[Travellers to Australia often overlook Adelaide, South Australia, as the poor cousin to the eastern states. Situated in an unfashionable corner of the globe, the city and its surrounds have the reputation of being too hot, too dry, and too awkward to visit.
Welcome to my home city and state.]
T-K Team Take on the Barossa Valley
Shortly before the Swiss relatives arrived, panic among the brothers-K set in. Yes, we were going to the Barossa Valley. But where?
My husband and his brother, P1, cobbled together a plan of the day: wine-tasting, sightseeing, a bakery for lunch, and of course, toilet stops at regular intervals.
We converged as the formidable family of ten at Williamstown, eventually in the car park next to, yes, you guessed it, after a scenic drive through the city and hills, the toilets. Most of the group needed a coffee, and although we’d been warned that on Sundays, many bakeries are closed, we found a most accommodating bakery-come-art gallery, where cappuccinos and chai teas revived us.
Stuffed dummies, one of whom was named Cyril, waited by the stone wall of the car park. The sign touted that they were part of a scarecrow trail that weekend. I guess they were doing their bit for tourism.
Energised, and with the help of a most cooperative mobile phone navigation app, the K-Team whisked over to the Whispering Wall, a dam holding Adelaide’s water supply. I wandered over to the wall while the others raced to the other side. My husband’s voice sounded as clear as if he were standing next to me. Eerie.
Next stop, and most important, Chateau Yaldara Winery, where we commenced our wine-sampling tour. Our Swiss visitors enjoyed their “schlucks” of Shiraz hosted by a salesgirl with a broad Barossa-Australian accent. I relished the photographic delights of the historic mansion and the feature fountain.
Every road or laneway around here leads to a winery. The Barossa produces some of the best wine in the world. Nineteenth-century migrants from Prussia-Silesia (now eastern Germany and Poland) came to South Australia and settled in the Barossa around Tanunda. Some were my ancestors.
My husband told our visitors, ‘The Barossa has some of the oldest Shiraz vines in the world, having been planted as early as 1847 by Johann Friedrich August Fiedler.’
The K-Team arrived at a tourist-crowded Jacobs Creek winery. This popular winery permitted five free tastings before paying for more. Happy with five small samples, the K-Team admired the view of vineyards, leaves turning autumnal gold, and rows of vines stretching to the hills, plus a meander along the trails around the winery. Not to be outdone, scarecrows lounged in the lawns by the tennis court that sported oversized tennis balls and racquets.
After purchasing supplies for Tuesday night’s party, we tested our breath with the complimentary breathalyser. All the K-team drivers were deemed safe to drive.
So, a jolly, but not too jolly, K-Team progressed to Tanunda in search of a bakery. I spotted the Red Door Café and led the team there. A waitress guided the K-Team of 10 to the courtyard garden out the back, as inside was full. We sat at separate tables, my husband and I with our younger Swiss cousin and boyfriend next to the Kids’ corner. Most of the K-Team supped on the Café’s specialty burger. Excellent choice, as it was a late lunch that would tide us over for tea.
Satisfied with this most welcome and tasty lunch, the K-Team set off for Seppeltsfield Winery. After driving through kilometres of road lined with giant date palms, the K-Team arrived at the grand estate. The hall, a massive shed, actually, teemed with tasters. After more sampling and marvelling at the beautiful grounds, complete with vintage cars, we picked up our ordered wines at the designated shop.
As one of the oldest wineries, the Seppelts family was so rich, they built their own family mausoleum that presided over their estate. The K-Team made an impromptu stop to climb the steps to the family monument and then absorb the breathtaking view. The sun broke through the clouds, so completing the magical scene.
Peter Lehmann’s Winery was not far. Plenty of time, so we thought. But when we arrived, the car park appeared deserted. The owners emerged and informed the disappointed K-Team that they were closed for the day. The toilets, though, weren’t, and the K-Team made effective use of them while I took photographic advantage of the mellow tones of Peter Lehmann’s garden.
The K-Team reserved the late afternoon for Mengler’s Hill, which features an assortment of sculptures. We puzzled over the meaning of some of the international artistic offerings, but the collection seemed happy to be presiding over the Barossa. I observed that by this time, the scarecrows had slunk away and were nowhere to be seen.
While our Swiss guests hunted for wildlife, I caught the sunlight on eucalyptus trees and the gnarled forms of branches and trunks with my camera; future subjects for paintings, I hope.
It had been a long and full day, and my husband’s mobile phone, drained of battery power and starved of tower transmissions, was by this time grumpy. As revenge for being deprived of its usual mobile-phone fixes, it became intent on leading us astray. In Angaston, when we finally arrived there after the phone’s GPS took us on a meandering scenic route, the phone demanded in a passive-aggressive voice, ‘Take the next right.’ Then, ‘Take the next right.’ Then again, ‘After thirty metres, take the next right.’
‘Hey, it’s taking us in circles,’ I said. ‘Ignore it and go straight ahead.’
The phone cut in. ‘Take the next right,’
I pointed at the sign to Adelaide. ‘No, follow the sign.’
As we drove down the highway to Gawler, the phone bleated, ‘At the first opportunity, make a U-turn.’
‘No!’ we shouted.
The phone insisted. ‘Turn left and make a U-turn.’
I filmed the phone map spinning in every direction. ‘It looks like it’s going nuts,’ I said. ‘I’m turning it off.’
I switched off the phone, and we completed the journey to Adelaide in peace.
[In 2013, the T-Team, Next Generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few months, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-K Team (my husband and I) return to Hermannsburg and catch up with friends there.]
Hermannsburg Here We Come
As we powered along the sealed Larapinta Highway, I mused, what a difference some 60-70 years makes. When Mum T lived in Hermannsburg, back in the 1940’s and 50’s, the trip to Alice Springs was a long arduous half-a-day journey on a dirt track in a truck where one spent several days in Alice Springs stocking up on supplies.
