes us cover up our sins or those of our kin. But also, we may be protecting their reputation too.
The reality is, we are all fallen, and we all struggle. No one is perfect. We are all cracked pots. Yet, like in the Japanese art of Kintsugi (the repairing of broken pots), there is beauty that shines out through the cracks.
And so, it is with our imperfect ancestors. When you think about it, it’s the ones whose stories are different and colourful that we find most interesting.
[In 2013, the T-Team Next Generation, embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Once every month on a Friday, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family, the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-K Team ventured out West of Hermannsburg to explore Tnorala (Gosse Bluff).]
Big Day Out West
Night
An alarm wailed.
I sat up and nudged Anthony. ‘What’s that about?’
Anthony snorted, smacked his lips and mumbled. ‘I don’t know. An alarm, I think.’
‘Shouldn’t we tell P? It might be their shop.’
Anthony snorted, turned over and recommenced snoring.
For some time, I lay in bed. Sleepless. The alarm was bleating with lights flashing through our window. I assumed that, like car alarms in the city, a cat or dog had set the thing off and the owners would sort out the problem … eventually.
Eventually, the alarm stopped and somehow, I fell into a good, deep sleep.
I stretched and then yawned. ‘Good morning, Anthony, did you have a good sleep?’
‘No,’ he grumbled. ‘You snored!’
Breakfast
After a shower, getting dressed while Anthony caught up on the sleep he apparently missed out on while I snored (nothing about the alarm, I might add), I chatted with K over breakfast.
‘The store was broken into last night,’ she said.
‘So, that’s what the alarm last night was all about,’ I remarked.
‘Yep, happens on a regular basis. One of the windows needs replacing, again.’
P joined us. Leaning on the kitchen table, he added, ‘If you want anything at the shop, you’ll have to wait until it opens. The store was broken into.’ He chuckled. ‘One lady has tried to impress the cops with her tracking skills.’
‘Who tried to break in? Do the police have any idea?’
After a slow morning, mooching, chatting with P (K had gone to work), Bible study and then preparing some lunch, Anthony and I commenced our day trip to the Gosse Range. After some twenty kilometres of bitumen, we took the turn onto the Mereenie Loop and the road deteriorated. The Ford suffered the juddering of corrugations and slipping and sliding on silty red sand. Anthony slowed the car and crawled at a tense 20 km per hour.
I clutched the handhold of the door. ‘Is the car going to survive? I feel like the car’s going to fall apart.’
‘Why do you think I’m driving so slow?’ Anthony snapped.
The truck powered past us, leaving us behind in a cloud of bulldust. Thankfully, the Ford, with its windows wound up, shielded us from the red menace, and we continued to judder along the corrugations for what seemed an eternity.
Then we rounded a bend in the road and, there, the Gosse Range spread out before us.
We stopped and captured the range, dressed in a soft mauve in the midday sun. As we prepared to jump in the car, another vehicle came roaring up the road towards us. This time, I caught the car with my camera as it sped up the road as if it were a racing track.
After the cattle were caught on camera, we crawled our way to the Gosse Range turn-off. By this time, the jiggling and juggling along the route must have rattled Anthony’s senses and he had become quite cavalier. ‘What the heck, the road doesn’t look too bad.’
I stared at the two-tyre rutted track. I knew, having been there some 36 years before, that the track would not be much of a track further on. ‘Better to park the car just off the side of the road and hike to the Gosse Range, actually.’
‘Looks alright to me.’
‘Okay, if you must. We’ll drive as far as we can and then walk the rest of the way.’
This we did. Our trusty old Ford lumped and “harrumphed” over the rocks and ruts until we decided to spare the Ford any further risk and indignity to its undercarriage and suspension. Then we hiked the final kilometre through the gap and into the pound.
‘I’m so glad we were able to walk through the gap,’ I said while marvelling at the cliffs and boulders on each side. ‘If we’d been able to drive through, as we did in the Rover in 1977, I would’ve missed the beauty of these formations.’
[Travellers to Australia often overlook Adelaide, South Australia, as the poor cousin to the eastern states. Situated in an unfashionable corner of the globe, the city and its surrounds have the reputation of being too hot, too dry, and too awkward to visit.
Welcome to my home city and state.]
T-K Team Take on the Barossa Valley
Shortly before the Swiss relatives arrived, panic among the brothers-K set in. Yes, we were going to the Barossa Valley. But where?
