Last night, August 1, my husband’s maternal family hailing from Switzerland, we celebrated Swiss National Day. My husband’s mother was born in Basel and then grew up in Zurich. Her mother came from Wattwil, St. Gallen.
So, the family gathered at our home and enjoyed a firepit fire in the backyard.
When I asked my husband where fondue was “invented”, he said that fondue comes from the French part of Switzerland. In winter, the poor farmers used their cheese and bread to make a meal—fondue.
So, in memory of all things Swiss, here’s a revisit of an earlier post when the T-K Team travelled to Switzerland in 2014.
K-Team in Switzerland—2014
Welcome with Alphorns
Sunday, August 17, the real fun began—and so did the early starts.
Up by 6am to race to Zurich Airport to meet the rest of the K-Team, Hubby’s family: his mother (Mum K) brother (P1), niece (Miss K), our son (Son 1) and his fiancé. Drove into the airport car park where Hubby became confused and drove out again and then in again. After finding a park we made our way to arrivals where an English man chatted to Hubby.
‘We’re from Australia,’ Hubby said.
The English man nodded. ‘I can tell.’
A young woman accompanied by a man dressed in Swiss costume who’d been standing next to us spoke to us. We soon established that we had been standing next to Hubby’s second cousins.
We then waited together for the K-Team fresh from Australia to roll through the arrival gate. Tired of waiting, Hubby wandered down the hallway and there near an alcove of shops, he found our weary travellers.
Must be the atmosphere in Zurich, or just jetlag as after greeting us, they stood around for at least an hour discussing what to do. Hubby and I took custody of their luggage and had a coffee while they lingered in the hall in suspended animation apparently organising the lease car and then debating how to change Australian dollars into Swiss Francs.
Just as I pulled my diary out to write, movement, and then we were on our way to the farm near Wattwil of Toggenburg in the Canton of St. Gallen.
There Alphorns, and cow bell ringers, and the stunning green hills and blue mountains of the Santis greeted us. Mum K shrieked and cried and hugged her relatives. Our niece exclaimed, ‘It’s all so beautiful!’
Willing members of the K-Team tested their muscles swinging the huge cowbells, or their lungs playing the Alphorn. Some had more success than others. I escaped the test by recording the event with my camera.
After the insecticide incident, our hosts showed us our rooms and one of our cousins gave us instructions about the bathroom and how to place the flywire in our windows to keep out the “fleas”. She meant flies.
Mum K went missing. Found her in the dairy—yes, we were on a dairy farm that is still owned by the family. I was amazed that Swiss farmers have as few as ten cows and yet they make a living! Wouldn’t happen in Australia. And our hostess promised us fresh milk, dare I say it, raw milk, straight from the cow the next morning. Ah, the advantages of living on a dairy farm in Switzerland!
‘Actually,’ Hubby stated, ‘the Swiss Brown milk is known for its high fat content, so the milk is used for making cheese.’
As the T-Team talked to their dairy-farmer cousins, in this barn for the cows, I held my nose and edged towards the door. The up-and-personal experience with the cows and their calves in their enclosures, proved too much for my senses, and I suggested, ‘Let’s go for a walk to the forest.’ I moved out of the barn, sure that my bovine-close-encounter would be used in what was at that time in 2014, a future story—TheLost World of the Wends.
From the barn, the K-Team took a ramble to Mum K’s beloved forest—a smaller forest than one she remembered from her youth, but one she recalled vividly in a novel she wrote, A Teenager Long Time Ago.
Remember the humble postcard? My maternal grandfather used to collect them…100 years ago. This week, I’m embarking a journey into K-Team history as well as glimpsing life in the past from a postcard taken 100-years ago.
I am amazed at what one can glean from a simple card. Imagine, a postcard in 1921 cost 1-cent to post from the Netherlands! On the flip side, a tiny little script in the middle reads “nadruk verboden”(copying is forbidden). I’m hoping from my understanding of copyright laws, that this restriction has long since expired. That being said, I acknowledge the publishers “Weekenk and Snell, den Haag” and have shared this postcard for historical and educational purposes.
So, we travel forward in time, when my husband and I visited Amsterdam at the start of our European adventures in 2014.
We arrived in Amsterdam and after breezing through customs, Hubby rang up Renault to get someone to pick us up and drive us to the Renault office to pick up the leasing car, the Duster. ‘You’ll recognise us,’ the Renault guy promised. We waited half an hour. No guy, no van. Dragging my big red suitcase, Hubby paced back and forth along the front entrance and I trailed behind him, his smaller suitcase bumping over the pavement. After 45 minutes of no joy, no guy, and no Renault van, Hubby rang Renault again. Apparently, the pickup guy had made several laps of the Airport pick up area searching for us. Hubby suggested we rendezvous by a well-known hotel near the overpass. We waited there for a couple of minutes before Hubby got itchy feet and off he went a-wandering. I began to follow and then looked back. The Renault van rolled around the corner. I ran, and with my free hand I waved at the driver getting out of the van.
I apologised for my husband’s impatience and then we waved at him as he approached.
After picking up the Duster from the office, Hubby embarked on the challenge of driving in Amsterdam on the right side of the road. He took a little while to adjust to not over-compensating and bumping into the kerb on the right. Which he did a few times.
We gingerly drove the short way to the service station and after parking and hunting through the French instructions, found how to open the fuel cap. Hubby had learned French at school, so was able to decipher the information without spending too many hours trawling through the tome of a manual. So, we filled up with fuel and began our journey to our apartment. Our navigation system, a Tom-Tom which we named “Tomina” since it had a pleasant, if not slightly passive-aggressive female voice, lead us to the highway and then off the beaten track, then told us to turn around. Back where we started, Tomina said, ‘Turn right.’
‘Turn right,’ I said.
Hubby obliged by tuning left and into the highway. Cars coming from our right tooted us as we entered the highway. We had to go ‘round the block to get back on track. Then we saw that where Hubby turned was a sign that read, “No Left Turn”.
We found the apartments and since check-in was only from three o’clock, we had the staff hold our luggage while we explored the local station. We admired the rainbow-coloured flags that decorated the apartment block and surrounds, thinking they looked so pretty and decorative. Hungry by this time, we ate lunch, then bought a card, wine and flowers for his aunt Ada who had her birthday on the 30th July. A highlight of the trip for Hubby was visiting his aunts and cousins that afternoon. Had a lovely time meeting and getting to know his father’s relatives over coffee and cake. Some of his aunts Hubby hadn’t seen for 40 years.
