Winter holidays are nearly here, and the school year is in full swing in Australia. With it, memories of the way things were way back when I was at school, in the 1970s. Those were the days …
Our Sensei, the Avenger
Timmy hunched over his desk, sobbing.
Luke laughed at him. Simmo slid back on his chair sneering. Bruce barked in the small skinny lad’s ear.
I watched, guarding my books from being flung out of the window, again.
Those boys!
Our Sensei marched into the classroom. We stood.
His face turned crimson. He thumped the blackboard. ‘Da’me Yo! Bad! Very Bad!’
Sensei swooped on Bruce and Simmo. Grasping their shirt collars, one in each hand, he clonked their heads together, forcing them to look at Timmy.
‘Look what you have done! You made him cry! Bad! Very Bad! Dame Yo!’
Would you like to join in the 100-word challenge? If you have a story you’d like to share, drop me a line in the comment box. The one requirement: the story must be exactly 100-words.
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Relax and find time to read more of the adventures of Holly and Minna and their war against the fiend you love to hate; an overgrown alien cockroach, Boris.
According to family lore, the Trudinger family emigrated to Australia because Carl August’s business went bankrupt. But was this actually the case?
The wool industry in Yorkshire was booming well into the 1890s. Carl August and his family emigrated to Australia in 1885.
The facts are Clara Theresa and her 12 children boarded the sailboat, the Holmesdale, for Port Adelaide, South Australia, in 1885. Carl August stayed behind for a few weeks to tie up loose ends, house, business, etc., then he boarded a steamship and arrived one day before his family set foot in Port Adelaide. That kind of expenditure doesn’t, in my opinion, reflect a man whose business has gone bankrupt. But perhaps the total cost of emigrating to Australia took its toll on the finances.
They settled in the Norwood area, Carl taking up a job as a greengrocer.
The following year, on August 16, 1886, my grandfather, Ronald Trudinger, was born. He was number 13 and the last child in the Trudinger tribe.
Carl August bought the Trudinger family home in Heathpool. 5 Northumberland Street, Heathpool, became a family and community hub, where friends and family gathered and lived long after Carl August and Clara Theresa had gone to their eternal home in Heaven. Their daughters, Clara, Gertrude, and Dora, lived there until they, too, passed on to Glory. Dora, the last of the maiden aunts, passed away in 1961. And it was where my dad and his brother Paul lived with their aunts while their parents, Ron Trudinger and Lina, were missionaries in the Sudan, Africa.
*[Photo 7: Family gathering (Ron Trudinger (snr) and family with Aunt Clara) out in the backyard of the Trudinger home 5 Northumberland St, Heathpool, courtesy of L.M. Kling circa 1935]
The Schammer Family history states Carl August set up a textile business in Adelaide city centre, in Rundle Street, managing the chain store of Theodore Zimmermann, from Gnadenfrei. When Carl August retired, he passed this business on to his son, Oscar. By the 1920s, this store was a clothing shop on the ground level, where the Myer store now stands.
They had raised brilliant and, on the whole, God-fearing children, nine of whom ventured out into the mission field. A number of them attended university, including two of their daughters. According to the numerous news reports, they became a prominent family in Adelaide church society. Like cream, they rose to the top, a shining example for Christian families everywhere.
However, life didn’t always go smoothly for the Trudinger family in Australia.
*[Photo 8: Family photo of the Trudinger family, circa 1893, courtesy of L.M. Kling]
In 1894, whilst working in Kapunda, Carl August’s son, who worked in Kapunda as a watchmaker, was almost swindled by a shady character who had a habit of passing on “rubber” cheques, you know, the ones which bounce. Fortunately, in Kapunda, the bank wasn’t too far, and my great-uncle was able to sort out the problem before the offender had escaped the town. Mr. Lehmann, the owner of dodgy cheques, was apprehended, charged, and jailed for his crimes. Another time, also while in Kapunda, which must’ve been quite a town back in the day, Carl’s son August found a vagrant sleeping on the porch doorstep of his business.
Tragedy struck the Trudingers while they were in Broken Hill in 1892. Their daughter, Elsbeth, died suddenly of typhoid at the age of eleven.