My husband and his brother, P1, cobbled together a plan of the day: wine-tasting, sightseeing, a bakery for lunch, and of course, toilet stops at regular intervals.
We converged as the formidable family of ten at Williamstown, eventually in the car park next to, yes, you guessed it, after a scenic drive through the city and hills, the toilets. Most of the group needed a coffee, and although we’d been warned that on Sundays, many bakeries are closed, we found a most accommodating bakery-come-art gallery, where cappuccinos and chai teas revived us.
Stuffed dummies, one of whom was named Cyril, waited by the stone wall of the car park. The sign touted that they were part of a scarecrow trail that weekend. I guess they were doing their bit for tourism.
Energised, and with the help of a most cooperative mobile phone navigation app, the K-Team whisked over to the Whispering Wall, a dam holding Adelaide’s water supply. I wandered over to the wall while the others raced to the other side. My husband’s voice sounded as clear as if he were standing next to me. Eerie.
Next stop, and most important, Chateau Yaldara Winery, where we commenced our wine-sampling tour. Our Swiss visitors enjoyed their “schlucks” of Shiraz hosted by a salesgirl with a broad Barossa-Australian accent. I relished the photographic delights of the historic mansion and the feature fountain.
Every road or laneway around here leads to a winery. The Barossa produces some of the best wine in the world. Nineteenth-century migrants from Prussia-Silesia (now eastern Germany and Poland) came to South Australia and settled in the Barossa around Tanunda. Some were my ancestors.
My husband told our visitors, ‘The Barossa has some of the oldest Shiraz vines in the world, having been planted as early as 1847 by Johann Friedrich August Fiedler.’
The K-Team arrived at a tourist-crowded Jacobs Creek winery. This popular winery permitted five free tastings before paying for more. Happy with five small samples, the K-Team admired the view of vineyards, leaves turning autumnal gold, and rows of vines stretching to the hills, plus a meander along the trails around the winery. Not to be outdone, scarecrows lounged in the lawns by the tennis court that sported oversized tennis balls and racquets.
After purchasing supplies for Tuesday night’s party, we tested our breath with the complimentary breathalyser. All the K-team drivers were deemed safe to drive.
So, a jolly, but not too jolly, K-Team progressed to Tanunda in search of a bakery. I spotted the Red Door Café and led the team there. A waitress guided the K-Team of 10 to the courtyard garden out the back, as inside was full. We sat at separate tables, my husband and I with our younger Swiss cousin and boyfriend next to the Kids’ corner. Most of the K-Team supped on the Café’s specialty burger. Excellent choice, as it was a late lunch that would tide us over for tea.
Satisfied with this most welcome and tasty lunch, the K-Team set off for Seppeltsfield Winery. After driving through kilometres of road lined with giant date palms, the K-Team arrived at the grand estate. The hall, a massive shed, actually, teemed with tasters. After more sampling and marvelling at the beautiful grounds, complete with vintage cars, we picked up our ordered wines at the designated shop.
As one of the oldest wineries, the Seppelts family was so rich, they built their own family mausoleum that presided over their estate. The K-Team made an impromptu stop to climb the steps to the family monument and then absorb the breathtaking view. The sun broke through the clouds, so completing the magical scene.
Peter Lehmann’s Winery was not far. Plenty of time, so we thought. But when we arrived, the car park appeared deserted. The owners emerged and informed the disappointed K-Team that they were closed for the day. The toilets, though, weren’t, and the K-Team made effective use of them while I took photographic advantage of the mellow tones of Peter Lehmann’s garden.
The K-Team reserved the late afternoon for Mengler’s Hill, which features an assortment of sculptures. We puzzled over the meaning of some of the international artistic offerings, but the collection seemed happy to be presiding over the Barossa. I observed that by this time, the scarecrows had slunk away and were nowhere to be seen.
While our Swiss guests hunted for wildlife, I caught the sunlight on eucalyptus trees and the gnarled forms of branches and trunks with my camera; future subjects for paintings, I hope.
It had been a long and full day, and my husband’s mobile phone, drained of battery power and starved of tower transmissions, was by this time grumpy. As revenge for being deprived of its usual mobile-phone fixes, it became intent on leading us astray. In Angaston, when we finally arrived there after the phone’s GPS took us on a meandering scenic route, the phone demanded in a passive-aggressive voice, ‘Take the next right.’ Then, ‘Take the next right.’ Then again, ‘After thirty metres, take the next right.’