As we passed the turn off to Jay creek, I said to Hubby, ‘Mum told us the story of her mum (Grandma Gross) who, when the Finke flooded, had to wade through the waters to reach the other side to continue the journey to Alice Springs. She was 8-months pregnant at the time.’
‘Hard to imagine the creek flooding,’ Hubby glanced at the dip, a dry riverbed, that signalled the up-coming fork in the road leading the Hermannsburg. ‘But I know from camping in the Flinders Ranges, at the first drops of rain, you don’t hang around, you get out.’
‘Your mum and friend didn’t when they camped at Parachilna,’ I said. ‘They were stuck there on an island with the river all around them for days.’
A sign with an image of a cow, and below written, “Beware of wandering stock”, flashed by. Brumbies galloped on the side, as if racing with us. Hawks soared in the cobalt blue sky above. A lone wedge-tail eagle, having gorged on a carcass of roadkill, waddled off the road just in time, avoiding the same fate as its feed.
This time, when we arrived in Hermannsburg, we made a beeline for the FRM store where we located our friend, P. He welcomed us and gave us a tour of the store. So much bigger than in 1981; more like the size of our local IGA store in size and shelves fully stocked. It even stocked fridges and washing machines. P proudly showed us the bakery where fresh bread is made each day and he introduced us to the Indigenous workers at the store.
After settling into our P and K’s home, we spent the afternoon drinking coffee and storytelling with P and K. Storytelling continued over dinner. Much had changed since the T-team visited in 1981. The population of Hermannsburg has now grown to 600, the Finke River Mission still exists there, and the Christian community is growing. However, there remain challenges for the Indigenous community as there are in communities all over Australia, and the world. ‘It just is,’ as P stated, ‘we’re at the coal-face, being a small, isolated outback community; you see everything…’
‘Whereas,’ I concluded, ‘in the city it’s hidden by numbers, a larger population and behind the walls of our castles.’ Then I changed the subject. ‘Oh, by the way, this is the house I stayed in when the T-team visited Hermannsburg in 1981.’
The T-Team with Mr B — In 1977 Dad’s friend Mr Banks and his son, Matt (not their real names), joined Dad, my brother (Rick) and me on this journey of adventure. I guess Dad had some reservations how I would cope… But it soon became clear that the question was, how would Mr. B who was used to a life of luxury cope? And how would the T-Team cope with him?]
Secret Men’s Business
Mangaruka
Dad scraped up the last few oats at the bottom of his metal bowl and then said, ‘I’ve asked our guides to take us to a place which is very special to them.’
‘What? The Gosse Range?’ I piped up. ‘Are we going to that meteorite site?’
‘Better, than that.’ Dad’s mouth did his signature cat-with-bird-in-the-mouth expression. Then he explained that after discussion with our Indigenous guides, they had agreed to take the scenic route via Mangaruka Gorge; the entry to a sacred site. While Mr. B groaned at the prospect of hiking up yet another gorge, my father allayed his friend’s concerns by saying that we would only travel to the gorge’s entrance, and if we had time, just explore the beginnings of it.
Mr. B grumbled, ‘But we don’t want to be searching for a camp near Talipata in the dark.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Dad patted Mr. B on his rounded shoulder, ‘Talipata is not far from there. Besides, the cliffs of Mangaruka at sunset are stunning, especially with the ghost gums set against them.’
I remembered the exact image Dad was dreaming about. On lazy afternoons at my Grandma’s home, I used to rummage through photos and slides from her family’s time in Central Australia. My grandfather was, in my opinion, an amazing photographer. In one corner of Grandma’s bookshelf in the back room, rested a pile photo prints that were kept in pristine condition encased in special cardboard like a card; the best of Grandpa’s work. One scene that I have painted was a ghost gum, it’s white trunk against the deep purple cliffs of Mangaruka Gorge. Another slide that impressed me was the same scene with the ghost gum at sunset. No wonder Dad wanted to stop there on our way to Talipata.
After having breakfast, we packed up and drove out into the wild west. The dirt road exemplified that rugged feel.
At Haasts Bluff station we filled up with petrol, water, and supplies to last us in this virgin land. We were going where not many people, except the Indigenous, had gone before. Upon entering the land belonging to these people; there would be no shops, no houses, and no roads. To salute our departure from civilisation, we bought something to eat and drink. I ate a meat pie.
Our guides directed us off the narrow, yet graded road onto an almost invisible track. One sat on the bonnet of the Rover and directed our venture into the desert. We bumped and crawled along faded wheel ruts until a small range emerged through the low dunes and the folds and creases in the flat-topped hill, formed a gorge. We had reached Mungaraka Gorge.
Dad slowed the Land Rover, parking it just before some soft sand that threatened to engulf its wheels. The T-Team stepped out of the vehicle to be greeted by a welcoming party of small pesky flies. They were most unwelcome.
Swishing the pests away from his nose, eyes and mouth, Dad said, ‘Mungaraka, I reckon the name of the place has something to do with flies.’
‘Certainly a feature of the place,’ Mr. B sniffed. ‘Oh, darn it! I just got one up my nose.’
Richard, my brother clapped.
Mr. B glared at him.
With eyes wide, Richard looked at Mr. B. He then examined his palms. ‘Twenty.’ He flicked the flattened black flecks from his hands and then clapped again.
Mr. B then turned to his son, Matt. ‘Don’t even think about killing tha flies, ma son. They have germs. You don’t want germs, ma boy.’
‘No, Dad.’ Matt pulled his cap over his eyes, turned away and strolled down the track towards Mangaruka.
Dad, who had been laying out a spread of food on the tarpaulin, stopped preparations and ran after the boy. ‘Hoy! Matt! Wait! Lunch first, then the gorge.’
Richard laughed. ‘And for extra protein—flies.’