So, could there be other reasons Carl August and Clara Theresa moved to the other side of the world?
Clara Theresa had dreams of being a missionary. Dreams that remained unfulfilled. Most probably because she married a man who had been outside the Moravian Brethren fold. Although he did join the Moravian Brethren when he married Clara Theresa, it wasn’t enough for the Moravian leaders to allow Clara Theresa to become a missionary herself. Hence, she dedicated all the children she bore to God. If she couldn’t be a missionary, perhaps when they grew up, they could. And Carl August, being the easy-going, amiable person that he was, went along with his wife’s wishes.
In this light, did she see Adelaide, South Australia, established as a free city, a Utopia, as an opportunity to fulfil God’s missionary call without all those rules and regulations, encumbrances her brand of church, The Moravian Brethren, placed on individuals to be accepted into the community and to be accepted into missional service?
My hypothesis is this: Carl August and Clara Theresa made a deliberate choice to emigrate to South Australia. They may have seen it as God’s call and God’s guidance to go there. When they came to Adelaide, there was no Moravian Brethren community, so they joined the Presbyterian church. However, not so far away, in Bethany, in the Barossa Valley, there did exist a Lutheran Church influenced by the Moravian Brethren. There is no mention my great-grandparents ever attended this church. Interesting … Especially considering Carl August’s son worked in Kapunda in the 1890s.
I wonder if there wasn’t some hurt Clara Theresa was suffering because she so wanted to be a missionary and her church community, the Moravian Brethren, wouldn’t allow her to be. Then back to Carl August, grown-up Lutheran-Evangelisch, but despite all the Lutheran churches in Adelaide and the Barossa, he opts for the Presbyterian Church as the one he feels most comfortable in to worship.
One point I mentioned earlier, Carl August did not like Bismarck or the direction Germany was taking. In later years, according to news articles, they had disassociated themselves completely from Germany, as if they were ashamed of the country of their birth. Understandable after World War 1, I guess. Being sent to an internment camp wouldn’t have been high on their priority list.
Another fact, yet to be verified: in the early 1900s, it is said Carl August spent time away from the family in Southeast Asia, specifically the Philippines. He went there on business. In recent years, one relative reported he’d discovered Carl August had been selling arms to support the Filipinos in their war against the United States (1899-1902). There’s that passion for justice streak again.
Carl August and his wife spent decades worshipping at St. Giles Presbyterian Church. Carl August was an elder there. In 1927, the local paper, which reported their diamond wedding anniversary, also mentions Carl August was still fit enough to walk to church every Sunday morning. One article mentions the success of their long marriage was founded on never going to bed angry with each other. On the last night of Carl August’s life, he asked his wife to forgive him for saying sharp words, and of course, she forgave him.
The next morning, on July 10, 1929, at the age of 90, Carl August went to be with Jesus in Heaven. True to his humble, gentle nature, he was buried in a grave with no headstone, with his wife, who died three years later, in the West Terrace Cemetery, Adelaide, South Australia.
Feature Photo: Close-up of Carl August (circa 1893), courtesy of L.M. Kling
Note: If you have any information you’d like to share about Carl August or details that need correcting, please contact me in the comment section below.
Carl August Trudinger was a successful businessman, a wool merchant in Bradford, Yorkshire. He owned a beautiful mansion on a sprawling property in Chevin Grange, Guiseley. So, what made him move all the way around the world to Adelaide, South Australia, with his wife and twelve children? Was he in love with the Utopian dream that Adelaide offered in the mid-1800s? Or was he on a mission?
Part 1
Family
Although he’d been naturalised as a British citizen, Carl August was born in Nördlingen, Bavaria, on February 8, 1839. Built on a meteorite crater, the houses have diamonds in their stonework. The town is one of the few remaining to have a complete wall around it. And to give you a picture of the town, remember Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory? The red rooves of the Altstadt Nördlingen are what you see in the last scene of the film as the main characters rise above in the balloon.
