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.
[In 2013, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Once every month, 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, a crazy robot toilet incarcerates me.]
The Trucks of Terror
Morning and the dawning realisation why this campsite may not have been popular. Anthony stomped around the tent, grumbling.
‘I got no sleep last night,’ he snapped. ‘Kept getting woken up by those trucks rumbling all night. And their lights. Just as I drifted off to sleep. Those lights shining into our tent.’
‘Will you be alright to drive?’ I asked.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he sniffed. Anthony was a man, after all, and infallible.
We moved like snails, packing up. I loaded the Ford’s rear with stuff. Next minute, Anthony was there unloading and repacking. Must do it right, even on the last leg of our journey.
While he played his version of luggage-tetris, I wandered off to the BBQ hut to check for any forgotten items that might lurk there. And behold, sitting rather smugly in a rather obvious position on the bench next to the BBQ facilities was Anthony’s water bottle. You just have to wonder whether the water bottle had legs and hid when we were searching for it the previous night. Then, when it realised that it might be left behind, it positioned itself in the fail-safe position to be found. The water bottle is not the first item to “hide” from me and then “reappear” in a place where I have looked a dozen times before …
There was much rejoicing over the lost water bottle that was found.
Owing to Anthony’s meticulous care in packing, we were the last to leave the campsite.
As we travelled the long monotonous stretch, I slept a bit, wrote in my diary a bit, and then stared out the window at the red earth, gibber plains, and twisted corkwood trees.
‘That’s okay, blame it on the trucks that kept us awake all night.’
‘I swear that there was a truck that shone its lights straight into our tent.’
‘Yeah, it seemed that way,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps we can stay at Woomera in a cabin tonight and get a decent night’s sleep.’
‘Yeah, why not!’
Around two o’clock, the landscape evolved from flat and stone scattered to low-lying hills pockmarked with what appeared to be giant rabbit holes. Signs warned visitors to beware of mineshafts.
‘And where do you suggest?’ Anthony glanced at me and then gazed at the mineshaft-littered hill face.
‘A service-station? Or a pub?’
‘And where’s the service station?’
A tour of Coober Pedy yielded no service stations that we could find. And he who wanted to save money and eat a picnic lunch was not willing to enter a pub for the loo in case it entrapped us into eating in there.
‘What about the playground and BBQ area where we had tea with the T-Team on the way up to Central Australia?’ Anthony suggested.
Bad suggestion …
But, at the time, I agreed. Lunch and loo visit in one hit.
2. Chaos in the Can at Coober Pedy
We settled down at a picnic table near the automated toilets. Anthony prepared the sandwiches while I dashed into the “robot” dunny to do my deed.
While I sat on the tin throne, country and western-come-Hawaiian music clanged away. Did I detect a banjo while the toilet roll unfurled itself for me? No button to flush. Oh, well. Once I washed my hands, the toilet duly flushed. Then, I placed my hands under the air-dryer. As usual, I am invisible to this universe and the cohort of air-dryers that belong to it. The air-dryer refused to acknowledge me and blow air on my wet hands. Oh, well, I’ll dry my hands with my own towel from the car that exists quite happily in my universe.
I step to the sliding door and press the large blue button. The music volume increased. But the doors did not oblige. I pressed the blue button again. Nothing. Just the demented music. Becoming more demented.
I read the instructions. And pressed the blue button again.
Nothing.
I hit the button.
Kicked the door.
I sat down by the stubborn, un-sliding door.
And waited.
Instructions said I must vacate this automated, locked-down establishment in ten minutes. As if to press its point, the “robot’ toilet ramped up the annoyance level of the music.
What’s worse, I had entered this pongy prison without my mobile phone. Or jumper. It was cold in there.
Anthony called from the outside. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m trapped,’ I replied. ‘The toilet won’t open.’
‘Have you tried to push the button?’
‘Yes, a million times.’
‘Well, you must’ve done something wrong.’
I noted that the blue button had written on it “touch free” and then I figured, That’s why the toilet’s incarcerated me. Touching it must’ve broken its rules. ‘Has it been ten minutes yet?’
‘Not yet.’
Then, the blue button, which I’m meant to push for my release from this demented can, the button that has “touch free” displayed on it, lit up and vibrated. But the door refused to budge.
I pushed the door. No joy. It stayed locked, and the not-so-ambient music went on and on like some crazy organ-grinder.