Lunch became a battle of hasty bites of cheese and gherkin sandwiches while trying to avoid the added bits of protein of flies that were only too willing to add flavour to our meal. After, we sipped our billy tea probably flavoured with the odd thirsty fly.
Our guides sat apart from us, and, unperturbed by our uninvited swarm of guests, they ate their bread and murmured quietly to each other. Dad perched on the tucker box and watched them.
I gulped down my last drop of tea. ‘Well, aren’t we going to explore the gorge?’
Dad stood up. ‘Right, let’s go.’
‘What about our guides?’ I asked.
‘Oh, they won’t be going. Mangaruka’s sacred to the Arunda, so they won’t go near it.’
‘What? Are they afraid of the place, Dad?’
‘It’s more complicated than that. They keep sacred stones called “Tjuringa” there in a cave. And they are afraid of spirits there.’
‘Can we go there?’
‘Sorry, Lee-Anne, girls are not allowed. Nor us. Not them. Only the elders. So, we’ll only go to the entrance of the gorge.’
Mangaruka held no ghost for us, only flies. Dad, Mr. B and Matt, and I walked up to the entrance of the gorge. Richard stayed behind to keep our two guides company. On the rocky slopes in the gorge, a smooth brown and white stone caught my eye.
‘Girls not allowed,’ Mr. B added, and then called out to Matt who had scampered further up the gorge. ‘Come on son, time to go back.’
On our return, I tried to take a photo of us all in front of this gorge, but our aboriginal companions refused. In the end, Dad took a photo of me in front of Mungaraka. Dad would have like to stay longer to wait for the rocks to turn red, but we had to move on.
[In 2013, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.
Over the next few weeks, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-Team go their separate ways…]
Monday Morning
After a fitful sleep and then early rise, I looked forward to coffee with mum and the boys. With the sun peeping over the horizon, shining in the watery blue winter sky and reflecting golden on the gum trees surrounding the campground, the frigid desert air slowly began to thaw.
First, though, after a warming shower and filling breakfast, the tent had to be packed up. Hubby needed my help with that. Then, he spent an eternity repacking the station wagon. While waiting, I jogged on the spot and puffed out steam of my breath into the below ten-degrees air.
As if a surgeon performing a delicate operation, he punctuated his packing with commands. ‘Bags!’ So, I passed over the bags which he grabbed and pushed into the boot of the car. Then, ‘Tent!’ I hauled over the packed tent to him. Then, ‘Esky!’ I lugged the cool box (esky) to him. Then, waving his hand while head stuck in the boot of the car, ‘Box!’
‘What box?’ I asked.
‘Kitchen box!’
‘Huh?’ I glanced at the piles of stuff still waiting a home in the Ford. Finding the green crate with breakfast cereals, bread and cans of beans, I passed that one to him.
‘No! No! No!’ he snapped and pointed at the red crate, same size but with cooking utensils. ‘That box!’
Apparently, the green crate must go under the back seat with a blanket covering it.
Finally, with Hubby’s version of luggage-tetris complete, we drove the short distance in the caravan park to mum’s cabin.
Again, we found Mum T glued to the phone. On the small pine table, she had spread out a brochure opened to camel farms. In between phone calls she muttered, ‘Mrs. T has asked me to find a camel farm for them to visit.’ She was not having much luck finding a camel farm or someone from the camel farms advertised, to answer her calls.
While Mum T remained occupied with the phone, Hubby and I popped next door to visit our boys. The first words out of their Dad’s mouth when he entered was, ‘Have you packed?’
Son 1 and 2 duly showed Dad their packed luggage waiting by the door.
Satisfied that the lads were ready to depart Alice Springs and not miss the flight, we sat down to enjoy a coffee with them.
Mum joined us. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said over her much-needed coffee to wake up, ‘the park manager came over. They were most apologetic about the mix up yesterday. Apparently, whoever took my booking assumed the people were T’s, because when they asked them, the lady didn’t hear clearly and just nodded and said “Yes”.’
‘You mean the guy behind the counter assumed the lady was you?’ I asked to clarify.
‘Apparently, the guy asked the lady, ‘Are you Mrs. T?’ and she said, ‘Yes.’’
We shook our heads.
‘Maybe the lady who took our cabin had a hearing problem,’ I said.
‘Oh, well, it all worked out in the end,’ Mum T concluded.
After visiting the Strehlow Centre and its Art Gallery again, we travelled to the airport to see our sons safely, and in time, board the plane back to Adelaide. Then a brief stop at Woolworths for Hubby to buy some shorts, before commencing our return to Hermannsburg.
[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, once a 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-Team leave camping in the desert behind and tackle the complexities of civilisation—Alice Springs … All on a Sunday.]
Must Register
By the time our family and Mum drove the streets of Alice Springs in search of a hotel to eat, night had fallen, and a blanket of darkness surrounded us. As a convoy of Mum’s rental and the Ford, we wended through the few short streets to the nearby hotel which had been recommended by the caravan park.
Our family of five filtered through the front entrance and into an expanse of dark green carpet and pastel green walls and fronted up to the black topped counter.
‘Do you have a table for five?’ Mum T asked.
‘You need to register,’ the man at the counter said.
Anthony and I glanced at each other. ‘Register?’
‘We need to see your identification; a drivers’ licence will be okay.’
‘That’s normal for me,’ Son 1 said, ‘They always ask for my ID. They don’t believe I’m over 18.’
Son 2 snorted, ‘And here I was getting into hotels when I was under 18, no problem.’
While the boys quibbled and joked, the T-K Team, good citizens that we were, unquestioningly showed our respective licences and registered to enter the hotel.
As we sat at our designated table, we observed the predominance of people of Anglo-Saxon extraction and the lack of First Nation people. There was one Indigenous family way down the other end of the dining hall, but… They seemed happy enough.
Over dinner, roast meat, and smorgasbord, (your average fare for an Aussie hotel at that time), I mused, ‘What’s the deal with registering?’