The next three days in Amsterdam we spent walking. Hubby had taken it upon himself to become my personal trainer. We must get fit. We walked the roads of Amsterdam absorbing the summertime atmosphere, admiring the canals, the graceful architecture, the boats and hundreds of bikes—everywhere people riding bikes. The town was packed with people, tourists, and revellers, eating, drinking and shopping. As it turned out, we had chosen unwittingly, I might add, to spend the weekend when Amsterdam was celebrating the Rainbow Festival. We did see some unusual sights as well as the usual antics common to drunken behaviour. My foot suffered blisters as it adapted to new hiking sandals. Good thing we had a first aid kit and some blister pads from Rogaining a couple of years ago.
We did the usual tourist stuff, one day five hours in the Reich Museum, next day lining up and herding through the Van Gough museum-art gallery, and then an hour cruise through the canals. We had a 24-hour pass so we could hop on and off certain trams around the city. One tram though, decided to close its doors on me as I tried to get off leaving Hubby abandoned on the footpath. I alighted at the next tram stop around the corner and walked back. What joy to see my husband walking towards me.
Although we mostly ate at our apartment, the last day in Amsterdam we enjoyed pancake with apple and honey for lunch, and for dinner Argentinian steak—tender juicy steak. I’m not sure what it is about Argentinian steak houses, but in Amsterdam, they’re everywhere.
[Over ten years ago, 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 relive and rekindle memories of our travel adventures. This time again to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.]
Yulara
Sunday 7 July 2013
Creature Comforts
Anthony tore off the tarpaulin and then, armed with the foldable shovel, stomped off in the direction of the bushes.
In the harsh light of morning, the scene into which we were brought under the shroud of darkness last night, was revealed. Road trains thundered past on the nearby Sturt Highway. On the opposite side of the road, a couple of these road-monsters basked in the golden rays of the rising sun. Camper vans and caravans crowded the free camping area.
I pottered around the wire fence that protected us from the Adelaide to Darwin rail line. I did not fancy an oncoming Ghan crushing me. Toilet paper littered the stony ground, shreds of it caught in the barbed wire of the fence, and nests of it rested under the salt bush. I gingerly picked up an armful of wood scraps. Hope it wasn’t contaminated.
Anthony returned from his morning adventure; a frown fixed on his face.
‘Not good, I didn’t sleep a wink.’ He pointed his shovel at the quiet mound resembling my brother and wife. ‘I had a chorus of snorers keeping me awake all night.’ He then glared at my pitiful gathering of sticks. ‘What’s that?’
‘Sticks for a cooking fire.’
My husband rolled his eyes. ‘And where are you going to put that?’
‘Where there’s a clear space.’
‘Good luck.’ He sniffed. ‘There was nowhere even to do my business. I had to walk miles.’ Anthony loves to exaggerate. ‘I can’t believe people don’t cover their mess.’
My nephew came jogging up to us. ‘I want a fire. Where’s the campfire? It’s freezing.’
I glanced around. Spying a clear patch of ground, I announced, ‘Here, I’m getting it started now.’
‘Watch out for any poo. This place is full of it,’ Anthony said.
My nephew chuckled. ‘We’ll use it as fuel, Uncle Anthony.’
Anthony shuddered. ‘Won’t be eating anything from that fire, then.’
I bent down, then cleared stones away to create a shallow basin to make the fire. Soon a small but functional campfire crackled away. Perched on top of the coals, a billy bubbled with boiling water.
Anthony sat some distance from the fire munching on his cereal. There was no way he’d get close to the fire. After all, who know what lies beneath or nearby, on the ground in this part of the world, unregulated by OC Health and Safety.
My nephew fried eggs on a frypan on that small but adequate fire.
The free camping site slowly emptied itself of vehicles. First, the trucks disappeared. Then, the Grey nomads, and their luxury on wheels vanished. I imagined they had left once the sun had peeped over the horizon. The caravans had gone too. Just us, the not so grey T-Team stumbled around the parking bay, slowly packing up bedding, wandering beyond in search of a bush in lieu of a toilet, and then gulping down breakfast.
I picked up a stray piece of wood for the fire. A poopy looked up at me. I recoiled. ‘Ee-yew!’
To avoid the inevitable “told you so” from Anthony, my nephew and I announced the fire a success, doused it and covered the remains with dirt.
‘Time to go!’ Mrs. T yelled. ‘Next stop Marla.’
‘What?’ Richard, my brother asked. ‘That’s only about twenty kilometres away.’
‘There’s no way I’m squatting anywhere ‘round here. It’s a tip!’ his wife replied.
So, after a day of driving with the quick toilet stop at Marla, an obligatory exploration and photo stop at the South Australian—Northern Territory border, and then a petrol pause at Erldunda, we turned down the Lassiter Highway to Uluru.
We travelled in convoy on this perfect sunny day. Anthony’s mood seemed to thaw, and he was happy to take the wheel while I filmed parts of the drive with my Dad’s digital movie camera. The bold purple mesa, Mt Conner emerged above the rusty-coloured sand dunes.
We parked at the viewing station to take a photo of this spectacular landform. Some of the T-Party took advantage of the facilities. I had in mind to follow them. But as I approached the wooden huts, the stench and surrounds thick with flies buzzing, made me turn back to the car. I decided to hold on until we reached the Yulara camping ground.
We reached the Yulara Camping Ground which lies just outside the Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park. Then, we had to wait in line to register and pay for our camping allotment.
Anthony drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and muttered, ‘Unbelievable! Hope we’re not too late.’
‘No wonder the grey nomads left early,’ I joked. ‘Anyway, I thought we’d booked.’
‘You know what thought did.’
Yep, after no sleep and all the driving, Anthony was not happy. Fortunately, though, our sites were still there and after tolerating the queues, we paid our fees and were directed to our adjoining grassy patches near the edge of Yulara. Not too distant were the toilet/shower blocks. As soon as we had parked, I made a beeline for these creature comforts.
Anthony set up our barely used 4-man tent with only the bare minimum help from me. Must remember that the thick pole has to go at the front and the thin pole next in line. While Anthony hammered in the tent pegs to secure the tent, I stood holding the pole and watching my brother’s family battle in the construction of their new tent. Five of them, twisting and turning, standing and sitting, lifting walls and dropping them, labouring at snail’s pace to build their tent.