Born to a large, well-to-do family, my great-grandfather was the fourth child (third son) of Gottlob August Trüdinger and Helen Salome T (née Erdlen). He had three younger siblings, the youngest born when he was eleven. The Trüdinger family had become key figures in the Nördlingen community, Carl August’s grandfather, Georg, having been mayor of the town. One branch of the family owned the regal, high-end Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne, where royalty used to stay when visiting the town, and also, more importantly, the famous author, Goethe.
However, Carl August’s father, Gottlob, was a linen weaver, as was Carl August’s grandfather, Georg, who was not only a master linen weaver, as mentioned before, but also the mayor of the town. Linen weaving wasn’t any ordinary job, but one that earned good money, enough to buy a hotel at some point in the late 1700s.
So, for all intents and purposes, the Trüdinger family in Nördlingen had a high social standing. Did I mention there’s a road named after the family?
That being said, not much information exists about Carl August’s childhood and growing-up years. As a boy, he would’ve been educated in the local school. I was able to access some photos of a school in Bavaria from the mid-1800s and was surprised to see it looked exactly like the school set up at the Hermannsburg Mission in the Northern Territory, Australia. Carl August would have sat at a heavy wooden desk in a room painted green, with a blackboard at the front of the class. From what I’ve read of this era, in Germany, teachers were strict, and students disciplined harshly if they misbehaved.
However, I believe Carl August was a model student who had a passion for learning. But I could be wrong. He was the middle child after all. One thing about the Trudinger family, I can say from my research, is that they were, and still are, highly intelligent and creative. Many of Carl August’s relatives and descendants have become prominent and successful in their fields of expertise: a renowned architect in St. Gallen, Switzerland, plus university professors, doctors, businessmen, artists, and accomplished musicians.
Speaking of music, as this has played such a significant role in our family, I imagine music was central to Carl August growing up. Nördlingen is famous for its music and currently, its choir, which came to perform at Bethlehem Lutheran Church in Adelaide in 2017.
As far as his religious affiliations go, I remember asking my dad’s cousin about whether Carl August was Catholic or Lutheran. She was certain that he was Lutheran, or as in German one would say, Evangelisch.
He probably attended the Daniel Cathedral as a member of the congregation. It’s just over the road from the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne, owned by the extended Trudinger family for around 200-years.
Another pivotal moment for Carl August would have been the establishment of the railway network in 1849. In my mind’s eye, I can see the excitement, the fascination for the ten-year-old Carl August as the first steam train rolled into town.
Carl August followed in the family tradition of textile making and selling. Most, but not all, of his siblings followed their father in the textile trade. The oldest brother, Friedrich, became a farmer.
As a young man in his early 20s, around 1865, he moved to England, settling in Bradford, Yorkshire, where he worked under the supervision of his uncle, Philipp Trudinger, from Basel, Switzerland, as a wool merchant. I reckon, to be successful in this merchant trade, Carl August would have been socially aware, interested in people, and a good salesperson.
However, my great-grandfather is reported to have had strong opinions; he was passionate about politics and justice. According to another family member who has researched Carl August, as with many of his fellow countrymen, he didn’t like the direction Bavaria was going and the influence of Otto von Bismarck, who planned to unite all the different kingdoms of Germany into one country. Bavaria was one of the last kingdoms to join Germany. When we visited Germany in 2014, my German cousin’s husband joked that, when World War I ended, Bavarian troops were still marching, and the same was true at the end of World War II.
Hence, the reason Carl August moved to Bradford, England. There, he became a wool merchant and became a British Citizen.
The Bradford Wool Exchange was built between 1864 and 1867. Bradford, with all its industries: mining, milling, ironworks, and textiles, had become one of the most polluted cities in England. It was also growing at a cracking pace. A canal had been dug from Leeds to Liverpool to enhance the transport of goods, and in 1850, the Bradford Railway Exchange was established. Bradford had become the hub of industry.
To adapt to his new social and cultural environment and fit in, Carl August changed the spelling of his name to Trudinger, the umlauts over the “u” being dropped, as they don’t exist in English.