Anthony waved a hand around the room. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Didn’t you read the sign at the entrance?’
‘What sign?’
Anthony rolled his eyes and shook his head.
Then again, I understood, without further explanation, what my husband meant.
Back at the campsite, I used the communal kitchen to prepare a hot chocolate for Anthony and me. While the kettle took its time boiling, I watched a pair of German tourists and their Australian friends Skyping on a laptop to Germany.
Then, soporific from the effects of warm chocolaty milk, hubby and I snuggled into our sleeping bags and it was lights out for us…only, it wasn’t that much light out—we still had the toilet block light beaming into our tent…all night. And on our minds wondering who were the T-Team imposters?
In the previous tale, I mentioned a certain friend attached pride to the superiority of the Aussie farmer—a pragmatic soul, jack-of-all-trades and survivor of harsh outback conditions. So, with pride, I wrote about my maternal grandfather, Sam Gross.
My paternal grandfather was none of that. He was a “city slicker” as the “cockies” called them, born and bred in the city and not the farm.
Ronald Trudinger was the first in his family to be born in Australia in August 1886.
His father, Karl August Trudinger, was born in Nördlingen, Bavaria, while his mother, Clara Theresa, was born in Kleinwalka, Saxony. His parents first emigrated to Bradford, Yorkshire, where they lived for about twenty years and became British citizens. They didn’t like Bismarck and his ideas of unifying Germany. The first twelve of Karl’s and Clara’s children were born in England.
Karl August was a textile merchant; hence, living in towns or cities worked best for him. Ronald’s mother, Clara Theresa, grew up in the Moravian Brethren community in Saxony. Faith in God and education were her values. She had yearned to be a missionary, but that door was closed to her at the time. As a result, she prayed for her children that they would become missionaries. Eight out of her thirteen offspring did.
One of them was my grandpa, Ronald, who became a missionary in Sudan.
So, although he wasn’t the venerated Aussie icon of tough “cocky” farmer, his calling was different but just as valuable. He became an intrepid missionary in Sudan, based in Melut on the White Nile. He spent decades translating the New Testament into Dinka and other African languages.
How thankful I am to My Heritage and the links to news articles matching Dr. Ronald Trudinger—100 at least. In the early 1900s until the late 1950s, he appeared as a local celebrity, especially in church circles. His deputation talks on the “Soudan” and the Muslims, and the risks and challenges the family faced in Africa, particularly during the War in the 1940s, were a source of fascination, if not entertainment, for the public of that time.
Ronald Trudinger grew up in Norwood, a suburb of Adelaide, South Australia. From what I can gather, again from various news articles about the family, he may have lived in Kapunda and Broken Hill. His father, new to Australia and a merchant, had to go to where the work was. When they first arrived in Australia, according to Ronald’s birth certificate, his father was a greengrocer. Humble beginnings after being a wool merchant in Yorkshire.
A few years later, news reports have Karl August working in a jewellery store in Kapunda. Then, as I mentioned, there was a time the family was in Broken Hill, where Ronald’s eleven-year-old older sister died of typhus.
Eventually, so the family narrative goes, they settled in Marryatville, a subdivision/estate in Norwood, and father, Karl August, teamed up with a Mr. Zimmermann to manage a textile store in Adelaide city. While his father supported the family as a merchant, and some of his older siblings set off for China as missionaries with China Inland Mission, Ronald became highly educated, attending Adelaide University and becoming a Doctor of Medicine.
As a child, Ronald was exceptionally gifted, and by the age of four he was reading the Bible, and at five, Homer’s Odyssey, so my father says. Apart from these fragments of information passed down the generations by word of mouth, Ronald’s childhood remains a mystery.
News reports at the time have helped fill in some of the gaps in Ronald’s interests as he grew up. One of these was tennis competition reports. Although Ronald was born with one arm shorter than the other, he still enjoyed a hit of tennis and played in competition. He was described as a fierce competitor.
Ronald grew up in a God-fearing family, and from all the Sunday School prizes he won (recorded in the local newspapers), I imagine he came to faith in his Lord Jesus as a young child. His family attended Maylands Presbyterian Church. Although they were from a Moravian Brethren background, there was no such church in Adelaide. There was one in Bethany in the Barossa—too far to travel from Norwood. Anyway, the family probably chose a church and congregation that would support missionaries. When Ronald began his missionary work, he and Lina joined the Burnside Christian Church, which faithfully supported their work in Sudan.
Meanwhile, back at the family home base in Norwood, youthful Ronald Trudinger enjoyed evenings with the family playing games—a tradition passed down to the current generation of the T-Team. This never included playing cards, as such cards were deemed “sinful” and associated with gambling. Games my father taught us were taught to him by his maiden aunts, who had learnt them from their parents. A parlour card game called “Chook Chook” was certainly one game the Trudinger family had and loved playing. “Chook Chook” is all about egg farming, teaching the player the different breeds of chickens, trading and negotiating, and accounting. Other games that Ronald would’ve been familiar with were word games and story games, which his mother created for the education of her children.
My father remembers his dad’s fondness for chess. Even in my grandpa’s old age, my father never could beat his dad at chess. Another relative recalled Ronald taught her mother to play the piano. So, I gather another of Ronald’s interests was music, a love which he passed down to his children.
After completing his Bachelor of Science degree from 1908 to 1912, Ronald studied to become a Doctor of Medicine at the University of Adelaide. The University student magazine has him attending the Evangelical Union Christian group there, which would become EU, the Christian group I joined eighty years later.
While at university, Ronald won awards and scholarships for his outstanding results. He even won a scholarship to study tropical infectious diseases in Queensland.
During this time, around 1908, he met a young nurse called Lina Hoopmann. They fell in love and privately became engaged. However, they had to wait many years before they were able to marry. She was Lutheran, and he was not. Her father, a staunch Lutheran minister, refused to give his blessing for the union; he called Ronald a heretic as he wasn’t Lutheran and had come from a Moravian Brethren heritage.