I was starting to imagine a security guy in some dug-out office in the middle of Coober Pedy laughing at this old jailbird (me) … when …
A voice from above warned, ‘You have exceeded your stay; you must exit immediately.’
‘Not that I haven’t wanted to,’ I snapped back. Pushed the vibrating bright button, yet again. Pulled the door. Still as stubborn as.
‘You have exceeded your stay. You must exit immediately.’ Followed by the crazy music.
I rolled my eyes. ‘I wish.’
Watched the door. Hoping. Praying it would open.
‘You have exceeded your stay. You must exit immediately.’
I waited and watched. ‘You might need to call the police or emergency services to release me,’ I told Anthony.
As if it heard my warning to call the authorities, the door slid open. I leapt out. ‘Yay! I’m free! I’m free!’ I jumped and danced in front of a rather unimpressed husband. ‘I’m never going to be in one of those things again! I thought it was never going to open!’
‘Come on, let’s have lunch,’ Anthony snipped, ‘We’ve already wasted twenty-five minutes.’
‘Not before I get my jumper, I’m freezing. You don’t know how cold it was in there. I’m never going into a toilet without my mobile phone or a jumper. Ever.’
As we munched on our sandwiches, a brisk wind chilled us to the bone, even with an extra layer of clothing on. A little indigenous boy scampered into the evil “robot’ toilet. Less than a minute later, he exited. Anthony then went into the same crazy “can” and was out in two minutes.
‘How did you do that?’ I asked.
Anthony replied smugly, ‘I pressed the blue button.’
‘So did I, a dozen times.’
‘You must’ve done something wrong.’
‘Just my luck, I had to be incarcerated by the toilet.’
So, out on parole from the Cooper Pedy “jerry can”, we escaped this town and headed for Woomera.
T-Team Next Generation — From Alice to Adelaide (1)
[In 2013, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few months, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-K Team commences their return to Adelaide from Alice Springs.]
Back to the Big Smoke of the South
After packing up our belongings into our trusty Ford, topping up with petrol, and cash supplies, we departed Alice Springs and headed south to Adelaide. It’s amazing what one discovers retracing our steps to South Australia. In the morning sunlight, there, mini-Ulurus, mini–Kata Tjutas, and mini-Mt Conners.
At Kulgera, we shared lunch with flies. All around us, people swished at their faces. My glasses kept falling off as I fanned the flies away. In the end, I put on my sunnies. Then, when that strategy failed, we retreated into the roadhouse and had coffee in the restaurant. Self-serve for $3.
There, at the border, we parked to check our itinerary of food for fruit and vegetables. Owing to the prevention of bringing any fruit fly infestation into South Australia, fruit and vegetables had to be disposed of in the bins provided. More flies hovered around, joining our forage in the back of the Ford.
A passing Northern American tourist remarked, ‘Are South Australians so precious?’
‘Yes, we are,’ I muttered to Hubby, ‘how else have we kept the scourge of fruit fly out of our state?’
All around us, fellow travellers hauled out their luggage from their cars or four-wheel drive vehicles and disposed of their fresh produce. None of them looked happy.
Sitting on a picnic table, a lad about Son 1’s age, and wearing a fly net, boiled up a pan of canned corn and peas on a portable gas cooker.
Nodding in their direction, I remarked to my husband, ‘Do they think canned vegetables are a problem?’
‘Quiet, Lee-Anne, they might hear you,’ my husband snapped.
‘Maybe someone should tell them that it’s only fresh vegetables that need to be disposed of.’
Hubby shook his head. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’
After depositing the few offensive apples and oranges in the bin, we piled into the Ford and charged forth on our journey south down the Stuart Highway.
With the potatoes securely stored in the cooler hidden in the Ford, we stepped into Marla’s red brick tourist park office. Tent site? No problem. Plenty of room on the grassy park for campers.
However, fearful that the biosecurity police might emerge from under a mini-Ayers rock and ping us with a hefty fine, I was designated to cook up the potatoes and one offending onion, while Anthony pitched the 2-person tent in the middle of the verdant camping reserve. My potato dish was not exactly rösti, though.
While frying up this “contraband” fare, a familiar white van whizzed past. I stepped out of the BBQ shelter and waved to them. The white van turned around.
