Memoir Missive on Friday–Gutter-Ball Girl

THE GUTTER-BALL GIRL

[The other week I watched an episode of “King of Queens” where Doug’s wife Carrie proves to be hopeless at Ten-Pin bowling. Brought back memories for me. But while Carrie eventually gave up, I persevered.

So, below is a story of my journey of perseverance.]

A Story of Perseverance

I lugged my eight-pound ball to the line—a pound for every year of my life. With two hands I lobbed it towards the pins. I watched the ball creep in a curve toward the gutter, plonk, then crawl to the end of the lane for another uneventful end. The automatic pin-machine lifted all ten pins and then wiped my ball to the rear.

With my shoulders hunched, I shuffled back to my seat, daring not to look at the score on the overhead screen: mine, a row of dashes and a big fat zero.

‘Good try,’ Dad said.

‘It’s not fair!’ I whined. ‘Why can’t I hit the pins?’

‘Now, now, stop complaining. We won’t take you bowling ever again if you keep on being a bad sport.’

I stomped my foot. ‘Naw? But I have to come!’ How could I give up and allow the ball, the pull of the gutters, and those smug little untouched pins to win? ‘I must keep on trying. You told me, Dad, when you have a challenge, you don’t give up. I’m not giving up until I knock down at least one pin.’

‘But you knocked down three on your first go,’ my brother chimed in. ‘So better to quit while you’re ahead. Ha! Ha!’

‘Shut your mouth, Richard.’

I lifted my foot to kick my brother.

‘Lee-Anne! Right!’ Dad snapped.

I lowered my foot. ‘It’s just that since that first roll, I’ve never knocked down any more pins. It’s the same every Saturday. I get gutter after gutter. It’s like the gutters are a magnet for my ball.’

‘Now, now, a bad workman blames his tools.’

More of Dad’s condescending remarks. I puffed up my cheeks, and, hugging my chest, I slouched down on the cold plastic seat.

My turn again, and again the ball resorted to the gutter. Again Dad trotted out his less-than-helpful comments: “Good try. You almost got the pins.”

Then his “helpful” hands joined the “advice”. Standing behind me, Dad held my arm and said, ‘Swing the ball. Follow through. Keep your wrist straight.’ He then took over my roll of the ball and, with my arm attached, swung the ball, following through, and with the wrist straight. With Dad breathing over my shoulder, we watched the ball seek solace in the gutter once again.

‘Ah, well, you’re getting better,’ Dad said.

Preventing any utterance that may be misconstrued as “bad sportsmanship” warranting excommunication from Glenelg’s Bayside Bowling alley, I bit my lip. In silence, I slipped through the gap in the seats, then filed through the shelves of balls to find one less inclined to heed the pull of the gutter. In the back of my mind, I acknowledged this was a futile endeavour, as I’d been through all the eight-pound hire balls in the centre, and all of them failed to stay on the lane long enough to hit the pins.

The weeks dragged by with each Saturday morning, the same routine, gutter-balls, untouched pins and my Dad’s platitudes. I was sure that my brother’s teammates had nicknamed me “The Gutter-ball Girl”.

No one wanted me on their team. What point was that? No point. I never made any points to be of value on a team. And as the number of gutter-balls mounted up to Guinness Book of Records level, I began to think my existence in the realm of ten-pin bowling was pointless. No one ever said it to my face, not even my brother, but I sensed the bowling community’s attitude; I was hopeless, no talent. I should just pack away the hire ball, return the rental shoes, walk out the centre and never come back.

But for me, it wasn’t about talent. I’d keep on going until I hit one pin rolling the ball down the lane. Just one pin, I ask you. That’s all I wanted.

I refused to give up. More weeks. More gutters. Must’ve reached the quota for some world record. I rolled the gutter-balls without complaint, most of the time. Dad allowed me to keep on coming. Probably gave Mum a break.

Then one Saturday…

The morning began like all the others, except Dad had another appointment that day. Richard and I rode our bikes to Glenelg to Bayside Bowling Centre.

Richard’s team had been allocated the ninth and tenth lanes, right down the end of the centre. As the added extra junior of no consequence, the manager took my dollar for the two games and allowed me to join my brother’s team. They permitted me to throw my gutter-balls after the competitors had done their turns each frame. My pointless punts at the pins gave the teams a breather, and the pins a rest, I guess.

The first frame my ball did its usual thing, patronising the gutters on both sides. None of my brother’s mates said a word. I assumed they were used to Richard’s little sister throwing gutter-balls and the occasional tantrum.