So, they had to wait until Lina was 30. She would’ve been legally able to marry without her father’s consent at this time. I doubt, though, being God-fearing folk, they would’ve shown such dishonour and break the third commandment to honour thy parents. I imagine that her father finally gave his blessing, and the marriage went ahead on December 11, 1917. That being said, the family photo of the wedding doesn’t have Lina’s father present. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt that he took the photo.
Others of Lina’s family, such as her sister Dora, had no problem with the Trudinger family. In her diary, she enjoyed many visits to the Trudinger’s in Norwood. Plus, she was overjoyed when Ronald and Lina became engaged and then were able to marry.
From 1912, Ronald commenced his calling to be a missionary doctor in Sudan. He returned on furlough in 1917 to marry Lina. Ronald worked as a doctor at the Royal Adelaide Hospital during this time. By 1918, Ronald, together with his wife, had returned to Sudan. His first two children, Ronald Martin and Agnes Dora, were born in Africa.
In 1927, Ronald and Lina, with Ron junior (9) and Agnes (7), returned to Australia on furlough. They came back for their children to start their education in Australia.
This time, Ron accepted work as a physician and locum in Macclesfield, taking on the challenging task of coronial duties, including being a witness for a high-profile murder case.
My dad, Clement David Trudinger, was born on January 13, 1928, in Norwood. By May 1929, Ronald and Lina, with their young baby son, were on the ship steaming back to Sudan. Dad’s younger brother Leonhard Paul was born in Melut, Sudan.
As with their first two children, the younger sons must return to live with their maiden aunts in Adelaide for their education. Ronald and Lina returned to Adelaide, South Australia, in 1935. The plan was to stay a year, and then off to Sudan once again. However, it didn’t go as planned. Agnes, their daughter, became gravely ill with meningitis early in 1936. She survived but had to learn to walk and talk again.
Consequently, later in 1936, Ronald set off for Sudan alone after Agnes had recovered.
In Agnes’s memoir, their mum took the boys to live with her family in Yorktown for a year in 1938 while their dad was away on mission in Sudan.
In 1939, Lina joined her husband in Sudan while my dad and Paul stayed with the maiden aunts. During the war years, from 1939 to 1944, Ronald and Lina were on mission in Sudan.
The values of this era were self-sacrifice and obeying God’s calling before family. Plus they considered their children’s educational needs would be better served in Adelaide, South Australia rather than Sudan. Hence, Ronald’s and Lina’s decision to once more venture back to Sudan without their children—a decision the future wives of David and Paul (the dear aunts preferred David to Clement, and Paul to Leonhard), had an issue with. David, Clement by nature, and just that little bit older, took the separation from his mother with a stiff upper lip and in his stride. Dad had fond memories of staying with his maiden aunts. But Paul, being younger, was more of a feisty character and suffered from a sense of abandonment as a child.
Ronald then took two more mission trips to Sudan; 1946 to 1950, then 1951 to 1954. During his time on furlough in 1950, he visited Ernabella where his eldest son Ron was teaching the Pitjantjatjara people, and also Hermannsburg where my Grandpa Sam Gross was pastor at the time. This was before my dad and mum had met each other. It shows the connections in Christian circles and across denominations.
Lina stayed in Adelaide for the 1946 —1950 stint to Sudan but joined Ronald for his final 1951—1954 visit.
In 1954, Ronald had “retired” from the mission field and had taken up a position as a doctor at Hillcrest Psychiatric Hospital. He made an indelible impression there, remembered fondly by former patients.
Even in his golden years of real retirement, furthering the cause of Christ remained the driving force of his life. He never stopped witnessing and sharing the gospel whenever the Lord provided opportunities. In the last years of his life, after his dear wife died, he moved up to Alice Springs to manage a Christian bookshop.
However, this venture didn’t last as he became ill with leukemia. He returned to Adelaide and moved into a flat in the Lutheran Homes Retirement village in Payneham.
Illness didn’t stop him from being a missionary on home soil. In the months before he died, he bought an Italian dictionary so that he could share God’s love and the good news of salvation with his Italian gardener.
I remember my grandpa as a kind man who had a smile with his one remaining tooth in his mouth. He would make a joke about the Trudinger trait (pronounced tray) of twiddling thumbs. He taught my brother Richard to make bird calls with a leaf.
By the time I was born, Ronald and Lina were living in Walsall Street, Kensington Park, in the Norwood area. At three, I remember getting bored with all the people around for a big T-Team family gathering. I went off exploring, and mum found me sleeping under the bed on a pair of shoes.
I know where I was when Grandpa died. I was five. We were in the FJ Holden driving up to “see” Grandpa. Well, I thought we were. Then Dad announced that Grandpa had died. I was confused why we’d been going to see Grandpa if he had died. Hadn’t he gone to Heaven? After all, he was one of the most God-loving people I knew. Upon reflection, perhaps Dad needed to visit Grandpa’s flat to sort out some paperwork with the Lutheran Homes.
Ronald Trudinger died December 21, 1968. He had lived a full and productive life and with his missionary heart had spread the good news of Jesus Christ, his Lord and Saviour.
He sniffed and observed the slim man with a pale face and a monk’s haircut. He held a thin board similar to a slate under his arm.
‘Doesn’t look like nothing,’ the man said.
‘Nothing you can help me with,’ Günter replied. ‘You are the magic man, are you not?’
The man threw back his small head. ‘Hardly magic, my son. Merely science. You have heard of Physics?’
‘Yeah…but…’
‘Tell you what, you look like you’ve had a rough trot.’ The man took what looked like this slate from under his arm. The slate had a shiny surface. ‘How about I make your day.’ He ran his finger down the front of it.
‘Who are you?’
‘Just call me, Herr Roach.’
‘Herr Roth? Mr Red?’
