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Memoir Missive on Friday–Gutter-Ball Girl

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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

***

Want more of my stories?

Why not take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981…

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Or

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Science Fiction?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the oversized alien cockroach gets up to …

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And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

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

Memoir Missive on Friday — Pearl

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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 …

For some real stories of refining through roughing it in the Australian Outback …

Take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia!

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

And escape in time and space to Central Australia nearly 50-years ago …

100-Word Challenge–When You Gotta Go

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Toilets, bathrooms, latrines, or “dunnies” as they’re called in Australia, have surfaced as topics of conversation from time to time. How they have changed over the centuries. How they vary from place to place, country to country. But one thing remains constant to being human. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

And since the school year is in the midst of the Spring holidays in Australia, what better way to “go”.    

         

When You Gotta Go

He stood up and wandered to the door.

‘Get back to your seat!’ I snapped.

‘Gotta go to the toilet, Miss.’

‘No, you don’t.’ I pointed at his desk. ‘Sit down!’

This version of Denis the Menace crossed his legs and grinned. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘You can wait.’

‘Please, Miss,’ his voice mocking, ‘I have to go.’

Sniggers rippled throughout the classroom.

I stood, pointing like a fool at his chair. Afternoon sun streamed through the dusty windows, ripening adolescent body odour.

He walked past me.

I growled, ‘Get back here!’

‘When you gotta go, you gotta go,’ he replied.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2026

Feature Photo: Memories recreated for my Mum when she lived in Hermannsburg. Waiting for the toilet. © L.M. Kling 2013

***

Here are some more “dunnies” upon which to contemplate:

[Dun Photo 1: Bordertown Dunny © L.M. Kling 2023]

[Dun Photo 2: Ocean Beach Dunny (note the position of the washbasin) © L.M. Kling 2016]
[Dun Photo 3: Backyard Repurposed Dunnies © L.M. Kling 2018]

***

Longing for more travel adventures?

Dreaming of exploring Australia?

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

Or if you’d rather “go” on an adventure into space on a mission in a war against that nemesis you will love to hate …

Click on my War Against Boris series on the links below …

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

Click on the link to my most popular 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

And how a nice bunch of Wends turned nasty in the latest in the War Against Boris series …

Diamonds in the Cave

Travelling Friday–Arkaroola

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Skint at Arkaroola

[This Sunday is Hubby’s and my 39th anniversary, so, time to remember our honeymoon in the rough and tough outback. The T-K Team step back in time into the Mt. Painter Sanctuary, Northern Flinders Ranges, South Australia; a land offering a glimpse of prehistory…]

Late 1980’s, and my husband and I planned a honeymoon stay in Arkaroola, the town within the Mt. Painter sanctuary, Northern Flinders Ranges. When we arrived, we rolled up to the motel and presented our VISA card for payment.

[Photo 1: Approaching Mt. Painter Sanctuary, Northern Flinders Ranges © L.M. Kling 1987]

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said the manager, ‘we don’t take VISA. Only MasterCard.’

‘What?’ But we were counting on our VISA to cover the costs.

We scraped together the cash amount for the three-nights of accommodation and emptied our wallets of all but a few notes. Romantic dinners in the restaurant, off our menu. The longed-for Ridge-Top Tour, off our track. Then cold hard panic struck, how were we to pay for petrol when we returned to Adelaide? The amount in our tank, Dad’s four-wheel-drive vehicle that he loaned us for the holiday, may not last the journey back to Hawker. All because the town in which we chose to spend our honeymoon, was so remote, they did not deal in VISA.

[Photo 2: Cornflakes for breakfast © L.M. Kling 1987]

We sat on our motel bed and counted our measly amount of cash. What were we going to do? It’s not like I hadn’t gone without before—on the T-Team with my Dad. Being like-minded and frugal, we dealt with the disappointment, and decided we’d cook our own meals using the barbecue facilities and not venture too far from the town. Besides, there were plenty of places to which we could hike.

[Photo 3: Hiking up Radium Creek searching for titanite © L.M. Kling 1987]

I took a deep breath and picked up the book our pastor had given us as a wedding gift. Inside the front cover I discovered an envelope. ‘I wonder what this says,’ I said to my husband.

I took out the card and opened it. An orange-coloured note fluttered onto the floor. I picked it up. ‘Hey, look! Twenty dollars.’ I waved the note in my husband’s face. ‘Twenty dollars! Pastor must’ve known we’d need the money.’

‘I think God did,’ my husband said. ‘Twenty dollars makes all the difference.’