Then the second frame rolled around. As usual, I plugged my fingers in the holes, tottered up to the line, swung the ball a couple of times, and then threw it down the aisle. I turned and sauntered back to my seat. No use watching the ball. I heard some slow clinking sounds but assumed the machine was doing its thing.

My brother cheered and clapped. ‘Well done, Lee-Anne!’

‘What?’ Now my brother’s started with the patronising comments.

‘Look!’ Richard said and pointed.

I turned.

Three pins stood to attention.

‘You hit seven pins!’

One of Richard’s teammates patted me on the back. ‘Well done, Lee-Anne!’

I stood still, savouring the reality. I’d hit the pins. I’d hit the pins! Then I jumped up and down and squealed, ‘I hit the pins!’

‘Pity Dad wasn’t here to see you do that,’ Richard said.

I kept on with ten-pin bowling. Each week the pin-tally increased, and the gutters lost control over my ball as I mastered the skill of rolling the ball straight down the middle to hit the pins. The junior league management found me a team, and I persuaded Dad to take me down the Bayside Bowl once or twice during the week to practise. I bowled in competition and, in my mid-teens with a respectable average in the 140s, I joined my brother’s team. At sixteen, the pressures of study caused me to give up bowling in competition.

For a number of years, old Mr. Monk, a ten-pin bowling expert, volunteered his time to coach us after junior league competitions had finished for the morning. He gave us tips to improve our technique and game. But the best advice he gave, which confirmed what I’d already learnt, was that it’s not talent that makes a good ten-pin bowler, but practise, practise, practise …

And perseverance.

I have carried this advice in whatever I need to learn: teaching, art, writing, learning a language and so on. Practise, not talent, makes perfect. And never give up.

In the Bible, James 1:2-4 says: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2026

Feature Photo: Ye, old Bowling Ball, my own © L.M. King 2016

***

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Science Fiction?

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Family History Friday–AI: What’s For Dinner?

Off the Top of My Head

Random Thoughts about Family History

Friday has rolled around, and once again, the well-researched, edited, and polished article on a nascent family history topic has failed to materialize. Too busy researching and chasing promising leads down rabbit holes. Plus, while helping a couple of other aspiring authors with their manuscripts, I’ve been writing a new book with a travelling-through-history theme.

Hence, I am blatantly and unashamedly going to ramble and keeping to the theme of rabbits, rabbit on.

A fellow writer has a penchant for inviting the reader to get comfortable in their favourite armchair with a cuppa and a cake, and then travel along with her in her latest story. So, I’m doing something similar today. Imagine we are in your café of choice; I’m having my decaf cappuccino with almond milk, and you’re having your beverage of choice, and we are having a chat about family history. Admittedly, I’m the one doing all the talking—for a start. You can have your say at the end in the comment section.

[Photo 1: Coffee anyone? © L.M. Kling 2023]

Anyway, as I sip on my drink, I tell you …

I’ll start with the food. Early on in My Heritage forays, the computer offered some guidance with AI (artificial intelligence) in finding those relatives who would prefer to remain hidden in the distant past. Usually, they are the hard-working peasant sort. Or the Eastern European sort whose churches were abandoned with the communist regime, leaving the records to rot away with neglect.

Anyway, I took the AI up on the offer, to my regret.

After many questions that became more ridiculous as time went on, the robot, which I prefer to call a “bubble-headed booby”, asked the ultimate in absurdity. ‘What did your ancestor like to eat for breakfast?’

You need to understand that AI was asking about an ancestor who lived three hundred years in the past. If I knew the answer to the breakfast question, I wouldn’t be asking AI, would I?

I decided then to avoid researching with AI after that interaction.

It got me thinking, though. What did my ancestors eat for breakfast? Too late for most of them to tell me. Even the famous ones don’t include a breakfast menu. I can only google an guess.

So, for future generations, here’s my offering for the few in my immediate family of whom I know their breakfast preferences.

*[Photo 2: Sunday Spread © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]

My dad, Clement David Trudinger, grew up during the depression and Second World War times. He loved bread with dripping. I’m not sure if this was a breakfast go-to, but he did say. Just saying.

My mum has to have her cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Coffee gets her going.

A few nuts and a cup of Caro does me for breakfast.

I’m not sure what my maternal grandma, Elsa Gross, liked for breakfast, but she didn’t eat meat. I remember her having toast with butter and jam.