Love and Marriage
While in Yorkshire, he met Clara Theresa Schammer, who lived in the area with the local Moravian Brethren community—the Little Horton Moravian Brethren Fellowship. Clara Theresa was a teacher there, probably at the school Little Horton Moravian community provided. This makes more sense than the Schammer Family history account, where they met in Kleinwalka, Saxony.
According to my father’s cousin, Margaret Trudinger, the two met at a dance. Another truth is stranger than fiction moment, there. From my understanding of Evangelical Lutherans from Bavaria, Germany, back in the mid-nineteenth century, dancing was verboten (forbidden). Or was it? Same for the Moravian Brethren, I would’ve thought.
Then again, maybe I’m incorrect. My Grandpa Gross, Pastor Sam Gross (a United Evangelical Lutheran, great-grandfather migrated from Prussia in 1853) danced. His younger sister, Helen, whom I met, said he was a great dancer. But then, upon becoming a pastor, Sam gave up dancing and forbade his wife and children from dancing. He claimed dancing was from the devil, representing vertically, a horizontal act reserved for the bedroom.
Could Karl August’s and Clara Theresa’s theology on dancing have been different back in 1866 when they met? Most likely.
According to a commentary on Yorkshire, where Captain Cook grew up, dancing was an integral part of life. Carl August would’ve grown up with the traditional Bavarian dancing, called Schuhplattler, where the men dress in leder hosen and the girls in their dirndls. Dancing happened in the town square during festivals. Acrobatics were a highlight of the dance, as well as plenty of foot stamping and knee slapping by the men.
*[Photo 5: Traditional Bavarian Festival Dancing AI-generated]
In Saxony, where Clara Theresa was born, waltzing had become fashionable, although folk dancing still existed. I imagine her grandmother, having grown up in Lausanne, the French part of Switzerland, and being from nobility, would’ve been partial to the waltz.
How did the meeting of Carl August and Clara Theresa in Yorkshire at a dance occur? Was she attracted to Carl’s acrobatics on the dance floor? Or were they both unfamiliar with the English dance moves and retreated to the outdoors for fresh air, where they bumped into each other? Or was it “Some Enchanted Evening” where their eyes met across a crowded room?
However it happened, Carl August and Clara Theresa were married in Herrnhut, Saxony, on September 30, 1867. Then they returned to Yorkshire to live. Twelve children followed in quick succession, in the early years of their marriage, one per year.
*[Photo 6: Carl August and his young growing family circa 1881 courtesy L.M. Kling collection]
They started married life in a row house on Claremont Terrace, Bradford. With a younger brother, Rudolf August Trudinger, and a maid or two, plus the children, they outgrew their increasingly cramped dwellings. Within ten years, Carl August and his brother had become British citizens, and they’d moved to Chevin Grange, Guiseley, West Riding, Yorkshire. One of the reasons they moved to the countryside was the pollution in Bradford city. So bad was the pollution that many children died from diseases such as cholera and typhoid. Not sure where Rudolf had gone, but a cousin from Basel had taken his place on the farm. I might add here that the farm still exists and is currently for sale for nearly 2 million pounds. So, I gather the wool trade had treated Carl August very well.
Very well, indeed.
In 1878, his wife, Clara Theresa, advertised for a maid to come and cook for them. So, they were doing well enough to afford servants to help with the running of the household.
One interesting fact revealed through a legal report in the London Daily News, February 2, 1878, Carl August is listed as the administrator of the deceased estate of John Conrad von Mandach, who, incidentally, died intestate. As John Conrad von Mandach’s family were big retail businessmen from Schaffhausen, Switzerland, being a wool merchant, Carl would’ve had connections with them. To be an administrator of this important man’s estate, Carl August would have been well regarded in his community as a trustworthy person who could sort out this unfortunate situation for John Conrad’s widow and young family. John Conrad’s son was only 8 years old.
While in Bradford, the Trudinger family had been worshipping at Little Horton Moravian Church, a fifteen-minute walk from their first home.
But when they moved to the farm, it would’ve been too far to walk to church. They may have caught the train or used their horse and buggy to get there.
But this is not where the story ends. Within the next few years, Carl August and his growing family will travel sixteen thousand kilometres to Adelaide, South Australia.