‘No, Roach, as in Cockroach?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind—call me Boris,’ the man answered as he cleared his throat.
A whirring sound came from behind him and for a moment Günter thought he saw dark wings of lace flutter and then snap into the man’s back. Were his eyes playing tricks on him?
Boris’s mouth spread into a wide grin with teeth in a neat row like keys on a piano. ‘Now where were we? As I was saying, anything you want, anything at all. Whatever you desire, your wish is my—oh, dear, that sounds a bit lame. Now, what is your greatest desire, and I will make it so.’
‘You will?’
‘Yes, I will.’
Boris balanced the slate board on the tip of his finger. ‘Money, gold, wisdom—women and so on—you know the drill. Whatever.’ He flicked the slate front with his finger and made it spin through the air around their heads.
Günter, his eyes wide, gazed as the object slowed and fluttered into a butterfly and then settled on the log where he’d been sitting.
‘Wow! How did you do that?’
‘I’m still awaiting your answer. Anything you want.’
‘But it changed shape. You made it come alive.’
‘Never mind that—anything at all, it’s yours.’
‘Aber, what are you?’ Günter asked. He tried to catch the butterfly but it flew high above his head.
‘Oh, that’s hardly important,’ Boris said. ‘Come on, I’m waiting for your answer.’
‘I want to know,’ Günter reached for Boris, ‘where you are from.’
‘Not from this world,’ Boris stepped away from him and his arm became a tentacle and whipped Gunter’s hand. ‘Now hurry up! Tell me.’
Günter rubbed his fingers. ‘Are you a demon?’
‘Oh, Herr Fahrer, how could you think such a thing? I’m insulted.’
‘Ja, aber for a man, you have some strange appendages.’
‘That’s because, I’m evolved, my race is superior to yours.’ Boris narrowed his beady eyes and antennae sprang out from the top of his head. With his mouth closed he fed thoughts into Günter’s mind. ‘I don’t need a voice or a mouth. I can communicate my thoughts to you. So much simpler, don’t you think?’
Boris clicked his fingers and the butterfly floated into his open hands and turned once again into a slate board.
‘Now what will you have,’ Boris demanded with his thoughts, ‘Anything you want.’
The young man scanned the darkening sky and then spotted the first evening star glowing on the horizon.
‘Nay,’ Boris said, ‘further than Venus. Much further. The other side of the galaxy if you must know.’
‘Galaxy?’
‘Come on, I’m waiting, I haven’t got all century. Then in thoughts almost a whisper. ‘Got slaves to catch, planets to conquer.’
‘What? Did you say something?’
‘Are you a dumkopf? Tell me what you want!’
Dumkopf! Dumkopf! Günter hated being ridiculed. No, he wasn’t stupid. He sighed. ‘I hate my life. And you know, I hate this world I live in. I hate who I am. No one will miss me if I go.’ He trod towards Boris. ‘Can I go to your world?’
Boris edged away. ‘Well, now, there’s the thing. My world sort of exploded. You could say I’m homeless.’
‘Oh, sorry to hear that.’
‘Any other suggestions?’ Boris’s eyes glowed in the navy blue of early night. ‘I can change you like I did the slate, if you like.’
Günter picked at his nails. ‘I would not like to be a butterfly.’
‘You can be anything—anyone.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, no trouble at all.’
‘I could be a different person. No big nose. No brown curly hair. No pimples.’
‘Certainly, if that’s what you want,’ Boris said and flashed his wings.
Günter pondered. Maybe demons do exist. Maybe his grandmother was right. ‘I don’t know.’ A shiver coursed down his spine. ‘I think I should be getting home. I am late for dinner.’ As he backed away, an owl hooted.
‘What about a free trial? Can do no harm, Herr Fahrer.’ The man-beast followed Günter down the path. ‘Just one day, no obligation.’
Günter stopped and turned. ‘Only one day?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’
‘Anything? Anything I want?’
‘Yes.’
Günter stroked his chin. ‘Well, then, can you make me into my brother, Johann?’
‘Yes, I can do that.’
Boris pulled a stick from his stockings and plugged it into the slate. He tapped the surface. Writing appeared which he read for a few moments.
Then from a pocket in his cape, he pulled out a bottle. He tapped the bottle, picked out a pill, snapped it in half and handed the half-pill to Günter.
‘Eat this and think of your brother, Johann,’ Boris said.
Günter gulped down the pill. The slimy coating left a fishy after-taste on his tongue. He licked his lips, he had an idea. ‘I know, even better. Johann can become me. Then he’ll know how it feels.’
Boris rolled his eyes. ‘You’re a bright one, you should’ve thought about that before I gave you the Blob Fish pill.’
‘What? You can’t?’
‘I can,’ Boris said with a sigh, ‘but it will be a challenge. I do have the other half of the pill, so we’ll see what we can do.’ He rubbed the pill fragment between his finger and thumb. ‘Now, then I better hurry to do what you have requested. So, my boy, run along home, by the time you get there, you’ll be Johann.’
Günter turned to go.
‘Just one more thing, where exactly is your brother?’ Boris asked.
‘In the barn, always in the barn.’
‘Very well, enjoy!’ Boris said as wings sprouted from his back, he rose into the air and buzzed all the way up the hill to the barn.
Günter pelted up the path to his home on the hill.
[…to be continued, next week for the stunning conclusion.]
How could a most pleasant bunch of Wends turn so nasty? Witch hunting nasty.
Click on the link above and find out.
Or for more Weekend Reading…
Go on a reading binge and discover the up close, personal and rather awkward relationship between Gunter and that nasty piece of cockroach-alien work Boris in…
[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, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-Team explore historic Hermannsburg, but fail to find any ghosts.]
Mystery in Historic Hermannsburg
We checked out the old school room. Mum reminisced the terrors of teaching the fellow missionary kids who were barely younger than her. They just refused to listen or obey her. Some were constantly daydreaming and never did their lessons. Mum vowed never to teach again. She escaped this teaching fate by getting married…to Dad.