As for my maternal grandpa, Sam Gross, and my paternal grandma and grandpa, Ron and Lina Trudinger, I have no idea. And that’s only going back two generations.

All I can say for AI is good luck with that one going back three hundred years.

Digging back further, I discovered that one of my ancestors and an ancestor of my friend and Indie Scriptorium teammate, Mary McDee, were shipmates travelling over to England from Normandy way back when England was invaded by William the Conqueror. I wondered whether they were friends and what their conversation was like. Mary was adamant that her ancestor probably wouldn’t have had much to do with mine, as they were likely different ranks. But hey, ships back then weren’t that big, so I wonder … One thing for sure, they probably weren’t discussing their latest books and giving feedback to each other on how to improve their manuscripts.

*[Photo 3: Ship in Amsterdam © L.M. Kling 2014]

Continuing on my research voyage, Mary did ask me, “What’s a good Christian girl like you writing such content of bloodshed and gore? How did you come up with such an evil character like Boris?’

As I’m exploring those murky depths of my ancestral past, I’m beginning to understand. A relative of mine once read The Hitchhiker and was so shocked she gave it a poor rating. “This is not the person I knew,” she wrote as a comment. Little did she know that my ancestors and her husband’s were not the “Sarah Janes”, “Pollyannas” or “Saint Whoever” of the past. Quite the opposite. Think of Game of Thrones, which is based on the Wars of the Roses, and you get the picture. One was a bishop, the bishop of Laon, though, and possibly the father of my direct ancestor. And his father, one Louis de Luxembourg, Count of Saint-Pol, of Brienne, de Ligny, and Conversano, was beheaded for treason. I might add Louis Luxembourg’s nephews were the famous missing, presumed murdered, Princes in the Tower. Missing/stolen children—another theme that runs through my War on Boris series. Could this be something passed down to me through the generations?

[Photo 3: The Hitch-hiker © L.M. Kling 2015]

And no, the dreams that formulated my Sci-Fi novels were seemingly not from ancestral memories of the mercenary soldier, Balthas Trudinger, that the family was so ashamed of.

I looked into that and discovered that Balthas, who lived at Lierheim, which is a castle near Nördlingen, Bavaria, most probably belonged to the Teutonic Order. The Teutonic Order at the time of Balthas’ coming of age, had bought the castle there and was renovating it. Hitler gave the Teutonic Order a reputation as the exemplar of the all-German, all-Aryan fighting force. But once he won power, he ditched the Teutonic order­—banned them. Actually, the order, from what I can glean, did much good over the centuries. They started around the end of the 12th Century as guards protecting pilgrims to Jerusalem. I bet Hitler kept that fact quiet. Although it was an army that did fighting and stuff in the past, these days it’s a charitable organisation.

I could go on rabbiting, but I think that’s enough random thoughts for one day. Time for our dinner.

Happy Friday and hope you enjoyed your cuppa and bikkie.

If you have a Family History comment or story, I’d love you to drop a line in the comment section below.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024; updated 2026

*Feature Photo: Goats on mountain near Saas Fee, Switzerland © L.M. Kling 2014

References:

Teutonic Order – Wikipedia

Nördlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war

***


Curious about what this War on Boris series is all about?

Check out my books, click on the links:

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the over-sized alien cockroach gets up to …

Click on the link to my latest novel, The Lost World of the Wends

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

Plus, how a nice bunch of Wends turn nasty in Diamonds in the Cave

Or

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the links and download your kindle copy of one of my travel memoirs,

Experience Historic Australian outback adventure with Mr. B

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The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Or come on a trek with the T-Team in

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.

Memoir Missive on Friday — Pearl

PEARL IN THE SAND

[A story based on my work experience in the 1980s.]

I slumped in my chair and slammed the report on the desk.

‘What’s wrong?’ my colleague, Gerry, asked.

‘The boss’s not happy with the report, and I have to do the formatting all over again.’

‘Glad it’s you and not me.’

‘Hmmm.’ I fished out the exercise book of computer commands from my pile of books on the desk and leafed through my handwritten notes on formatting a document.

My colleague leaned back in his chair and slurped his fourth coffee for the day. ‘I don’t know how you do it. I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of these computers.’

‘It’s the eighties; they’re not going away,’ I muttered.

‘They’re not user-friendly, you know.’ Another slurp.

‘I know! And the boss thinks I can wave my word-processing wand and poof! Formatting all done.’ I pressed the button on the tower, and then stood up. ‘Third time this week! Third time this week I’ve handed in the report, and he throws it back at me. More work to do. I’m getting a coffee.’