Next week, find out what made them travel to the “ends of the earth” to live in Australia and what happens next for Carl August and his family.
Here I was, merrily thinking the exhibition at Brighton Central finished on Saturday. Then my art and writing friend informed me it’s Sunday. So, there you go, a bonus day. If you have time and are in Adelaide, head down to Brighton Foodland, corner of Edward Street and Brighton Road, to view this brilliant display of artwork. Again, Marion Art Group (MAG) has done well, paintings selling like hotcakes at times.
So come, treat yourself, and have a look.
Meanwhile, click on the link below and read my story behind one of my paintings, Ghost gum, Western MacDonnell’s.
As far as conferences went, not a bad one. Lots of singing, worshipping God, that is, lectures, Bible Study, eating, and meeting new friends and old friends too. Our accommodation was down Anzac Parade, about five kilometres, halfway to the beach. I shared a small apartment with Rick and Dad. Dad drove me back and forth from the conference centre at Randwick. Not sure what Cordelia did, but I think she connected with other members of her family who attended the conference and stayed with them. Rick, I think, ferried Mitch and Jack to and from the conference centre.
This arrangement becomes relevant later in the week of the conference.
One session that stands out was the one on relationships.
Rick and I sat side by side in the front row.
This will be interesting, I thought. Maybe I’ll get some tips on how to get a boyfriend and be popular like Cordelia.
‘So,’ the speaker said, ‘How many of you have had a boyfriend or girlfriend?’
Everyone, including me, raised their hands. Everyone, that is, except my brother Rick.
‘What? You’ve never had a girlfriend, Laddie?’
‘Nope?’
The speaker pointed at me. ‘What about that lovely girl next to you?’
Towards the end of the conference, one more event stood out.
Dad told me to wait for him at the hostel apartment where we were staying. After lunch, we had an afternoon of free time before the final worship session.
I returned to the apartment for lunch with my brother and friends, eager to catch up on some rest and lose myself in a book. Maybe some journal writing, which had been neglected in all the activity and excitement of the conference.
However, upon my return to the dreary grey corridors of the hostel, my door was locked. Oh, well, Dad said he won’t be long.
I had nothing with me. All my supplies of entertainment and comfort were locked away in the apartment.
So, I sat.
For hours.
After two hours, I began to sniff.
Then snivel.
Then finally, cry.
A lady poked her head out of a nearby door. ‘Are you all right?’
I wiped my eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
She retreated into her apartment.
I looked at my watch. Five o’clock! I’d been waiting for almost three hours for Dad.
Convinced that he’s forgotten me and I’d be waiting for another five hours with that lady sticking her nose in my business every so often, I stood up. Stiffening my lip in grim determination, I marched out of the hostel and strode up Anzac Parade.
Along the cracked pavement. Past long neglected houses. And cared-for ones. Over busy roads at the lights. Narrowly escaping any impact with red-light-running cars. In the humidity. Under light rain. Taking a wide berth around the many hotels. And leering drunks who spilled out onto the footpath. In the ever-fading light that faded into dusk.
Five kilometres and forty minutes later, I entered the conference centre. The session where all had gathered was concluding with prayers. All in a circle holding hands. I slipped in the circle.
The boy next to me squeezed my hand.
Oh, he’s just being kind to poor little old me, I thought. After all, if even my father forgets me …
After over tea and biscuits, my miffed Dad asked, ‘Where were you?’
‘What do you mean? I waited three hours,’ I retorted.
‘Couldn’t you be patient?’
‘Not when I couldn’t get into the room,’ I said. There was a limit to my patience.
‘I went to pick you up, and you weren’t there,’ Dad said. ‘I told you to wait.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘Oh, er, um, about …’ Dad’s voice faded, ‘about five.’
‘Well, I was there at five, and I didn’t see you.’ I sniffed. ‘So, I walked.’
‘But don’t you know how dangerous it was to walk here?’ Dad is showing so much concern after forgetting me for the whole afternoon.
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I replied. ‘I prayed, and God protected me.’
‘He did. Praise the Lord,’ Dad said, and then wagged a finger at me. ‘But don’t you ever do that again.’