‘Amazing,’ I remarked, ‘Their tent needs five people to build it and you’ve put ours up by yourself, Anthony.’
Anthony looked over at the T-Team and grunted, ‘Well, since I put up the tent, you can cook tea.’
This I did, using our portable camp stove. Signs all about the camping ground warned that there would be consequences, a fine for making one’s own personal campfire. The BBQ facilities opposite our campsite were monopolised by other campers.
As I stirred the spaghetti sauce, Anthony walked up to me and narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you using that for? Can’t you see?’ He pointed at the now vacant BBQ stands.
‘They weren’t available when I started,’ I replied. ‘Too late now, tea is almost ready.’
Later, I tried boiling water on the stoves that Anthony preferred. I stood, hovering over the billy of water, watching and waiting for something to happen for twenty, then thirty minutes.
We waited another twenty minutes in the icy cold darkness. ‘Seems that it’s too cold for the water to boil,’ I concluded.
Anthony and I sauntered over to the T-Team’s camp. Richard invited us to play cards and enjoy a hot drink. My brother had hooked up lights and electric cooking facilities courtesy of an inverter/generator which he had brought along for the trip. My brother connected the inverter to a spare car battery which was charged as the car travelled, and voila, the T-team had light, and their own personal electric cooking facilities.
Beyond, on route to the shower block was a communal fire pit. But on our first night in Yulara, no one was taking advantage of that.
Gaslighting—it’s something we believe is a modern practice, AI generated. But, in truth, fudging the truth is as old as history itself.
You could say that creating one’s own reality is a global pastime and no one is immune to it. As humans, we interpret, or mis-interpret the world around us through our experiences, what we see, hear, taste and touch. We use our worldviews to form our identity and place in the world and to serve as a personal force-field to protect our beliefs. Our personal paradigm helps us navigate our way through life, predicting the challenges life may throw at us.
It is fair to say that our worldviews are limited, and often skewed as we encounter the worlds of others. Naturally, we believe our truth is the one and only way. To feel secure, we impose our version of reality on others. We are right. They are wrong.
Have you ever had the experience where someone reckons you said a certain thing, but you’re sure you didn’t? I have had friends “quote me”, attributing wise words to me, and I have no idea I’d ever said that. Wish I had. Maybe I had; I just can’t remember. Either way, our respective worldviews have filtered facts in and screened information out.
Anyway, the same can be said for our own personal family history. I remember reading an article in a Genealogy magazine about family myths and to be wary of them. It’s not enough to believe a story, a narrative. Good research requires facts, preferably primary resources.
With this in mind, I have been researching on the internet, the history of Nördlingen and the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sönne. Did my Trüdinger ancestors own it for two hundred years, as my relatives have been led to believe? It wasn’t our branch as my great-grandfather Karl August Trüdinger and family emigrated from Bavaria to England in the 1860’s, and then from England to Australia in 1886. He was a textile merchant trading in wool in Yorkshire England and then in Australia he set up a business selling textiles in Adelaide city. Now, here again, the details get a bit murky, and I need to do some more research into the actual work history of Karl August in Adelaide. Suffice to say, from my gleaning of Trove, Karl August was a fine Christian family man who together with his wife Clara Theresa, raised eight of his twelve surviving children to enter the mission field. Vastly different from the family origins in Nördlingen who were apparently rich and influential enough to own the hotel that entertained royalty.
[Photo 2: Trudinger Family in Adelaide, South Australia courtesy L.M. Kling circa 1890]
Yet, as I delved deeper into the rabbit-hole of internet searches, I discovered that my four-times great grandfather, Balthas Trüdinger was a soldier in the Teutonic order. Why else was he living in Lierheim (a castle near Nördlingen) which at the time was owned by the Teutonic order? Oh, the shame that this brought on the family, having a mercenary soldier in their ranks! Another myth. Sure, Balthas was a soldier. Sure, as a soldier in the Teutonic Order he was paid. But was the Teutonic Order so bad? When I first mentioned the fact of Balthas belonging to the Teutonic Order, my son and husband joked that he was most certainly a neo-Nazi of his time. I began to imagine Balthas all buff, shaved head and going around on crusades killing anyone who wasn’t Christian. According to my research, Wikipedia, mainly, Hitler portrayed the Teutonic Order as the exemplar of the Aryan race and cause. Again, this was a myth. As soon as Hitler had achieved his purpose using them, he then turned against them and discarded the Teutonic Order.
According to my limited research, although the Teutonic Order went on Crusades to Christianise Europe, and paid mercenaries to fight, they also did a great deal of good. Way back when they formed in 1191, they protected travellers making their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They organised and built hospitals, initially for wounded soldiers and these days the order is primarily a charitable organisation. Anyway, it would seem from the records compiled from my uncle Ron Trudinger, that Balthas didn’t stay in Lierheim, but, after the birth of his son Georg, he moved to Nördlingen. Here, no mention of Georg being an innkeeper, but instead a linen weaver and Burgermeister of the town.
From a research paper on Nördlingen in the 17th Century called Early Capitalism and its Enemies: The Wörner Family and the Weavers of Nördlingen* (Published online by Cambridge University Press: 11 June 2012) which I accessed online through Jastor, I was able to surmise that for Georg to become the Mayor of Nördlingen, he would’ve needed to be seriously cashed up. I mean rich, one of the wealthiest in the town, if not, the wealthiest. It would seem he landed on his feet so to speak as a linen weaver or had come into a sizable inheritance. Or, had he or his father married into money in the town? The owner of the hotel, perhaps?
Nowhere in my gleanings on the town do I see that he was the innkeeper or owner of Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne. The above-mentioned article had a breakdown of income, which I presume was yearly, of people in the town. According to a study accessed online called “Nordlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war”, in 1700, the owner of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne had the highest income of all, a salary of 41 Florin. A teacher at the time received one to four Florin per year. And a soldier, which is what Georg’s father, Balthas was, received eleven Florin per year.
Again, as far as the Trüdinger family is concerned, it’s all conjecture and where myths start to grow and take a life of their own.