T-Tummies began to grumble and so, the T-Team Next Gen decided to head for the Precinct Café which had been the Manse of the Hermannsburg Missionary Supervisor.
As we investigated the old rooms that had been converted into a souvenir shop and tea rooms, Mum said, ‘This is the room Dad and I stayed after we got married.’ I took a photo of Mum in that room which was now filled with souvenir clothes and hats.
Finally, Mum and I approached the counter and asked the young Arunda lady serving, if we could have a table for our party of ten.
She guided us to some tables on the porch where we could sit. Along the way, Mum mentioned to her that she used to live in the house. From that moment on, this lady could not do enough for us, making sure we had the best slices of apple strudel and helping us with the self-serve tea and coffee.
When she had left us to serve someone else, Mum whispered to me, ‘I think she is GW’s (an elder) granddaughter.’
Later, as we were leaving to explore more of the village, the girl who had served us ran up to the T-Team to continue the conversation with us about the Hermannsburg of old and answer any of our questions about Hermannsburg today.
Then, she had a question for us. ‘Have you seen or sensed any ghosts?’
We shook our collective heads. ‘No, we haven’t.’
‘Apparently, some people have seen a girl in period clothing, circa 1900. And some have seen an old man in this café. The young girl plays with my children,’ the lady who served us said.
I tried to think back to my previous visits to Hermannsburg. Can’t recall any ghosts then…just dreams of the olden days, way back when…And the pioneer missionaries and Afghans trekking across the desert on horses and camels.
More exploration of the Historic Precinct where Mum walked us through her childhood. First, her old home and the porch converted into a bedroom in which she slept. Now, the home is “renovated” into an art gallery. Her room fetches up to something like one thousand dollars a night for an authentic experience of yesteryear’s accommodation. To think, I did that virtually for free in the 1970’s…not her room, but…
Then, the native girls’ quarters and the native boys’ quarters. Once upon a time, one hundred years ago, they were locked in at night, so they wouldn’t escape and get up to mischief.
Then the huge shed; a museum of machinery and long-forgotten technology, for butchering cattle, and tanning of kangaroo skins. Outside, my niece sat on an old tractor.
While the T-Team Next Gen rested at a picnic table by the morgue, and Anthony filled the water canteens, Mum shared how, as a child, she and her sisters played funerals. ‘We’d dance around the table pinching our noses.’ Apparently, back then, funerals were a regular occurrence. Mum added, ‘The most eerie experience was the wailing by the Arunda when someone died. Sent shivers down my spine.’
Meanwhile Anthony battled with the nearby water pump which was situated just behind the Historic church building.
Mum glanced over and remarked, ‘Last time we visited in 2010, we were told about this competition Hermannsburg and another mission were in for who had the holiest water. Someone had drunk the water from this other mission where the water had bubbled up to the surface through the sand and was healed. So, then, Hermannsburg had to out-do this other mission and also make water with healing qualities.’
Virtual Trekking Behind the Art: Ocean Beach Tasmania
[In the last few weeks, after months of drought, rain. And, almost a month after storms and extra high tides, more extra high tides last Tuesday. So, in memory of the cold stormy weather, here’s an old piece of calm from our Tasmanian travels.]
Ocean Beach lies on the West Coast of Tasmania near Strahan. The wild winds of the roaring forties (between the 40-and 50-degrees latitude) attack the coast with relentless ferocity.
In 2001 I visited Ocean Beach with my family to see the mutton birds coming home to roost for the night. I had barely stepped out of the car before the biting cold wind blasted me and I made a hasty retreat back into the car. No view of mutton birds that evening. Result, no photos.
Ten years later, my mum and I visited Ocean Beach. While the East Coast was inundated with floods, Ocean Beach that afternoon was calm. We explored the beach, taking many photos of this rare state of the beach.
October 2016, the K-Team ventured onto the sands of Ocean Beach on perhaps a not-so-calm day; calm enough though, that we were able to walk along the beach. Not being satisfied with just an obligatory few metres up and down, my husband led us way up the estuary where we spotted a variety of birds, some fishermen, and the lighthouse sitting out there near the heads. Gotta get our money’s worth. After all, he’d seen the potential from the dizzy distance of the cruise boat as it sailed past the heads of Macquarie Harbour. I think if we’d allowed him, we’d still be walking along the coast somewhere around Tasmania.
While the “cat”, namely Dee was away, Dan took the opportunity to delve into the intricacies of Mr. Percy Edwards and his presumed body that had been discovered in the Mt. Lofty National Park. He mused how the unfortunate Mr. Edwards could languish just inside the culvert, under the bridge, for so long without being discovered. After all, how could the tourist traffic, plus joggers who daily climbed Adelaide’s iconic mountain, miss the remains for so long?
Dan plotted the details and questions into the von Erikson Crime solving programme and then checked over the growing chart on screen.
An email pinged its arrival. Pathologist Penny Chambers had completed the preliminaries on the corpse.
Dan opened the file and studied the results.
As he suspected, someone, had recently moved the remains. Damage to the skull had been the consequence of repeated blunt force trauma. Penny proposed that the shape and width of the damage suggested a golf club was used, most probably a wedge which weighs around 340 grams.
Dan nodded. ‘Interesting.’
The report also indicated that the damage to the skull tended to be at the front, hitting the frontal lobe, the nose and upper jaw. Four teeth from the upper jaw were missing.
‘This was personal,’ Dan whispered. ‘Someone close did this to poor Mr. Edwards.’
His mobile vibrated on his desk. Dan picked it up. ‘Yes? Dee?’
He looked at his watch. 5pm. ‘Oh, is that the time,’ he murmured.
Dee rabbited on, bemoaning the piles of disembarked passengers and dearth of taxi drivers.