Gerry held out his cup. ‘You wouldn’t mind getting me another one, would you?’

I sighed. ‘Yeah, okay.’

*[Photo 1: Ye ol’ computer way back not quite the ‘80s © L.M. Kling 2006]

By the time I returned, the computer was just about to start. Gerry blathered on the phone, and the tech guy crouched over another computer, parts scattered over the floor of our office come passage.

Our manager opened the door and poked his head through. ‘How are you going with those changes?’ he asked me.

‘Getting onto it,’ I said and glanced at the screen still blank in contemplation.

My manager raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s starting up.’

‘We have a deadline, you realise. I want that report on my desk tonight.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I turned to the computer. It had decided to have a day off; its blank screen smugly stared at me.

Late spring, not so warm, but beads of perspiration gathered on my forehead. I glanced around the small office area. Another workmate, Paul, tapped away on a live computer.

I approached him. ‘Would I be able to borrow your computer sometime today? I have to fix up my report and have it delivered to the boss.’

Paul shook his head. ‘I have a document that must be done asap.’ He turned to me. ‘Isn’t there another computer?’

I surveyed the scene of devastation behind me; the tech guy’s handiwork of a dismembered computer lay scattered on the rug. ‘No,’ then with desperation in my tone, ‘I have to finish my report today, but … The launch is in two weeks.’

‘I too have a deadline. Tomorrow.’ Paul turned back to his computer and resumed tapping away on the keyboard.

Tech guy entered the office holding his cup of tea in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He stepped over the computer bits.

I looked at Tech guy. ‘I need a computer. Mine’s not working.’

‘The boss’ll just have to wait,’ Tech guy said.

I shuffled out of the office and to the café for lunch. Gerry lounged on a couch having an extended lunch.

‘Have to wait my turn for a computer,’ I grumbled to him.

He laughed. ‘Glad it’s you and not me.’

*[Photo 2: Computer building teamwork © L.M. Kling 2020]

Back at the office, Tech Guy had my computer running. What is it with Tech Guys? They have this way with computers. I settled down to work when I heard sniffling from the PA’s office next door. I glanced at her. She wiped her eyes and hid her face from me.

I opened my mouth to ask her what’s wrong.

Tech Guy zoomed up to me and whispered, ‘The boss has decided he doesn’t trust computers and he’s asked her to type out your report on her electric typewriter.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, just after I spent the whole morning fixing up computers. I got yours going.’

The PA fed the paper into the typewriter. She then covered her face, stood up, and raced out of the office.

‘No,’ Tech Guy scratched the bald spot at the back of his head, ‘I’m going to talk to the boss. She can’t do all the work for you. It’s just not right.’

He strode into the manager’s office.

A few minutes later, Tech Guy emerged, thumbs up, and a smile spread across his face. ‘I made him see sense. The job is yours again.’

‘Thanks.’

Comforted by the fact that the PA had the load of my report lifted from her, but troubled that I must battle with the office computer, I gritted my teeth and spent the afternoon and into the evening tackling the formatting of my report.

When I handed my manager the report, he flicked through the pages and nodded. ‘Much better, well done,’ he said.

A week later I met with my Pastoral Care Worker. I’d been off work a week after succumbing to a virus.

‘Why did I have to go through all that? Why can’t things go smoothly?’ I asked him.

‘It’s the troubles,’ he said, ‘that refine and grow us. Like a pearl, the sand irritates it, and eventually you get a beautiful pearl.’

*[Photo 3: Pearl necklace © L.M. Kling 2026]

Over the years, I’ve remembered those words of wisdom—the bosses that demand perfection, the prickly pears, the obnoxious computers that resist being user-friendly—all that irritates has grown me, my faith, and made me more the person God has created me to be.

And the “pearl”, one of my best memories after all those troubles in our office—the following week, a day before the launch of my report, unhampered by printers not able to print and collate the report for us, the team worked in unity and joy around the long table, collating and binding the report.

I recalled the passage from the book of James in the Bible.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, when you face trials of many kinds, because you know that testing your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and not lacking in anything.” James 1:2-4

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2022; 2026

*Feature Photo: Screen saver for Cats © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2025

***

Lose yourself in a tale where the nineteenth century meets the twenty-first…

Click on the link …

To download my War Against Boris novel series:

The Lost World of the Wends

Or…

Discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

And how a nice bunch of Wends can turn so witch-hunting nasty in Diamonds in the Cave

Or … Or …Or …

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Family History Friday–My “Convict” History

My “Convict” History

I admire a former convict, an ancestor of mine. Okay, you may think, yeah, of course, she’s an Australian—these days they wear their convict heritage like a badge of honour.