Our return to the less crowded and more sedate city of Adelaide was serene and uneventful, as was the fair city itself. Especially at the time in 1979.
A few highlights. Mostly, in fact, all are associated with the Blue Mountains. We had missed the beauty and wonder of the mountains on our journey to Sydney, so Rick endeavoured to show us these mountains in daytime on our trek home.
At the lookout to the Three Sisters, we lunched and admired the majesty of God’s creation. Even Rick, using his Polaroid camera, took photos of us admiring the scene. He was taken with the layers of misty blues and subtle greens cascading down into the depths, while the cliff tomes forming the Three Sisters presided over the valley.
I burst out in song, and Cordelia joined in.
After a chorus, Cordelia said, ‘You should try out for the worship band.’
‘Me?’
‘You have such a sweet voice, although it does need to be stronger.’
On the drive home, I considered the prospect of trying out for the band. Perhaps singing in front of the church would make me more popular with the boys. Like Cordelia. But in the end, I decided against it. Too hard. Too much of a challenge for plain old me. After all, the worship band was a highly coveted affair, where lead singers jealously guarded their position. I’d never have a chance. Sweet voice, but not a strong voice, would never cut it.
Back at school, I continued my enjoyment of music, singing in the choir. But I’d always secretly envy the soloists with their stand-out song voices. The stars, with their melodic, strong notes, capture the audience’s focus on them alone.
Instead, in the new year of 1979, my passion turned to art … and writing. These were the gifts God had given me.
Jack woke and rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’
‘What are you doing?’ Mitch asked.
‘What do ya think?’ Rick said as he slowed to the 60 km/h speed limit of the town.
Mitch pointed the other way, out of town. ‘Couldn’t we just…’
‘No,’ Rick said.
‘Cordelia’s going to be sick,’ I chimed in.
Rick slammed on the brakes and skidded on the rubble on the side of the road.
‘Not yet,’ Cordelia said in a soft voice. ‘But I need a hospital.’
None of us asked the reason we needed a hospital for Cordelia. Under the light of the newly functioning headlights, I studied the strip map for the district hospital. Not much joy there. The map only showed the strip of road or highway from town A to town B, no diversions. However, we did find a 24-hour service station where Mitch asked for directions to the hospital.
Upon arriving, Cordelia insisted on entering the premises on her own while the rest of us waited in the car park. Making the most of the opportunity not to be cramped up in the car, we sat or paced around the car in the balmy night.
An hour or so later, Cordelia emerged feeling better. No explanation.
And once more, we piled in the car and headed for Sydney.
‘If we drive through the night, we’ll reach Sydney by morning,’ Mitch said. ‘Plenty of time for the conference.’
Rick adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and grunted. ‘As long as nothing else happens.’
I squeezed myself against the back passenger door. I had lost my place in the front with Rick to Cordelia. I had been relegated to the back seat with Mitch and Jack.
The gentle rocking of the drive lulled me to sleep.
Lost in Sydney
I yawned and stretched.
‘Hey, watch it!’ Mitch said and pushed my hand away.
‘Sorry.’ I covered my mouth and yawned again.
The Charger crawled along following bumper-to-bumper traffic. High-rise buildings towered over the narrow road, and every side street garnered either a black and white “One Way” sign or red and white “No Entry” sign. Sydney Harbour bridge, appearing like a giant coat hanger, peeped through a gap in the buildings.
‘Oh, Sydney,’ I said. ‘How come we’re not at the conference?’
‘You tell me,’ Rick muttered.
‘We’re having trouble …’ Mitch began.
‘It’s all these one-way streets,’ Rick said. ‘Whoever designed Sydney must’ve had rocks in their head.’
Jack suggested we head for Bondi Beach for a swim as it’s so bleeping hot, reasoning that if we hadn’t had the car trouble, we’d have had a day to take in the sights and go for a swim.
‘Aren’t we late for the conference?’ I asked.
Rick rolled his eyes. ‘Rate we’re going, we’ll never get there.’
‘But, if we go to Bondi,’ Mitch said, ‘perhaps we can find a park and work out where we are and how to get to the conference.’