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ he said while closing down the computer, then gathering up his keys.
Detective Dee Berry smiled as she descended the airport escalators. A smattering of family members had gathered to welcome their loved ones from their international travels. A man waggled his head and paced back and forth beneath the flight arrivals sign while arguing with his wife. Another couple, the bearded male wearing loose-fitting shirt and baggy trousers strode ten-paces ahead of his wife covered head to toe in a black burqa.
Reminded her of a certain Mr. Percy Edwards back in the day—1970’s. Not the ethnicity and the baggage that goes with that, but just the need for certain men, no matter what race or background, who needed to be dominant over their women. She’d see him at church racing to the entrance while his wife and children trailed behind him. What really got up her nose about the man was his attitude to women, like he was God’s gift, and all women must submit to him—worship the ground and the latest Ford he drove in.
That man Percy gave her the creeps, especially one night after youth group. She came out of the hall early and there he was, lounging near his latest Ford.
As she passed him, he lunged at her. ‘Jump in my car!’ he demanded, grabbing her arm.
Dee tore her arm away from his grasp. Swore at him—words usually reserved for her arch enemy Lillie. Then she ran. Round the block and back into the safety of the hall.
Never told a soul. But the memory stayed with her.
Dee shivered at the chilling flash back and recomposed herself.
She moved on and out from the concourse.
How Adelaide had changed, Dee thought. She remembered her youth and travelling by boat from Davenport to Melbourne in 1980. At the time she had seen an overseas tourist taking photos of the heads as they entered Port Phillip Bay. Back then, she had thought seeing such a foreigner a novelty.
At drive through/drop off and pick up road, she waited in line to hail a taxi. It seemed all of Adelaide was doing the same. At this rate she’d be waiting an eternity. She was tempted to call Dan to ask him to pick her up in his patrol car.
After an hour of languishing in the unmovable line, she did just that. She called Dan.
‘I was wondering when you’d call,’ Dan said with a sigh. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Dee watched the security harass lingering drivers and hurry them along. She watched the same cars pass by as they completed the circuit while waiting for their passengers to disembark and arrive at the designated pick-up point. She watched the rare taxi pull up and prospective passengers pile in.
Then she decided to make it easier for Dan and begin walking east up this drop-off road towards a less populated area. Some other wise people were doing the same. She followed them. Sure, there was a yellow line forbidding such action, but if drivers were quick in the pick-up routine, the guards of the drop off/pick up process wouldn’t notice. Besides, there were certain benefits being picked up in a police patrol car.
As anticipated, twenty minutes passed by in the process of being a pedestrian, and Dan’s patrol car pulled up just before the roundabout. Dee opened the back passenger door and tossed in her case, then she leapt in after it.
‘Thanks Dan,’ she said as she secured her seatbelt.
Dan breezed past the paused throngs of cars and people eager to make a quick get-away. Their hurried movements reminded Dee of bank robbers leaping into accomplices’ cars before the authorities caught up with them. One car, Dee noticed it was that couple, still arguing, and their grown up returned-from-overseas children struggling to fit all their baggage in the boot of the car. An irate security staff member gestured for them to move along. Dee looked back to see if the mother and father were arguing with security, but a hulking Toyota Hilux blocked the scene.
‘How was the Tassie trip?’ Dan asked.
‘Brilliant!’ Dee replied. ‘There’s some beautiful places there. I reckon I’ll pull up stumps and go and live there when I retire.’
‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Dan asked. ‘I gather from the application and funding, that it wasn’t a holiday.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Dee rubbed her hands together and grinned, ‘the time was well spent and fruitful.’
‘Fruitful?’ Dan glanced back at her.
‘You remember Lillie? Lillie von Erikson? Now Edwards?’
‘Yes?’
Dee chuckled. ‘She had a baby down there in Tasmania, back in 1981.’
‘Did she now?’
‘You remember she was one of the witnesses back then. You know when Milo Katz was run over?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well. Fast-forward nine months, and bingo! A little girl was born.’ Dee licked her lips. ‘A girl called Zoe Thomas.’
‘And,’ Dan eyed Dee through the rear-vision mirror, ‘how’s this related to the case?’
‘You see, it proves that she was there. With Francis Renard. In his kombi van.’
‘But you said she was a witness.’
‘She will be, and so will Mr. Renard.’
‘I don’t see how you have figured this out, Dee.’
‘Do I have to spell it out, Dan?’
‘Go on.’
‘If they were there, they must’ve seen something. They would’ve been aware of Sven’s movements.’
‘Not if they were busy in the kombi, they wouldn’t have,’ Dan snorted, then laughed. ‘Anyway, I interviewed Mr. Renard, remember?’
‘We’ll see,’ Dee sighed, ‘Besides, I think that the adoption was all underhand and off the radar. There’s no official documentation. And I suspect there was money involved in the deal.’
‘Really? How do you come to that conclusion?’
‘I managed to track down the adoptive father of Zoe, and he confirmed that Lillie gave the child to him and his wife. They were childless and his wife was desperate for a baby.’
‘And the money?’
‘I remember Lillie returning from her Tassie work holiday flush with the stuff,’ Dee flicked a lock of hair from her face, ‘I saw her around town with a new car, new trendy clothes, and I heard her and her brother shared a flat in a swanky part of town, Burnside, as I recall.’
‘So, I got hold of some bank records from the day.’
‘Really, do they still exist after forty years?’
‘If you know where to find them and have the right contacts.’
‘Which, apparently, you do.’
‘September fifteenth, 1981, ten-thousand dollars was paid by cheque into her Commonwealth Bank account.’ Dee announced in triumph. Somehow, an online crime-fighting sleuth, probably on the spectrum, had come through for her. ‘From an ANZ bank account in Hobart.’
‘I see,’ Dan sniffed, ‘so, are you going to go after Lillie Edwards on a charge of baby trafficking, now?’
Tru-Kling Creations 