No, actually, my great-great-grandfather lived in Saxony, which is now part of East Germany or Poland today. Rubber borders, you see. His crime was trivial by our 21st Century standards in the West. But then, so were the crimes of shiploads of convicts who were transported from Britain and Ireland to Australia in the early 19th century. (For this reason, I have included photos from my visits to convict settlements, Port Arthur and Sarah Island, Tasmania, as my two-times Great-Grandfather, Friedrich August Schammer, was living his life in Silesia around the same time, in the early nineteenth century.)

[Photo 1: Port Arthur was a recipient of many convicts from Britain and Ireland © L.M. Kling 2009]

Friedrich August spent less than three months in prison for a crime he did not commit, but I admire the way he managed his dire situation.

How did he get into this trouble?

According to the family history book, of this particular branch of the family, in the town in which Friedrich August Schammer studied as a medical student in the 1820s, the military came to power and enforced strict and arbitrary rules. I might add here that my ancestor had already endured hardship, having been orphaned as a child, suffered poverty, and then, his older brother, who was his guardian, died from typhus. I imagine these events spurred him on to be a doctor.

[Copy of Portrait painting: Two-times Great Grandfather, Friedrich August Schammer courtesy of Schammer Family History © 1922. Painting circa 1850. Painted by artist, Adolf Gottlob Zimmermann.]

Anyway, in this university town of Jena, the students protested against their restrictions on their liberty by reacting against the ridiculous laws the military had brought to the town. Some of these laws were that there be no singing in the streets, no wearing of caps, and no waving of flags. The students protested by marching in the streets to the town square, singing and waving flags. All went smoothly and peacefully with no trouble from the authorities.

Then some of the young men, probably after drinking a few beers, became bolder as young men tend to become. They threw rocks at windows, an action that got the authorities’ attention.

[Photo 2: View from window of former café in Port Arthur © L.M. Kling 2009]

The military swooped in and arrested many of the protestors. My great-great-grandfather was walking past the action and was in the proverbial wrong place at the wrong time.

Arrested and tried, though otherwise of exemplary character as a good Christian belonging to the Moravian Brethren, Friedrich was convicted and sentenced to prison for six months.

It seems by his account and letters, a certain beadle in town had it in for Friedrich August.

[Photo 3: Captain’s Quarters up on the hill, Port Arthur © L.M. Kling 2009]

Yet Friedrich accepted his time in prison and made the best of the situation both for himself and others. He studied, enjoyed the view of the valley from his prison room (I think he was in a low-security prison), and used his medical knowledge and skills to help those around him.

The authorities noticed great-great-grandfather Friedrich’s quiet conduct and enrichment of the prison community, and they released him less than three months into his term.

[Photo 4: A view of convicts on the other side of Friedrich’s world may or may not have enjoyed in Port Arthur © L.M. Kling 1995]

Released, Friedrich’s ordeal was not over. The university where he’d been studying banned him from returning to study there. His reputation tarnished, the villagers shunned Friedrich.

However, Friedrich did not give up. He moved to Berlin and, keeping a low profile, completed his studies at the Charité Hospital and graduated as a Doctor of Medicine. He had a heart for the poor, having been poor himself, and would treat those in need without demanding payment.

Friedrich August Schammer demonstrated those godly qualities I admire—justice, mercy, and compassion. And perseverance, even in the face of adversity.

Philippians 2:14-15—Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe…

Feature Photo: The Cry of the Convicts, Sarah Island Ruins © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2011

*** 

Note: Port Arthur housed what British authorities considered the worst of the convicts transported to Australia in the early to mid-nineteenth century. I visited this convict settlement in 1981, 1995 and 2009. A place well-worth visiting to learn from the mistakes made from the past (how not to treat fellow human beings). Although the place appears serene, the presence of the tortured ghosts of the convict past can still be felt.

Sarah Island situated in the Macquarie Harbour on the west coast of Tasmania, imprisoned the worst of the worst convicts transported to Australia in the early nineteenth century.