One thing for certain, though, is that in family history, experiences that family members have had hold weight for evidence. After all, they are the life-experience of that person and from their point of view. My second cousin, who married a German, and lived in Bavaria, decided to visit the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne in the 1960s. Family there living in Germany, informed her that a Trüdinger relative owned the hotel. Upon seeing the hotel, my second cousin was impressed by how high-class it was with fancy décor and loads of antique furniture. The food offered was out of her budget, but my second cousin tried to talk to her hotel-owning relative.
The encounter didn’t progress the way my cousin had hoped. Although my second cousin could speak fluent German, the hotel owner seemed distant and appeared reluctant to engage with her. Maybe, the lady was having a difficult day…Or hadn’t been given enough warning that a cousin was going to visit the hotel unannounced.
My second cousin left the establishment and decided to eat elsewhere.
When we visited my second cousin in Germany, she told me this story and mentioned that by the end of the 1960s the Trüdinger relatives had sold the hotel. She believed that the hotel had been in the family for 200 years.
I am still trying to figure out if this a fact, or if it is a myth.
Do you or someone you know have information on the history of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne Nördlingen? Are you related to the Trüdinger family? You are most welcome to leave a comment. Or you may contact me through the My Heritage Trudinger-Kling website.
[In this chapter, I just couldn’t resist a visit to the Flinders Ranges by my characters. As this South Australian mountain range is one of my favourite places and art muse, I have interspersed this rather long chapter with some of my paintings.]
PASS THE PEACE
Tuesday March 1, 2022, 9:00pm
Church on Flinders Street
Lillie Remembers
Lillie wasn’t much of a “Fringe” goer, but Jimmy’s band had a gig in town, and she had dutifully gone to support him. Around 9:00pm, the middle-aged couple ambled up (meaning heading east) Flinders Street. Lillie grumbled that they had to park so far away because there were no parks. Jimmy was simply happy that, after a long hiatus, his band could perform again. He had no complaints about parking way up Flinders Street, as it meant people were again out and about and the city was coming alive once more. Lillie stressed that she didn’t like crowds, and her back and feet ached from all the walking.
Jimmy just grinned at her and said, ‘Good exercise, Lillie.’
An unimpressed Lillie grunted in response. Another unwelcome reference to my weight, she thought.
East of the city centre, they passed the church. Men of all shapes, sizes and ages spilled out of the Lutheran church.
Jimmy glanced at the historic structure that glowed in the dark and a wide smile spread across his face. ‘Remember?’
Lillie glanced back at the men gathering in groups of two or three, happily chatting. She frowned. ‘I’d rather forget.’
At that moment, a red classic, and freshly renovated Ford Falcon XB roared past, causing Lillie to remember all the same.
The sanctuary of the church appeared crammed full of young people; they squeezed onto benches, pressed up against the walls and almost swung from the rafters. Looking like Moses but dressed in mohair, the minister stood above his congregation who buzzed with enthusiasm and hormones. He raised his hands and lisped, “Pass the Peace.” The two boys on either side of her, reached across Lillie, as if she didn’t exist, and shook hands. Lillie stared across the crowded hall, the song ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ swimming in her head rather than a chorus from the Green Book. He wasn’t a stranger, not to her.
For Lillie, the popular pastor and his pantomime out of the pulpit, and the crowds caught in his spell, didn’t exist. Only he mattered, on the far side, fourth row from the front, thick black hair tumbling over his strong square jaw, his brown eyes fixed on the pastor. Her heart jumped to life and fluttered against her rib cage. She narrowed her eyes. Who is that girl? That round girl with the big blue eyes? Hate her!
As the pastor droned, could have been “begattings” and “thou shalts and nots” from Deuteronomy for all she cared, Lillie flicked spying glances on him, dagger looks on her beside him.
Supper: after squeezing though the throng, shaking the pastor’s hand, Lillie entered the side hall. She drew in the instant coffee flavoured aroma and smiled as the clinking of cups greeted her. Young men and women bunched together gossiping, standing so close Lillie found no wedge of space between them to lever herself in. She stood on the outside of the groups, alone. Groups congregated and dispersed, people moved and jostled, acted and reacted, embraced and retracted under the fluorescent light.
Clutching her home-woven woollen tote bag, she side-stepped to the tea stand.
‘No milk!’ said a girl. She struggled to hide her protruding teeth between her lips. Her hazel eyes brightened. ‘Wookie!’
A man, appearing like the Wookie character, Chewbacca from Star Wars in size and amount of hair on his face blundered past, spilling boiling tea on Lillie’s flared jeans. Hot tea, no milk, no sugar, no ‘oops’ or ‘sorry’ as he brushed her on his bumbling way into the masses.
An acquaintance, from school, flitted past, mincing steps in her tight-fitting paisley pants, and layers of multicoloured silk. Primping her hippie afro, she stopped in mid-flight scratched the air chirping a brief ‘hello’. She glanced at Lillie’s plain black shoes, her beak curled and then she flew away into the crowd.
Lillie gazed down at her stupid shoes, scavenged from an op shop, she wiped her hands over her faded hand-me-down jeans, and tugged at her worn poodle jacket.
So, I’m not rich, she thought. No dad either. At least her best friend, Fifi and she were equal in the “no dad’ department now.
Lillie looked around the room, young ladies like peacocks strutting their Country Road rags, flaunting the fruits of love from wealthy parents. What was she doing here? She felt frumpy, everybody averting their eyes from her, avoiding her. She stared at the stained pine floorboards, her temples prickling with heat. Bad idea! Bad idea! What was I thinking? She twisted the bag handle in her fist and resolved to fight her way to the exit.
Fingers pinched her shoulder. ‘Lillie!’ A man’s deep voice rang.
Her heart skipped a beat as she turned. ‘Jimmy!’ She crossed her arms and focussed on his angular shoulders poking through his white t-shirt. His chicken breast chest rose and fell under the weight of a leather jacket. ‘So…’ Don’t think about the pass! Don’t get into conversation about the pass. It’s all in the past. ‘I haven’t seen you since – um…’ Just be thankful I have someone to talk to. Pink elephants. Mmm! I hope he doesn’t…I mean he’s just my best friend’s brother.
‘April? Easter in the…’
‘Flinders.’ She tried to avoid his sapphire blue eyes. Please don’t lead the conversation in that direction. ‘I like the jacket.’
‘Yeah?’ He pulled at the collar. ‘Makes me look like a rock star – Jim Edwards by name, Jim Morrison by nature.’
‘You do realise Jimmy Edwards is a British comedian,’ she said.