‘But how do we do that?’ Rick asked. He moved the car at the speed of a tortoise along the road chock-full of nearly stationary vehicles.
I pointed at a sign which read, “Bondi”. Head east, follow that sign. I’d given up on attending the conference, and, believing we’d be stuck in Sydney city traffic forever, resolved to content myself with the promise of the beach sometime in the next week. Not sure how Dad would feel about us not turning up, though. He’d made it his mission to persuade our little tribe to come. And, here we were, lost in the city traffic, wandering in circles around one-way streets.
I imagined Dad pacing the floor of the conference centre, wearing a groove in the carpet, glancing at his watch, and peering out the window. ‘Where are those children?’ he’d be saying, ‘They should be here by now.’
‘Where, exactly, is the conference?’ I asked. ‘Is it near Bondi?’
‘Have you got rocks in your head?’ Rick said. His face was flushed with beads of perspiration dripping from his temples. ‘Of course it’s not. And at this rate, no matter where it is, we won’t get there. We’re stuck.’
‘Um,’ Jack interrupted Rick’s rant, ‘I think it’s at Randwick Racecourse.’
‘And where’s that?’ I chimed in.
‘Perhaps, if we go to Bondi, find a park, then we can study the map, and work out where to go,’ Mitch said.
‘Or we could lob into a corner shop and ask someone directions,’ I suggested.
The guys ignored my idea, as guys do. All this time Cordelia remained silent, contributing nothing to the discussion. Perhaps to be more popular with the boys, as Cordelia certainly was, I considered I should remain silent. But me, being me, I just couldn’t help myself. Being one of the “lads” and voicing my opinion, that is.
We reached Bondi. Early afternoon.
I remember the weather. Warm, cloudy, and humid. Specks of rain assaulted the windscreen. Despite the inclement weather by my Adelaide standards, the streets around this beachside suburb were cluttered with more cars and even more people. It seemed to me that Bondi was crowded with the entire rest of the population of Sydney, the ones who were not still stuck in traffic in the city centre.
As a result, no parks. Nowhere. Not a thin strip anywhere to put the Charger.
Rick sighed and drove through the park-less and crowded Bondi, along some coastal road, and then up a road heading east again.
Jack, who had been studying a simple map of Sydney that the RAA strip map provided, pointed at a road on the map. ‘I’m pretty sure if we turn down Anzac Parade and follow it all the way down, we will reach our destination.’
Rick followed Jack’s directions, and we arrived at the conference just in time for afternoon tea. And, I might add, a roasting from Dad who could not understand how we could get lost in Sydney.
Mitch, though, was philosophical. ‘It could’ve been worse, but I was praying the whole time, and God got us here safe and sound.’
Dad sniffed and tapped his trouser pocket. ‘Hmm, yes, you are right, Mitch. Ah, well, praise the Lord.’
Want more, but now, probably due to current world events, (Again! Sigh!) too impossible to travel down under? Why not escape all the world drama and take a virtual journey back in time and space, with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?
[Recently, I’ve been dipping my toes into memoir writing. This experience happened when I was about ten.]
Supernatural Snoring
I tossed and turned on my mattress. It’s so hot; not even a puff of sea breeze to cool me. My brother and I had parked our mattresses in the backyard to find cool respite on this hot summer’s night.
I turned to check on my brother.
In the moonlight, his mattress glowed white and empty. I turned away from him, glad that I had a brief window of opportunity to fall asleep undisturbed by his incessant snoring.
Rustling woke me.
Then, his snoring was back.
Peeved, I moved towards my brother to whack him on the arm and stop the constant rumbling. However, shadowy figures by the Hills Hoist clothesline caught my attention.
A young woman and a little boy were standing watching us. They were dressed in mid-nineteenth-century garb.
She wore a dark full-length dress, a white lace scarf with frills, and a hooded cape. He was dressed in a navy-blue outfit, like a sailor suit. The girl showed the boy a medallion. It looked like a fob watch or perhaps a compass.
I leaned up on one elbow to examine them. They seemed unaware I was watching them. The girl was absorbed in gazing at the device.