I have visited Sarah Island as part of the Gordon-Franklin River Cruise, both in 2001, 2011 and again in 2016. I highly recommend this cruise—a bucket list for travellers—history, wilderness, rare beauty of unspoilt rivers and rainforest and…excellent food.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2020; 2023; 2026

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of one of my travel memoirs,

Experience Historic Australian outback adventure with Mr. B

in

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Or come on a trek with the T-Team in

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.

Travel with the T-Team: Homeward Bound

T-Team Next Gen 2013

[So, here is the final chapter in the series: The T-Team Next Generation 2013.]

Woomera II and the Final Leg of our Journey

In the cool, crisp morning, the sun shone lemon-yellow rays but not much warmth; we strolled around the Woomera Rocket Museum. Rockets of all shapes and configurations stood in the open-air, testimony of what once was. This RAAF Base and village had once been a lively town in the 1950s and 60s, as an Anglo-Australian Cold War defence project. On this day, Saturday, July 20, 2013, the place seemed a mere shell of its former self, a cemetery of what once was, rockets rising like giant tombstones to the sky.

[Photo 1: Hubby’s paradise—monuments to rockets past © L.M. Kling 2013]

We meandered around the rockets, reading signs, eulogies from the past when threats from enemy nations were imminent. I was reminded of older friends telling me of a time when they practised drills hiding under their school desk in the event of enemy attack.

[Photo 2: Crashed Remains of Woomera rockets © L.M. Kling 2013]

My mother recalled when on February 19, 1942, Darwin was bombed. She was a girl in Hermannsburg at the time, and whenever a plane flew over, the Aranda women would wail, fearing disaster.

Now, Hermannsburg was a mission set up by German missionaries in 1877. Although by the 1940s the mission was fair dinkum Australian, having existed in Australia for all that time, the name, being German, raised suspicions among the Allies with the advent of World War II and the conflict with Germany. Hence, Mum remembers British officers flying into Hermannsburg to check the place out. They had to make sure there were no German spies. My grandpa, Pastor Sam Gross, and his wife (my grandma) hosted these officers and put on a lovely spread of lunch for them.

[Photo 3: The Lunch Spread © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]

After investigating any mitigating threats, the British Officers flew away in their propeller plane, satisfied that Hermannsburg was no threat. Nevertheless, they confiscated the only link to civilisation, the community pedal radio. Just in case they really were spies, I guess. Further, to make sure that no threat to the Allies arose from this humble mission, they sent Rex Batterbee, a World War I veteran, to oversee the mission in the role of “protector of the aborigines”. As he had visited and then lived in Central Australia since the mid-1930’s, Rex taught Albert Namatjira to paint watercolours and helped him launch his career as a renowned artist.

[Photo 4: Albert Namatjira © S.O. Gross circa 1946]

Homeward Bound

Needless to say, in 2013, such threats of foreign enemies seemed in the distant past. But, being only 446 km from our home town, Adelaide, we were reluctant to linger amongst the rockets. Having packed and checked out of our overnight accommodation, we were eager to start our journey home.

At a steady 90 km/h, we made progress down the highway that split the gibber plains in half.

[Photo 5: Highway through the gibber plains © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘I bet the T-Team (my brother’s family) are home by now,’ I said. ‘No hanging around taking time to look at any more places for them.’

‘Why don’t you ring them just to see where they’re at?’ my hubby said.

I texted my niece. The time was 10:30 am.

“We are in Port Augusta,” she replied by text.

‘There’s no way we’ll catch up to them,’ I said, and then texted back, “Have a safe trip home.”

Clouds and rain descended on the land the further we drove south. By the time we reached Port Wakefield, the cold had seeped into the car. I put my parka on my legs to keep warm. Yet, for lunch Hubby insisted we eat alfresco in the rotunda at Port Wakefield. After all, despite his aversion to the cold, he needed to stretch his legs. Plus, it seemed no café existed in the town.

The rain and cold became more intense as we approached Adelaide. After driving through the grey, sodden streets, we arrived home, just as darkness fell at 5:30pm.

What disaster awaited us?

Hubby opened the door, and we trod inside. Son 1 played a computer game on the PC in the dining/living annex. He ignored us. We tiptoed through the family room. Not too much mess, and the carpet remained visible and clean.

We found Son 2 all rugged up and cosy in his room playing World of Warcraft. He said, “Hello,” and then asked for a coffee, then followed up the conversation with, “I’m hungry, what’s for tea?”

In the kitchen, as I prepared a drink, I noticed the dishes had been done, and the cats fed. I thanked Son 1 for the effort. He took all the glory and remarked that his brother had done nothing.