How did he afford an authentic leather jacket? It made her wonder about her brother Sven, who suddenly, at the beginning of the year, had cash to buy a year-old 1976 Ford Falcon XB. A shiny red Ford Falcon that looked like a slick shark and roared like a lion. She never asked. He never said. Same as he never questioned her about Mr. Percy Edwards’ disappearance. Neither did his son, Jimmy for that matter.
‘You like?’ Jimmy swayed, showing off his jacket.
‘Hardly!’ Lillie sighed. She felt stranded. Yes, he’s a friend.What happened in the Flinders stays in the Flinders, he should understand that. He should. Let it pass. There’s that word again. Just friends. Why do they always want more?
Jimmy nudged her arm. ‘Hey, Lillie, did you see me in the band?’
Stop trying to impress me! ‘Oh, er…’ She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, ‘I was way down the back, couldn’t see much of – except…’ her voice trailed into the thick of the hubbub. Francis Renard stood in a group, head and shoulders taller, so close, just Jimmy, and the groupies surrounding Francis dividing them. As Jimmy continued to try and impress her, Lillie patted her blonde locks and pulled at her cream skivvy, desperate to catch Francis’s attention.
A lull. Jimmy paused. Lillie snapped her attention back to him. ‘You were saying?’
Jimmy’s eyes narrowed and he bit his trembling lip. ‘You weren’t listening – what is it back there?’
Lillie shrugged. Sprung!
Jimmy glanced over his shoulder. ‘Oh! Fruitcake!’ He turned back hunching over as if trying to retreat into the shell of his leather jacket.
Lillie pointed in Francis’s direction. ‘Is that…?’
Jimmy darted his eyes from side to side.
‘Lucky Sven isn’t here,’ she said. For Lillie, this comment had a double meaning. One, her big brother wasn’t there to interfere. Two, he wasn’t there to cause a scene menacing with his .22 rifle or his fists in Francis’s face.
Jimmy straightened up and bared his perfect row of teeth. ‘Well, it’s been a long day. I’m off.’ He patted Lillie’s cheek. ‘You need a lift?’
‘It’s okay,’ Lillie pulled away from any further Jim touches, ‘I have a lift.’ Her nose tingled with the lie. Sure, Jimmy lived next door, but after the Flinders Ranges camping trip, she had avoided Jimmy’s offers for a lift. Just didn’t seem right, him being Fifi’s brother and one of Sven’s friends. Although, when she considered their relationship, it was one-sided; Jimmy always coming over to visit Sven and Jimmy always the one suggesting they go to the beach to surf or a water-skiing trip up the river.
Pity Sven didn’t go to the youth service. He’d avoided church and all things religious since Easter. Come to think of it, since Dad had gone. He blamed God.
‘See ya at the coffee shop?’ Jimmy nodded at her, then dug his hands in his jeans pockets and sauntered out the exit and into the darkness.
Lillie loped up to Francis’s group. She knew some of the crew from the coffee shop. ‘Hi,’ she said and grinned, her knees melting like wax in the presence of Francis. So suave. So French.
One by one the members of the group groaned their excuses and drifted away, leaving Francis fidgeting opposite Lillie. He nodded, opened his ribbon lips to bare his teeth. She noticed he had a slight gap between his top front teeth.
Cute, she thought.
Lillie’s tongue tied up in knots rendering her mute, while her brain offered suggestions and lines her voice rejected. She felt like a fish out of water gasping for air or any idea floating around that might hook him in.
He shrugged and then darted for the door.
Lillie raced after him and onto the footpath. Catching him by the arm, she said, ‘Look, about Sven…’
He stopped; his broad shoulders flinched. He spun around to face Lillie. ‘Who are you?’
She sprang back, his question sinking like a lead weight to the pit of her stomach. ‘But we – I mean we – I thought…’ she scrambled for an explanation.
He raised an eyebrow having a Sean Connery expression about him.
‘At Easter – in the Flinders…’ Lillie wrung her hands in her poodle jacket sleeves. ‘You and your friends were our next-door neighbours.’
‘You? No!’ He pointed at her black shoes. ‘You’re lucky I didn’t report him to the police. I have friends in the force, you know.’
‘I’m sorry about him. He means well, I mean…’ Lillie rubbed her fake woollen arms. ‘I mean, he was just trying to protect me in his own way. Being my brother ‘n all.’
‘What? Pointing a .22 rifle in my head?’ Francis aimed his index finger at his ear. He breathed out plumes of steam into the autumn air. ‘What did I do to provoke ‘im?’
‘Yeah, point taken.’ Lillie looked down at the damp asphalt, then glanced up at him. ‘Are you going anywhere near Glenelg? I need a lift.’ As soon as she produced that little gem, thoughts of recrimination crowded in. Have you got rocks in your head? What made you blurt that out? What if he takes you up on the offer? He won’t. Besides, he’s at least five years older than you. You tart! Mole! Am not! He’s spunky, I like him. Yeah, well he might just be a serial rapist and killer for all you know. He’s not, I’m sure he isn’t. Look at all those girls that have gone missing. He wouldn’t do that. Not him. What if he’s all hands going everywhere? What then? Hmm? Don’t be silly, he hasn’t taken up the offer yet.
‘I’m sorry, little girl, I cannot ‘elp you. No?’ Francis stared down at Lillie. ‘I’m going in the opposite direction. And I ‘ave university tomorrow and an early lecture. No?’
‘Yeah, fine.’ Lillie shrugged, then turned towards the amber lights of the hall. See, I was right. I knew he wouldn’t accept. Still, worth a try. She heard the click of a car door opening. She looked over her shoulder.
‘Maybe I see you at the Social Saturday night?’ she asked.
‘Maybe,’ she thought she heard him say. Bang! The door slammed shut. The car roared to life and disappeared east up Flinders Street in a cloud of smoke.
Fine rain spat on Lillie’s crown as she plodded towards King William Street. 9:00pm, Sven would be in the Pancake Parlour by this time. She’d hitch a ride home, so to speak, in her brother’s almost new red Ford Falcon XB.
[Day 2 of the T-Team Next Gen’s pilgrimage to Central Australia to scatter Dad’s ashes…]
Mambray Creek greeted us with a picture-perfect morning; a morning that, in years to come, we could boast about to the T-Team who missed it in all its delicate beauty. Kookaburras announced the sunrise with their manic laughter. Parrots chattered in the trees. The air was calm, but not too cold. And the shower in the stone toilet block was warm and refreshing. I wondered where the MB (My Brother) component of the T-Team had camped. If they had camped. And if they’d enjoyed a warm shower in the morning.