I wanted to say something to them, to call out, to get their attention, but my voice failed me; as if I were in a glass vacuum, and my words had no sound.
They seemed unperturbed by my brother and me sleeping there in the middle of the backyard on a hot night.
I turned back to my brother and nudged him. ‘Hey! Wake up! Look!’
Brother snorted with a start. ‘Wh-what? Huh?’
I shook my brother. ‘There’s people standing by the clothesline.’
He stared past me. ‘What? What’s by the clothesline? I don’t see anything. You must be hallucinating.’
‘But I saw them! They were right there!’ I screamed.
‘Well, they are not there now,’ my brother grunted, then rolled over and resumed snoring.
‘But I did! I saw them!’ I jumped up from the mattress and, in the moonlight, hunted around the clothesline for evidence.
I found nothing. Except for a few stray clothes pegs and a heat-stiffened rag.
A light went on in the kitchen.
‘Is everything alright?’ Mum called from inside.
‘Yes, Mum!’ we replied in unison.
Still, the visitors to our backyard had disturbed me. I packed up my bedding and ran inside to sleep in the safety of my room. Didn’t care my room was boiling.
[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 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 visits Emily Gap.]
Lunch With the Ants
Our plans changed. Hubby decided we could take a risk with our fuel situation, so since we were in the vicinity of the Eastern MacDonnell Ranges, we visited Emily Gap and had lunch before refuelling the Ford.
‘After all,’ I said to Hubby, ‘it is almost two o’clock, and I’m hungry.’
He just had to reply, ‘Hungry? Unlike you, I can wait till teatime.’
‘Hmm, yet another similarity you have to my father. Only he could fast from breakfast as well as lunch.’
As we rolled into the shady climes of the Emily Gap car park, I remarked, ‘But such a lovely place to sit and have a picnic, don’t you think?’ I had already sourced some nuts and chocolate from my bag in case he disagreed with my suggestion.
‘We’ll go for a walk first to see the rock paintings and then have some lunch,’ Hubby grumbled. ‘I don’t want to walk on a full stomach.’
While Hubby marched ahead to find the rock paintings before they disappeared, I trailed behind and nibbled my nuts and chocolate. Needed reinforcements to do the walk.
Hubby vanished around a corner. A few minutes later, he appeared, jogging towards me. ‘They’re here! Come, look!’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I replied, remembering 1981 when TR baited us with some significant discovery of Indigenous art. That art turned out to be less ancient and more modern.
I followed Hubby. Around the bend, he pointed. ‘Look! There they are.’
Gazing at the entrance to a shallow cave, I said, ‘Oh, yeah! So, there are. They look like giant caterpillars.’
We spent some time examining the array of caterpillar paintings and carvings; the totem of the Easter Aranda people, we assumed.
‘I think my dad took us to Jesse Gap,’ I said as we walked back to the picnic area. ‘I’ve never seen those paintings before. When he took us out to the Eastern MacDonnell’s, all we saw was artwork of the Western kind, graffiti. When we suggested visiting Emily Gap, it was already nearly dark, and Dad thought there would only be graffiti there too. After all, we had just been to the Devil’s Marbles, after sunset, so it was getting too dark to see anything at that time.’
In the shade of the gum trees in the picnic area, we “shared” our lunch of canned tuna and buttered bread with some inch ants. Had to put our food on a rock and then move the picnic rug, but the inch ants followed us.
After lunch, we found the BP petrol station that my brother had told us about. And finally, the Ford had its fill of LP Gas. Then, on our way back to the Caravan park where we were staying for the night, we swung by the local IGA. There I bought mince, button mushrooms, two onions, shampoo and conditioner. Would you believe that the shampoo and conditioner I had brought from home had not lasted the distance of our two-week Central Australian journey?
In the golden light of late afternoon, while I helped Anthony put up the tent, I watched another family pitch theirs. The father sat in his director’s chair and directed the rest of the family, the women and children, on how to put up their tent.
But, ah, what bliss to cook tea in the light of the common kitchen. Spag Bog, and plum pudding. Dessert, hot chocolate.
[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.
[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.
Tru-Kling Creations 