‘Hey, it’s taking us in circles,’ I said. ‘Ignore it and go straight ahead.’
The phone cut in. ‘Take the next right,’
I pointed at the sign to Adelaide. ‘No, follow the sign.’
As we drove down the highway to Gawler, the phone bleated, ‘At the first opportunity, make a U-turn.’
‘No!’ we shouted.
The phone insisted. ‘Turn left and make a U-turn.’
I filmed the phone map spinning in every direction. ‘It looks like it’s going nuts,’ I said. ‘I’m turning it off.’
I switched off the phone, and we completed the journey to Adelaide in peace.
[Keeping with the car-theme this week. Bought a new secondhand car. Sold our car. I say, if I’m a bit muddle-headed, it’s because of all the dealing with vehicles, banking, and paperwork that goes with it. The new-for-us car is beautiful, though and everybody involved is smiling.]
Road Trip to Sydney, the summer of 1979 – Episode 1
[Based on real events. Some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40 years ago.]
Lost Control
A conference on the gifts of the Holy Spirit. I wonder what gifts God has for me? I pondered while dozing in the back seat of my brother Rick’s Chrysler Charger. And Dad…why was it that Dad had to go all on his own by car to the conference? Oh, well…much more fun travelling with my peers.
Crunch!
I sat up. Rubbed my eyes. ‘What happened?’
The car fishtailed. Rocking the carload of us back and forth.
‘Hey, mate!’ Rick, my brother, yelled at the driver, ‘Jack! You trying to kill us?’
Without reply, Jack bit his thin upper lip and swung the Charger to the right, and into oncoming traffic.
I gasped.
A truck bore down on us.
Jack, who reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, clenched his strong jaw and corrected back to the left. Keep left, that’s what you do when driving in Australia. Jack’s usually blonde curls appeared dark from perspiration.
The semitrailer gushed past us, sucking the air out of our open windows.
Rick held up his thumb and forefinger in pincer mode. ‘You missed them by that much.’
Rick’s navy-blue tank top was soaked with sweat around the neckline under his mouse-brown curls, and under his strong arms. Mid-January and the full car with only open windows for air-con, steamed with heat. And body odour.
To my right in the back seat, Mitch, taller and thinner than my brother but sporting chestnut brown curly hair, wiped his damp mauve polo shirt and then sighed, ‘That was close.’
Cordelia, in the briefest of shorts and a tight-fitting t-shirt, showing off her classic beauty and assets, sat on the other side of Mitch. She clutched her stomach. ‘I feel sick.’
Mitch leaned forward and tapped Rick on the arm. ‘How long till we reach the next town?’
‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ Cordelia said.
Rick nudged Jack. ‘I think you’d better stop.’
Jack rubbed one hand on his blue jeans, straightened his long white shirt, placed his hand again on the steering wheel, and kept driving.
Cordelia cupped her hand under her chin and groaned.
I smoothed my white wrap-around skirt and then brushed my light cream-coloured blouse patterned with blue roses. No way did I want Cordelia to mess up my most flattering-to-my-slim-figure- figure clothes.
‘I can’t!’ Jack said and continued to speed down the highway. The golden expanse of the Hay Plains, dried out by the fierce summer heat, spanned the horizon. White posts flitted past. The red-brown line of bitumen of the highway stretched to its vanishing point on that horizon. A faded white sign flashed past. Dubbo, 265 miles. How long had Australia been metric? A few years at least; not that one would know, travelling in outback Australia in early 1979. Still…
Another groan from Cordelia.
Rick screamed at Jack. ‘Stop!’
Jack slowed the car and rumbled onto the gravel beside the road.
Cordelia leapt out and hunched over a shrivelled wheat stalk. I looked away and covered my ears from the inevitable sound of chunder.
‘That was close,’ Mitch said.
‘Remember that drunk guy, your brother brought back to Grandma’s?’ Rick said. ‘Took me a week to get the smell out of her Toyota.’
‘Hmm,’ Mitch replied. ‘That was unfortunate.’