When I returned from my shower, Hubby was busy sizzling chops on the portable butane gas cooker. The aroma drew me in and soon I enjoyed lamb chop sandwich for breakfast.
On the way, we stopped in at Port Augusta where we bought those inevitable forgotten items such as a wooden board and soap. Now, if I hadn’t had a shower that morning…and if Hubby hadn’t cooked breakfast…
We then commenced the journey on the Stuart Highway, flat, straight, gibber plains each side and the white dividing line disappearing into the distance. Hubby was happy to tackle this new kind of boring.
Hubby’s phone tingled breaking the monotony at 11am. My niece informed us that the T-Team had already reached Coober Pedy.
‘They must’ve driven most of the night,’ Hubby remarked.
I had visions of MB and co not sleeping until they were on the outskirts of Coober Pedy.
As the phone reception was seriously patchy, the bare amount of information was exchanged. Arrangements were made to meet at the monument when we arrived. They would be spending the day at Coober Pedy, enjoying the sights and attractions of this mining town.
We continued our trek towards Coober Pedy, obeying the speed limit of 100km per hour. The Gibber Plains sparkled like silver. I took some photos of the gibber when we had a short break.
Six hours after the T-Team had called us, we arrived in Coober Pedy. In an effort to find the agreed monument, we took a scenic tour of Coober Pedy and its grid of streets. No Monument. No T-Team.
‘What does this monument look like?’ Hubby asked.
I shrugged. ‘Like a monument.’ I had a vague recollection from my youth and the T-Team’s trek with Mr. B in 1977. MB and I had our photos taken by this so-called monument, or on this monument. But finding something that resembled the fuzzy memory in my mind? Nup, not today.
I rang my niece. ‘Where are you?’
‘We’re at the playground with the giant tyres,’ she replied. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s the first thing you see when you enter Coober Pedy.’
‘We’re having a barbeque!’ Mrs. T yelled.
‘Where are they?’ Hubby asked.
‘The playground near the entry of Coober Pedy,’ I said, ‘We must’ve driven right past them.’
‘How could you miss them?’ Hubby snapped. ‘Are you blind?’
‘Must’ve been in a parallel universe,’ I muttered. Sure, there was no one there when we drove into the town.
Hubby wound his way through the straight streets to the playground with the tyres. He glanced at the giant tyre structure. ‘Did you mean this monument?’
‘I don’t know, but obviously the MB did.’ I pointed. ‘There they are.’
MB was fiddling with the barbeque hotplates while Mrs. T stood behind him with a packet of sausages. The T-ling girls played on the swings, while the boy sat in the van, eyes glued to his iPad. A sign near the picnic area warned that the barbeque was only to be used during daylight. The sun hovered just above the horizon.
Over sizzling sausages, Mrs. T apologised for deserting us. But she just wanted to reach Coober Pedy and spend the day there. We had planned to explore Coober Pedy on our way back, after spending a night camping there. However, Mrs. T had a sense that plans at the end of the trip may not work out and wanted to get Coober Pedy in on the way up to Central Australia.
‘We parked in some parking bay, just outside of the town,’ MB said.
‘It was terrible!’ the younger niece said. ‘We were all cramped in the van, and we got no sleep at all.’
‘Mum kept kicking me in the head,’ my nephew cried.
‘You were snoring!’ Mrs. T bit back.
‘No, I wasn’t. You were!’ Nephew laughed. ‘I was just imitating you.’
‘Yeah, the kids were pretty cranky that we didn’t stay at Mambray Creek,’ MB whispered to me.
‘Yeah, but, who wanted to have KFC at Port Augusta? Hmm?’ Mrs. T didn’t miss a trick. ‘I wasn’t going to go backwards once we had takeaway and had gone as far as Port Augusta.’
In darkness we drove endless kilometres to some elusive free parking bay. Mrs. T’s dream was to sleep under the stars, just as the T-Team in 1981 had done. In the pitch blackness of night, about 9 – 10pm, we settled in a spare patch in an already crowded free parking area.
On the unforgiving stony surface, MB and wife constructed their questionable number of star accommodation of raised camp bed, piles of doonas topped with a tarpaulin. A little distance from them, actually, right next door, Hubby and I arranged our bedding on that rocky ground covered by tarpaulin then blow-up mattress. We had no camp bed, but we had our minus five sleeping bags in which to wrap ourselves. We also covered our swaddled selves with another tarpaulin. Hubby grumbled about this, but he had no choice; the ground was too hard to hammer tent pins in.
[More than ten years ago, 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 monthly Travel Fridays, 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. Then, it’s about time I put this story together into a book.]
Friday 5 July, 2013
The Convoy that Never Was
T-Team Next Generation’s convoy to Central Australia only took six hours to fragment and evaporate.
The said convoy consisted of Brother T’s family Mistubishi van containing my brother (Dad), Mrs. T (Mum), and three Teen-Lings (one boy, two girls), and Mum T’s trusty Ford Falcon Station wagon with Hubby and me. Mum T with our sons (S1 and S2) would be joining us in approximately a week’s time, flying up by plane to Alice Springs.
That was the plan.
With camping at Mambray Creek in the Flinders Ranges in mind, the T-Team Next Generation Convoy, took a recess break at Port Pirie where Mrs. T checked out a craft shop. Nearby, what appeared to be a church, was in fact a Barnacle bills Family Seafood Restaurant. Mrs. T, armed with crafting supplies, allowed the convoy to continue. But thoughts of an easy takeaway had been planted in some of the T-Team Next Generation’s minds.
Then, there was the obligatory stop at Port Germein. For Brother T and friends who frequented the Flinders Ranges, a pause in the trip at Port Germein was tradition. Although the sun was fast sinking below the horizon, we braved the brisk winter air and took a stroll up the longest jetty in the Southern hemisphere.
And so, at 6.30pm and in darkness, Hubby and I turned off to Mambray Creek…
And Brother’s team, driven by Mrs. T…didn’t.
I fumbled for my mobile and called MB. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Mrs. T’s decided to keep on going,’ my brother sighed. ‘Once she makes up her mind, you don’t argue with her. Besides, the kids want Hungry Jacks for tea a Port Augusta, they have vouchers.’