The T-Team joined us for our potato and onion fry. Our nephew contributed their stash of vegetables to make a stir fry. Mrs. T shared the T-team’s adventures visiting a friend’s cattle station south of Alice the past couple of days.
My older niece was not her usual cheerful self. While helping me wash the dishes in a crummy camp kitchen with little light, Brother T confided in me that she may not have been happy about driving the Oodnadatta track.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘she must know that track is full of tacks to bust tyres.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, yeah! Maybe we won’t go that way…’
We waved the T-Team off on their venture south at around 8.30 pm. Then Hubby crawled into the tent and began tossing out clothes, bags, and stuff into the frigid frosty night.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Where are you hiding the drink bottles?’ he cried.
‘Are they in the car?’
‘No, I’ve looked there.’
‘Sure, they’re not in the BBQ hut?’
‘No, where have you hidden them?’
‘I don’t remember, “hiding” them. They must be left somewhere,’ I said. ‘It’s too dark to look for them now, so you might just have to be satisfied with the thermos.’
With a grunt, he, who is always right, shrugged on an extra coat, sat outside the tent, sipping hot chocolate from the thermos, and playing with his phone. Wrapped in my sleeping bag, I sat beside the man who had lost his water bottle and wrote my diary by torchlight. Ours was one lonely tent in an expanse of couch grass.
Having lost the battle to mourn the temporary loss of his water bottle alone, Hubby crawled into bed at 10 pm. Soon after, I followed him, and in the warmth of the thermal sleeping bag, I soon fell asleep.
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?
As it is the Easter weekend and in keeping with Arty Friday, a story of my Easter break camping in the Gammon Ranges with my father and then future husband.
THE BIRTH OF “BUNYIP CHASM”—THE PAINTING
You need to loosen up with your painting,’ my art teacher said.
So, with a palette-knife, I did with…
Over the Easter break in 1986, Dad took my boyfriend (future husband) and me to the Gammon Ranges. Dad had gone there the previously with his photographer friend and he was keen to show us some of the scenic secrets these ranges held.
We bumped and rolled in Dad’s four-wheel drive Daihatsu down the track into the Gammon Ranges. We camped near Grindell’s Hut, backpackers’ accommodation. A murder-mystery from the early Twentieth Century involving the hut’s owner, spiced our discussion around the campfire that night. Then we set up a tent, for boyfriend, on the ground above the bank of the creek. I placed my bedding also above the creek under the stars. Dad opted for his “trillion-star” site underneath a river gum. No tent for him, either.
The next day Dad guided us along the Balcanoona creek bed shaded by native pines to Bunyip Chasm. After an hour or two of hobbling over rounded river stones, we arrived at a dead-end of high cliffs.
‘Come on, we better get back,’ Dad said and then started to hike back the way we came.
We trailed after Dad. Although native pine trees shaded our path, the hiking made me thirst for a waterhole in which to swim. I gazed up at the lacework of deep blue green against the sky and then, my boot caught on a rock. I stumbled. My ankle rolled and twisted. I cried out. ‘Wait!’
After about ten minutes, with my ankle still swollen and sore, I hobbled after the men. We climbed down a short waterfall and at the base, I looked back. The weathered trunk of an old gum tree leaned over the stream, three saplings basked in the late-afternoon sunlight against the sienna-coloured rocks, and clear water rushed and frothed over the cascading boulders and into pond mirroring the trees and rocks above.
Then holding hands, we hiked along the creek leading to our campsite and Dad.
‘I’m going to paint that little waterfall,’ I said.
We walked in silence, enjoying the scenery painted just for us—the waves of pale river stones, the dappled sunlight through the pines, and a soft breeze kissing our skin.
[In memory of my father Clement David Trudinger (13-1-1928—25-8-2012)]
Mitch’s hopes turned to practicalities as the morning dragged on while we waited for another elusive item, the alternator. I figured the alternator must be hiding in the same place the roadhouse in Dubbo must be.
By the time my watch read 8am, us four who were not mechanics, once more headed down the main road to the town centre in search of a “deli” as we in South Australia call corner shops, or a supermarket of some description.
We found a supermarket come snack bar, and treated ourselves to a meat pie, chips and Famers Union iced coffee. Just the sort of food one has for breakfast after a gruelling sleepless night. Mitch, appreciative of my mechanic brother’s efforts, brought him back the same fare as we had eaten.
Rick was leaning against the side of his precious Charger, still waiting for the elusive alternator.