‘You mean, the guy who kept singing “Black Betty”?’ I asked. I remembered that fellow. He had messy blonde hair and a moustache. He lounged on the back seat of Grandma’s car while I sat all prim and proper in the front, waiting for Mitch’s brother to drive us to Lighthouse Coffee Lounge. ‘He kept saying I was so innocent.’
‘Well,’ Mitch said, ‘you are.’
I guess I was 15, but hated to admit it.
Cordelia stumbled back into the car. ‘That’s better.’
Rick and Jack arranged to swap places. So, after a brief stretch of legs and a nearby scraggly-looking bush receiving five visitors, we set off on our quest for Sydney. After all, we still had ages to go before arriving there for the Revival Conference. We hoped to arrive with enough spare time to see the sights Sydney had to offer.
[Another fond memory from my childhood…and Dad’s catchcry, “for the time being” took a breather when, after being promoted to Deputy Principal, he bought the Holden Premier. Also, a timely piece as our recent Remembrance Day, November 11, marked the 50th anniversary of the sacking of our then prime Minister Gough Whitlam by the Governor General Sir John Kerr. I still remember where I was when that happened. At home watching the news and old Gough saying: ‘Well may we say, “God save the Queen”, because nothing will save the Governor-General.’
Anyway, a car tale from our journey to Canberra where my education in Australian politics began.]
The Dream Car—Holden Premier EH, Serena (100-word challenge)
Serena, our dream family car ferried the T-Team to Canberra. In 1975, hardly a maiden for this voyage, she drove us to our destination; a comfortable, safe ride over the Hay Plains. No breakdowns. No stranded waiting for road service on the hot dusty side of the road. A smooth ride that rocked me to sleep; the vinyl with scent fresh from the caryard to us.
She mounted the snow shovelled roads to Thredbo. From her window, my first sight of snow on a brilliant sunny day, snow shining on twisted eucalypt branches.
[In 2013, the T-Team, Next Generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few months, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-K Team (my husband and I) return to Hermannsburg and catch up with friends there.]
Hermannsburg Here We Come
As we powered along the sealed Larapinta Highway, I mused, what a difference some 60-70 years makes. When Mum T lived in Hermannsburg, back in the 1940’s and 50’s, the trip to Alice Springs was a long arduous half-a-day journey on a dirt track in a truck where one spent several days in Alice Springs stocking up on supplies.
As we passed the turn off to Jay creek, I said to Hubby, ‘Mum told us the story of her mum (Grandma Gross) who, when the Finke flooded, had to wade through the waters to reach the other side to continue the journey to Alice Springs. She was 8-months pregnant at the time.’
‘Hard to imagine the creek flooding,’ Hubby glanced at the dip, a dry riverbed, that signalled the up-coming fork in the road leading the Hermannsburg. ‘But I know from camping in the Flinders Ranges, at the first drops of rain, you don’t hang around, you get out.’
‘Your mum and friend didn’t when they camped at Parachilna,’ I said. ‘They were stuck there on an island with the river all around them for days.’
A sign with an image of a cow, and below written, “Beware of wandering stock”, flashed by. Brumbies galloped on the side, as if racing with us. Hawks soared in the cobalt blue sky above. A lone wedge-tail eagle, having gorged on a carcass of roadkill, waddled off the road just in time, avoiding the same fate as its feed.
This time, when we arrived in Hermannsburg, we made a beeline for the FRM store where we located our friend, P. He welcomed us and gave us a tour of the store. So much bigger than in 1981; more like the size of our local IGA store in size and shelves fully stocked. It even stocked fridges and washing machines. P proudly showed us the bakery where fresh bread is made each day and he introduced us to the Indigenous workers at the store.
After settling into our P and K’s home, we spent the afternoon drinking coffee and storytelling with P and K. Storytelling continued over dinner. Much had changed since the T-team visited in 1981. The population of Hermannsburg has now grown to 600, the Finke River Mission still exists there, and the Christian community is growing. However, there remain challenges for the Indigenous community as there are in communities all over Australia, and the world. ‘It just is,’ as P stated, ‘we’re at the coal-face, being a small, isolated outback community; you see everything…’
‘Whereas,’ I concluded, ‘in the city it’s hidden by numbers, a larger population and behind the walls of our castles.’ Then I changed the subject. ‘Oh, by the way, this is the house I stayed in when the T-team visited Hermannsburg in 1981.’
Tru-Kling Creations 