[Photo 6: Memories of our trip’s beginnings—Port Germein jetty © L.M. Kling 2013]

The Aftermath

There are always casualties that follow every holiday. And this one was no different. Two paintings which I had planned to exhibit in the upcoming Marion Art Group exhibition had gone AWOL. I’d like to think they were stolen … but I reckon they would be found in some odd place sometime in the future.

Eleven years hence as I write this final chapter, I wonder what paintings they were?

Oh, and the other casualty, Hubby, who proudly boasted that he had taken thousands of photos of the Central Australian trip on his mobile phone, can no longer find where those photos went. It would seem those photos went AWOL too.

As for the T-Team, they actually arrived home after us, having spent a night at Port Germaine. They decided to treat themselves after roughing it for the past two weeks.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Painting: Ormiston Memories, the reason for the journey © L.M. Kling 2018

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoirs,

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Arty Adventure Friday–Lost on Liebig

[Whilst preparing my painting of the far-flung western MacDonalds (Mt. Liebig) painting for Marion Art Group’s SALA exhibition, in August, I was reminded of our near-death experience when the T-Team became lost descending Mt. Liebig. Below is the story …]

Lost on Liebig (2)

[While Mr. B and his son, Matt stayed back at camp …

Three of the T-Team faced the challenge of climbing Mt. Liebig. And finding their way down. After a successful climb (except for the lost quart can) to summit Mt. Liebig (Read Part 1 of this adventure in my travel memoir The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977 ), the T-Team lost their way … ]

Extract from The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team Central Australian Safari 1981. Available on Amazon.]

The T-Team Lost

We heard a blood-curdling scream.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Rick, I hope he’s alright.’

We scrambled down the last of the gully and ran along the ridge in the direction of Rick’s cries.

Rick rose above the mounds of spinifex rubbing his behind.

[Photo 1: Surveying the descent © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

‘Are you okay?’ I fought my way through the prickly barbs to my brother.

‘I’m fine, except I fell, bottom first in the spinifex.’

‘Oh, so it’s just a false alarm then, we thought you were really hurt,’ I said. His scream was worse than the prickly bushes’ sting.

‘Well, I’m going to avoid any more painful encounters,’ he said and with that he stomped away from me and within minutes, drifted out of view.

[Photo 2: Dangerous descent as far as Rick and spinifex is concerned © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

We also diverged. Dad was confident that all gullies lead to the big one at the base of the slope. ‘Ah, well! We will meet Rick in the gully below,’ he assured me.

But contrary to Dad’s prediction, we did not meet Rick. I could not help thinking, this was not the first time as far as Rick was concerned. We’d already lost him in the sand dunes near Uluru. Almost.

[Photo 3: Hiking down from Mt. Liebig, just before we lose Rick © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

Dad continued to search for his quart can. But that little friend Dad had cherished since the fifties, eluded him also.

We weaved our way down the main gully for about an hour. A huge spider in a web spanning the width of the gully confronted us. The spider, the size of a small bird, appeared uninviting, so we backtracked and decided to hike up and down the ridges.

[Photo 4: Another big uninviting spider (Orb Weaver); they’re everywhere in Australia © L.M. Kling 2011]

For several hours, we struggled over ridges. Up and down, we tramped, yet seemed to make little progress; the rise and dips went on forever. The sun sank low, and so did our water supplies.

[Photo 5: Late afternoon on the Liebig Range © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

The heat drained me. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. But we had to ration water.

Dad slumped on a slab of rock at the bottom of a gully. ‘Drink?’

I took the canteen from him and filled my cup. Then I spooned in some Salvital. I chugged down the water as it fizzed. So refreshing!

‘Oh, Lee-Anne!’ Dad quibbled. ‘You didn’t leave much for me!’ He poured the last drops of water from his canteen into his mouth and gazed in despair at the lengthening shadows of the mountain.

‘Oh, but Dad! It’s not fair! We will never get out of this place! We are lost forever.’ I had visions of future hikers coming upon our dried-up old bones thirty years later. ‘What are we going to do?’

[Photo 6: Dried bones; not human, kangaroo. Brachina Gorge Flinders Ranges © L.M. Kling 1999]

‘Well, um, perhaps we better pray God will help us.’ Dad bowed his head and clasped his hands. ‘Dear Lord, please help us find our way back to the truck. And forgive me for growling at Lee-Anne.’

‘Forgive me too. Help us not to run out of food and water, too.’

‘Bit late for that,’ Dad muttered. ‘Ah, well.’