A heated discussion ensued amongst the fellows. Mitch put forward that we could be using daylight to drive to Sydney.
Rick refuted that suggestion with, ‘Do you want to sleep in the car again?’
Jack began to raise his hand, but Mitch cut in. ‘No, you’re right, Rick.’
Rick went onto explain that the problem with faulty alternators is that they affect the battery. He described how in the short but slow drive to Dubbo, he drove the car in a lower gear to get the most out of the failing battery.
And so, we waited, sitting in what little shade the garage’s carpark afforded, waiting for the alternator to arrive.
Early afternoon, the sun’s heat beating down on us, Jack, Mitch, Cordelia and I again walked down to the main street for some lunch. Upon our return with stale ham sandwiches to share, Rick was hunched over under the Charger’s open bonnet.
I put my hands together in a half-hearted clap. ‘Hooray! The cavalry has arrived!’
‘No,’ Mitch had to be correct, ‘it’s the alternator.’
‘I had an idea how to repair the existing one,’ Rick said.
‘Hooray! Rick has worked out how to fix the alternator,’ I laughed.
‘You have a strange sense of humour,’ Cordelia said. ‘No wonder you find it hard to make friends, Lee-Anne.’
‘Praise the Lord!’ I raised my hands. ‘My brother can fix…’
‘Don’t make it worse,’ Cordelia said.
Perhaps she’s right, I thought, then took my sandwich pack, split from the “social police” before drifting over to Rick, to watch him as he operated on the car. Strange thing was, Mitch made a speedy dash away from Cordelia and followed me.
‘Hey, Rick,’ Mitch asked while hovering over his shoulder, ‘how long till you’re finished?’
Rick grunted in reply and swore.
I stepped back, knowing all too well not to crowd my brother when he was concentrating. Obviously, Mitch was not as aware. He leaned over Rick, blocking the sunlight from the engine. Rick poked out his tongue as he tackled a stubborn bolt.
Mitch stuck by Rick’s elbow. ‘Is that all you have to do?’
Where’s the social police now? Oh, there she is, staring at her sandwich and grimacing. She looked like a chipmunk.
I smiled observing Rick as he gritted his teeth and muttered expletives. Mitch seemed totally unaware that his attention wasn’t helping.
‘Bu#@%er!’ Rick cried.
A ping and a clunk, and the spanner dropped into the engine of no return.
‘What happened?’ Mitch asked all innocent.
Rick narrowed his eyes at his friend. ‘What do you think?’
‘Did you drop the spanner?’
‘Yes. And now I’m going to have fun getting it out.’
Mitch rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I help?’ Mitch loved to help.
A grin slowly formed on Rick’s face. ‘I think you can, Mitch.’
Mitch was dancing on the spot in anticipation. ‘How?’
‘See the engine?’
Mitch nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘I want you to find the spanner and pick it out for me.’ Rick wiped his sweaty brow. ‘This is hot and thirsty work and I need a drink and some lunch.’
‘Okay,’ Mitch said while studying the engine, ‘I can do that.’
In the shade of a scraggly bush by a low stone wall, I handed Rick a quarter of sandwich and bottle of Fanta. My brother and I sat on the wall and watched Mitch hunt for the spanner. Rick munched on his ham and relish sandwich, unperturbed by the dryness of bread and ham tasting too salty. He washed down some of the fizzy drink and then said, ‘Well, I better go and rescue Mitch.’
The sun travelled westwards, and shadows lengthened as the “quick” job took several hours to complete.
Just before the sun set, Rick rubbed his grease-covered hands on an old cloth and declared the vehicle ready for action. He hoped the battery would give us no trouble.
Once again, we piled in the car and Rick turned the ignition.
A squeak.
A sputter.
Then a roar.
The Charger puttered and shook as the engine turned over and the beast began to move out of the garage carpark.
We entered the main street, passing the store which had provided our breakfast and lunch. Closed for the night. Jack gazed at the store and sighed.
As if reading his mind and everyone else’s, Rick said, ‘We’ll need to drive for an hour or so before we stop.’
Mitch put on a brave face. ‘We’ll find a roadhouse sometime later tonight to have tea.’
We watched Dubbo’s Shell service station come roadhouse flit past as we left the town.
Sitting in the front passenger seat next to my brother who was driving, I pulled out the RAA strip map and flicked through the pages. Locating the one with Dubbo, I scanned the last few pages and calculated the distance and time to reach our destination.