Hubby had made up his mind. We weren’t about to follow. We’d be camping at Mambray Creek and would continue our journey north fresh after a good night’s sleep. In the morning. After all, they promised to catch up with us in Coober Pedy; we had mobile phones to keep in contact, after all.
Despite the darkness, Hubby managed to set up the two-man tent in minutes. Then, although suffering the pangs of disappointment, we downed a light tea of bread, with packet soup and hot chocolate using water boiled from Hubby’s eco billy. ‘We’ll have the chops when there’s more light,’ I said, ‘in the morning.’
‘Now, to see if these minus-five sleeping bags keep us warm in the desert.’ Hubby snuggled into our co-joined sleeping bag. ‘Did I ever tell you how when camping with my family in the Flinders, I had to sleep in a cotton sleeping bag? It was freezing!’
[This postcard of the Basel Minster (German: Basler Münster) was delivered to its recipient in 1899. Theodora Bellan, the recipient was the house maid of my Great-grandmother (Sophie Basedow nee Hiller). Imagine! Those were the days when ancestors had house maids. My grandfather (Sam Gross) who was my Great-grandma’s son-in-law, collected postcards and so, ended up with this one. I wonder if he considered, back then, 80 to 90 years ago, that, one of his descendants (me) with the K-Team would visit the birthplace of my husband’s mother? Would he have envisaged the changes to this city and the challenges the K-Team faced visiting this city of Switzerland?
I might add here, that as far as my family history goes, I have several and varied connections with Basel. A branch of my Trudinger relatives lived and worked in Basel, I believe some do even today. And on my mother’s side, my two-times Great Grandfather and my Great grandfather studied for the ministry in Basel. No wonder, when I visited Basel, especially the Altstadt, I felt a connection to the place and seemed so familiar to me.]
K-Team Adventures in Basel — August 2014
Not so early, for once, on this Saturday morning, P1, Granny K, Hubby and I headed for Basel. We regretted not rising early. Near Zurich, cars on the autobahn came to a virtual standstill and continued that way till Basel.
Having taken twice as long to get to Basel, and then taking time to squeeze into a very narrow car park in the middle of the city, once released from the confines of the car, Granny went in search of toilet facilities. She found a toilet close by only to discover they took her Swiss Franc and failed to deliver relief as she couldn’t open the door. We hunted down the street in search of a toilet. Migros would surely facilitate the desperate. No, only if you patronise the establishment do you get the code to get into the room of relief. The Rathaus? No, joy there—closed for business. Ah, MacDonald’s! Off Granny and I ran. By this time, I was becoming a tad desperate for a wee break. I had a plan. Buy McChips and a McWrap and get the Mac-code and we’re in business. Had to line up, though. The men waited outside. We waited. They waited. Finally! Service and the sacred code of the Holy Mac-Grail, the toilet.
We fought our way through the Saturday shoppers and holiday crowd over the bridge and to the Kleine Alstadt to find a bench to sit and eat our lunch. Ironically, free benches were the Holy Grail there, but toilets, now we didn’t need one, were in abundance, including open air urinals! Granny was horrified. What has her Basel come to?
We did find ratty old seats near a playground and youth nearby with a stereo booming out Spanish hip hop! Oh, well, it was a seat and I enjoyed watching the people and the happy ambience of the sunny Saturday afternoon.
‘We haven’t seen anything,’ P1 mumbled. He meant missing seeing the Matterhorn, thanks to the “Matterhorn Rebellion”. But that’s another story you can read…
However soon enough we did see some sights. We saw the outside of the Rathaus with its mural artworks—the inside still closed for a meeting! Approaching the cathedral known as the Basel Minster, I exclaimed, ‘Ah, I’ve been wanting to see inside this cathedral with the tapestry roof for ages. Last time when we were here in 1998, we didn’t have time to look inside.’
‘It was Sunday, then and the Cathedral was closed for a service,’ Hubby said.
‘Oh.’
We entered the Basel Minster and marvelled at the simple beauty of the sanctuary. A service was starting in half an hour, so we had to be silent and not take photos.
After meeting P1 in the square, we walked through the cloisters next door to the Basel Minster and then marvelled at the vista of the Rhine, the city and the mountains in the distance. Hubby pointed out the Blauen Hoch, the mountain we’d climbed while in Badenweiler.
On our way back to the car, we walked through the Altstadt to the Kunst Museum. Too late by this time to explore but Hubby and I hoped we could return next weekend to see the museum. Never happened…Next time??? 2024, and still waiting…
And finally, Granny asked Hubby to drive past the church where she was baptised. Unfortunately, it was only a drive-by, more road works and nowhere to park. At least the church bells started ringing as we crawled past to the delight of Granny.
[Over ten years ago, we visited the Black Forest, Germany and the following day the Alsace where we walked through the remains of the battlefield between the Germans and the French.]
The Battle of the Tom Tom in the Black Forest
Friday August 8, 2014, we braved the German highways and byways (our Tom Tom has a tendency to lead us astray down byways) and made our way via the scenic/economic route (thanks to Tom Tom) to Badenweiler on the edge of the Black Forest. My relatives, invited us to stay with them in beautiful Badenweiler. When we called them at lunchtime, our estimated time of arrival was 3.00pm. But, after Tom Tom had finished executing her agenda, we arrived at 4.30pm. I think Tom Tom was enjoying the quaint narrow roads and geranium garnished buildings, but we weren’t as we stressed driving down narrow lanes narrowly missing oncoming traffic. What joy to arrive—in one piece—and enjoyed good southern German hospitality and the kaffe und kuchen on the balcony overlooking their garden, then a balmy summer evening walk in the town.
Next morning, Anthony and I went bather shopping in the town. My cousin explained that Badenweiler was known for its warm summers and mild winters, so we must swim in the thermal pools while we were in Badenweiler. But, how could we bathe in the thermal pools if we didn’t have bathers? Some Germans do in the Roman baths but not us modest Aussies.
I entered the hairdressers who had a rack of bathing costumes displayed in the front of the shop. I asked the manageress if she spoke English. No, she didn’t. But somehow, I managed to understand enough German to select, try on and buy a pair of bathers. I couldn’t fault the German quality, style and service.
125 Euros less in our bank account later, Anthony then entered the store next door for men’s bathers. The man who owned the shop could speak English. ‘Did you forget yours? You know I make a good trade. At least 20% of the French who come here forget their bathers and I guess Australians do too.’