We had barely finished praying, when an idea struck me. ‘Why don’t we climb up a ridge and walk along it. Surely if we go high enough, we’ll see the landmark and the land rover.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. We need to conserve our energy.’

‘Just one ridge won’t harm us.’

Dad sighed. ‘Okay, it’s worth a try.’

I raced up the hill and strode along the ridge. I climbed higher and higher. I glanced towards the east expecting, hoping, willing the Rover to appear. But with each stride, each hopeful gaze, nothing. I resolved to climb further up the slope before turning back.

[Photo 7: Ridges leading up to Liebig © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

After a few more steps, still nothing. With the heaviness of defeat, I turned to climb down. Then I saw it. The Land Rover sat at the base of the mountain, glistening in the last rays of the setting sun.

‘There it is!’ I jumped up and down over-reacting with excitement.

‘Praise the Lord!’ Dad’s shout echoed in the valley.

With renewed energy, we attacked the last mounds that lay between the vehicle and us.

‘Rick will probably be sitting there waiting for us wondering what has happened,’ Dad said puffing as we strode up to the land rover. ‘Can’t wait to have a few gallons of water.’

We rambled over to the rover. Dad circled the vehicle and returned to me shaking his head. ‘He’s not here.’

[Photo 8: Foreboding, Mt. Liebig at sunset © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I wandered around the clearing searching for Rick. I looked behind bushes and under some neighbouring bean trees. My brother was nowhere in sight.

But worse still, when Dad tried to fill his cup, only a few drops of water trickled from the land rover’s water tank.

Dad stared at the ground and tapped his pockets. ‘This is not good. This is not good,’ he said.

The sun had set and a cold chill cut through me. He’s lost. My brother is lost in this wilderness. ‘What if he’s had an accident?’

‘We need to pray,’ Dad said.

Dad prayed, ‘Father, bring Rick home and provide us with water too.’

We waited watching the colours on the mountain fade and our hopes fade with them.

‘I guess we better get going,’ Dad said. He opened the door of the Land Rover.

Rick staggered around a nearby outcrop of rocks.

We ran to greet him.

‘Rick, you’re okay,’ Dad said hugging him.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘I took the long way and trekked around the base of the mountain. I thought it wouldn’t take that long, but it just went on and on.’

[Photo 9: Around the base of Mt. Liebig © S.O. Gross 1946]

As we walked to the Land Rover, Dad studied the vehicle. ‘You know, it’s on a slope, if I get it to level ground, we might have enough water.’

Dad drove the Rover to where the ground flattened out. Water never tasted so sweet.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2019; 2021; 2023

Feature: Painting acrylic on canvas: Descent from Liebig © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2026

***

Find out how the adventure with Mr. B progresses.  

Click on the link, The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977 and join the journey back in time to the 70s and into the Centre of Australia.

Dreaming of more Aussie Outback Adventure?

Click the link below:

Trekking With the T-Team Central Australian Safari 1981

To download your Amazon Kindle copy of the story…

And escape in time and space to the Centre of Australia 1981…

100-Word Challenge–The Avenging Sensei

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!’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; updated 2026

Feature Photo: Japanese School Students at Ritsurin Koen © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1985

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.

***

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.

Click on the links below:

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

The Lost World of the Wends

Diamonds in the Cave

Or

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Read the T-Team’s Aussie adventures, click on the link below:

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Family History Friday–Great-Grandpa T (2)

The Ancestral T-Team in Australia

1885: Emigration to Australia

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.

[Photo 9: Hill of Grace Barossa Valley © L.M. Kling 2018]

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.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2026

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.

***

Want more, but different?

Check out my Central Australian adventures.

Click on the links:

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Family History Friday–Great-Grandpa T (1)

Carl August Trudinger

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.

*[Photo 1: The Red Roofs of Nördlingen © L.M. Kling 2014]

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?

*[Photo 2: The Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne © L.M. Kling 2014]

Growing up

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.

*[Photo 3: Hermannsburg Mission school circa 1950s © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]

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.

*[Photo 4: Puffing Billy, Dandenong Ranges Victoria © L.M. Kling 1993]

Work

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.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2026

Feature Photo: Close-up of Carl August Trudinger, courtesy of L.M. Kling

***

Want more, but different?

Check out my Central Australian adventures.

Click on the links:

The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Final Two Days for MAG Exhibition

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.

Feature Painting: Ghost Gum, Western MacDonnell’s © L.M. Kling