‘According to the strip map, it will take us about six hours to reach Sydney,’ I said.
‘So,’ Mitch from the back replied, ‘we shall make it in time for the conference.’
‘Where, exactly is the conference?’ Jack asked.
‘Randwick Racecourse, if I remember correctly,’ Mitch said.
‘Where’s that?’ I asked.
‘Beats me,’ Rick said.
‘Do we have a map of Sydney?’ Mitch said with an edge to his voice.
Rick shrugged and planted his foot on the accelerator. The Charger roared to the highway’s maximum speed of 110 km/ph.
Cordelia who seemed to be quieter than her usual demur self (I guess she had no social mores to report on), clutched her stomach and whispered, ‘I don’t feel very well, I need to find a hospital.’
Slowing the car, Rick sighed and shook his head. ‘I guess we better go back to Dubbo.’
Tyres crunched on the gravel before he swung the car in an arc performing a seamless U-turn and headed back towards the twinkling lights of Dubbo.
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?
Friday already? It’s been a busy time planning another travel adventure, this time a family wedding later in the year. So, memories of our Tasmanian journey way back in 2009, and a hike around Dove Lake on a perfect summer’s day.
[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.
Every month, 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 once again returns to Alice Springs as they begin their journey back home.]
In Search of Gas
While Hubby packed the Ford, I prepared a “thank you” card for our friends. I found a photo of a rock formation near Mt. Liebig, then I painted a frame around the picture, and finally, sketched Mt. Sonder from memory in the middle of the card.
Hubby checked his expert handiwork at packing, and then said, ‘Ready to go?’
‘Yep, let’s go over to the FRM store and say goodbye to our friends.’
We bid our Hermannsburg friends farewell, promising to catch up with them when they returned to Adelaide. After more storytelling by P and some souvenir shopping by us, we were ready to farewell Hermannsburg.
Following a few more stories from P, then a phone call to my brother, who said they were about to leave Alice Springs, we were set for this town.
Except…
‘I just want to check out the graveyard,’ I said.
‘Do we have to?’ Hubby sighed. ‘There’s nothing there.’
‘I just want to see who’s buried there.’
‘If we have to.’
My husband trekked after me as I trudged over to the graveyard that looked more like a neglected paddock of red sand than a cemetery. We gazed at the iron crosses of the early missionaries, such as Kempe, and a sad tombstone of a 10-week-old Latz baby.
‘Vogelsang, who’s he?’ I asked.
Hubby shrugged. ‘Probably a missionary here, since he’s buried here.’
1 pm, we rolled into Alice Springs, making a beeline for the petrol station.
‘We must fill up with gas before we start on the journey back to Adelaide,’ Hubby said.
‘Might be a bit difficult,’ I pointed at the LP Gas bowser, ‘it says “Out of Order”.’
Hubby topped up the Ford’s petrol tank, and we steeled ourselves for the hunt for LP Gas. We reckoned that in a country town such as Alice, most fuel stations lined the main roads leading into and out of the town. So, down the Stuart Highway we travelled, in search of a service station which offered gas. Prophetic of a future without LP Gas, our search proved elusive.
We spent some twenty minutes touching base with the T-Team. My brother gave directions for an LP Gas-friendly service station, and we were on our way to this fuel stop of promise, and then Emily Gap. Meanwhile, the T-Team visited their friend who worked at the radio station.
A few months ago, I became curious about the genealogical origins of my interest in art. Was the Trudinger line responsible? Or was it another branch of the family? I did find a few Trudinger relatives with artistic talent; some were architects, others were actual artists of note. But the surprising discovery was my third cousin, the late Pierre Trüdinger who was an artist and a Marquis (French partisan) during World War II. You can read his story from the Italian Online Newsletter, Il Tirreno, here.
In the following re-blog of our European adventures of 2014, enjoy our exploration of the much-fought-over territory between the Germans and French, the Alsace, and the battle we endured with our car’s Sat-Nav.
The heat is upon us here in Adelaide. Finally, summer, as I remember it, just in time for school and Australia Day which heralds the end of the summer holidays. This Australia Day will be renowned for being the hottest on record at 45 degrees Celsius.
What better way to keep cool than reminisce summers spent cooling down at the beach and hunting for cockle shells at Goolwa.
Tru-Kling Creations 