‘Yes, I did,’ Anthony replied. He then selected a pair—mini lycra pants. At least they weren’t budgie smugglers—Anthony avoided those ones.
After lunch we climbed a local mountain Hoch Blauen which is just a little higher than our (Adelaide’s) local rise, Mount Lofty, well 1165m really. Cousins told their son we’d be back by 6pm. We trudged up the gentle slope. I hadn’t climbed any mountains in years and like the tortoise ambled behind the others. Every so often they stopped for me to catch up.
‘Are you alright?’ they asked.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘We can stop and go back any time.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
We reached a hut with a table and bench seats. While I drank water, the others ate croissants.
After a saddle, the slope grew steeper. But I soldiered on with the occasional stop to take snapshots of the forest, and the distant mountains. After plodding for what seemed an eternity, we reached the summit. I scrambled to a seat to sit and recover. Anthony still had energy to climb a tower. Basel was visible from there.
‘Oh, you must go to the guest house,’ my cousin said.
‘Nup, I’m not moving,’ I said.
But later, tempted by the panoramic view and a man floating in the sky with a parachute, I joined Anthony in a final trek to the guest house.
The return hike took half the time and effort. We arrived back at the house at 8pm.
Sunday, August 10, Anthony and I relaxed our weary muscles in the thermal pool. I sun baked and napped on the deck chairs provided.
Remembering a Battle 100 years ago
Monday, August 11, our hosts took us over the border to France. Their Sat Nav like the Tom Tom, lead us on a scenic and highland tour. They stopped to ask French farmer who directed us to drive further up the mountain. Our driver reversed his Rover, and asked another farmer raking leaves off the road. Yes, this was the right road.
My cousin drove the vehicle around the tight bends, and narrow alpine road. Great scenery, mountains like waves, rising and falling in the distance. Finally, civilisation—a cheese house. Again, directions were sought. Yes, just up and around the summit, the ‘La Grand Ballon’ at ~1400m. And…yes, up and around the peak, the farmhouse restaurant…and we were on time. I savoured an entrée of goat’s cheese on herb toast and then beef with mashed potato.
Then a quiet and meditative walk through the trenches of the French-German front of WW1.
Hard to believe the carnage. It’s so peaceful and what remains is overgrown with ferns, plants and trees.
Tuesday August 12, we left Badenweiler, to contend with trucks, road works, traffic jams in Freiburg, and our wayward Tom Tom to find our way to Burgau in Bavaria. Our Tom Tom led us right to a dead end of road works, just five kilometres from Burgau. Anthony managed to find our way around the “dud” roundabout exit and we arrived ten minutes after I rang the manager to say we’d arrive in half an hour.
About quarter to 7 we arrived at the station and there was the whole station out to meet us, black and white, big and little, and such a noise too, it sounded just like a whole lot of parrots or galahs. Then the truck came to a standstill and Sam got out and had to shake hands all around. I had to stay in the truck on account of the measles. I could only talk to them from a distance. It was just like a dream and to see all the natives running to and fro, reminded me of the movie films which Lou Borgelt had taken in New Guinea.
Well, after all the greetings were over we were taken across to our new home, which by the way isn’t very new, it’s one of the oldest houses on the station. Mrs Albrecht was going to have us over there for the first few days for meals, but through this measles business we decided it was best if we stayed isolated for a while so as not to infect the natives. Mrs Albrecht sent us over our tea, then, and such a huge tea, too, and we did full justice to it, too.
And now began our life on the station. But so far we haven’t seen very much of it, I haven’t been out of the place at all, Sam has gone to the other places more, but we keep away as much as possible. And now, last weekend, Ruth gets the German Measles, she was fairly miserable, but is alright again now, except for a cough. Now it means we have to stay isolated for another 10 days or so, in case Marie gets them. It is a real nuisance, because we can’t get to anything properly. The only advantage it has is that we can get things a bit straight around the place.
Such a lot wants doing, the doors don’t fit, and the floors need doing, and the garden has to be made. These last two days Sam has had 2 natives helping him with all sorts of odd jobs, yesterday and today they dug the front garden and this morning we planted the lawn and tomorrow I want to put in some flowers.
The first 2 days we were here were terribly windy and dusty and hot. The dust came in everywhere, it was just like a real dusty day in the mallee. Our box of goods was supposed to come out the same day that we got out here, but it didn’t come Wednesday, we waited Thursday, and still didn’t come. By this time Missionary Albrecht was getting worried, he thought the thing might have tipped over. Friday morning we got a wire to say they couldn’t get it off the truck in Alice Springs. They had been trying to get the wire through since Tuesday but the weather had been too bad, they couldn’t get it through. So Sam had to pack up an go into Alice Springs and there saw to the unloading. Eventually on Sunday afternoon the lorry arrived and was duly unpacked, of course the natives were very interested in everything, especially the piano.
So far I haven’t any house girls yet, as soon as we are out of quarantine I will get two. Mrs Albrecht has been baking my bread for me until I get the girls. Milk I have brought over every morning, also cream and from that I make my own butter, but unfortunately I am not a good hand at it yet. There are some nice vegetables in our garden, which is quite a big one, we have over 20 date palms in it, 4 orange trees and 3 figs and quite a number of vines. This last week we had about an inch of rain which was quite nice for the gardens and settled the dust.
I am afraid it will take me quite a while to get to know all the natives and all their names too. I know Albert, the artist, by sight, of course, he always wears an overcoat and is quite proud of his appearance. I also know,
Manasse the leather worker, also Herbert and Ferdinand the two Sam had helping him. Of the women, I think the only one I know by name is,
Cecelia, an older woman who always wears a red dress. Some of the children are lifted up so that they look over the fence to watch the children play and when we come out they scoot. Some of their attire is pretty weird too. One little chap wears his father’s shirt, it reaches nearly to the ground and has to have the sleeves rolled up. Another little girl has her big sister’s dress on, and every time she runs she has to hold it up or she would fall over it. Another little chap has a “has been” shirt on, his father’s, it’s only strips now. Most of the men wear hats, some felt, some harvester hats. The boys that Sam has have straw hats on but they look as though the mice have been at them. Yesterday morning the one came along with feathers sticking out of the holes, I don’t know if he had visited the fowl-house or not.
Tru-Kling Creations 