‘Can we do the Ridge-Top Tour?’

‘Um, perhaps not that much difference.’

‘Dinner at the restaurant?’

‘Maybe, but we still need to watch our spending.’

I sighed. ‘I know.’

[Photo 4: Dinnertime Hill © L.M. Kling 1987]

[Photo 5: Towards sunset on Mt Painter Sanctuary mountains © L.M. Kling 1987]

In the restaurant, and eating the cheapest meal offered, I spied a photo adorning the wall behind my beloved. A waterhole with red cliffs on one side and cool but majestic eucalypt trees on the other side. ‘Echo Camp,’ I read. ‘I want to go there.’

‘Hmm, not sure, if we have to drive far.’

‘Oh, please.’

‘We’ll see.’

[Photo 6: Radium Creek © L.M. Kling 1987]

[Photo 7: Nooldoonooldoona © L.M. Kling 1987]

A couple of days passed, and we’d exhausted all the nearby scenic sites to which we could hike. We decided to drive up the road, but not too far.

I spotted a sign to Echo Camp, and not-too-many kilometres off the “main” road. My husband noted that the track was only for “authorised” vehicles.

‘That’s not fair,’ I said. ‘They shouldn’t tempt us with scenic places like that in the restaurant and then deny us because we’re not “authorised”.’

*[Painting 1: Track to Echo Camp © L.M. Kling 1987]

He who was driving, turned into the track. ‘You’re quite right. Ready for some adventure?’

‘Okay, well, it says Echo Camp’s only a few kilometres down the track.’

My husband drove up and down the track. It soon became obvious why the track was meant for “authorised” vehicles. But we were committed, and the track became so narrow, with one side rocky cliffs and the other sheer drops, we had no choice but to lurch forward, upward, downward, sideways and every-which-way. While I clutched the bar on the dashboard, my husband had fun, relishing the roller-coaster ride to Echo Camp.

We reached a relatively flat area where we parked our four-wheel drive vehicle. The Painter Sanctuary mountains rose and dipped like waves before us. A feast for the eyes with shades of sienna, blue and mauve. I captured this beauty with my Nikon film camera.

*[Painting 2: Vista of the Sanctuary © L.M. Kling 2019]

‘By the way, where’s Echo Camp from here?’ I asked.

‘Just around the corner, I think.’

‘How many kilometres have we travelled?’

‘More than the sign said, but it can’t be far.’

‘I get the feeling we missed it on the way here.’

My husband nodded. ‘I think we did. There was a fork back there, but I wasn’t sure. And the angle was too sharp to turn down.’

‘Better check out that track.’

[Photo 8: Sun fast sinking on secret sanctuary © L.M. Kling 1987]

We back tracked and found the way leading to Echo Camp. By this time, the sun hung low in the sky, so our time savouring Echo Camp was limited to no more than half an hour, wandering near the rock pool, taking photos, and enjoying the peace and silence of this land untouched by civilisation, and reserved for the “authorised” apparently.

Aspects of Echo Camp

[Photo 9: Our trusty Daihatsu Four-wheel drive © L.M. Kling 1987]
[Photo 10: Reflections in the billabong © L.M. Kling 1987]
[Photo 11: Echo Camp © L.M. Kling 1987]

Then, after braving the roller-coaster road again, we crept out from the contraband track, and back into town.

*[Painting 3: Echo Camp © L.M. Kling 2015]

***

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2019; 2022; 2026

*Feature Painting: Dinnertime Northern Flinders Ranges © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018

***

Want more but too expensive to travel down under? Why not take a virtual travel with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Check out my travel memoirs.

Click here on:

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

And escape in time and space to Central Australia

Family History Friday–My “Convict” History

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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.

Backyard Tales–Molly’s Misadventure

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FURRY FELINE TALES

[It’s time for my newest fur-baby to have her yearly vet check and vaccination. That will be a challenge. Just a sniff of such an adventure and Lily hides. My parents had a cat like Lily—Molly.]

[Photo 1: Where’s Lily © L.M. Kling 2024]

 But long before Lily, my parents had Molly …

Molly

Dad sipped his cappuccino, and then, licking his lips, he leaned over. ‘I have a mystery concerning Molly.’

A tram rattled past. How the three ladies in their designer clothes and ability to talk through their noses could hear their own conversation, I’ll never know. Maybe the nasal accent was just the right pitch to override the rumbling of trams, and then, added to the tram noise, the screaming of toddlers begging for their babycinos.

I waited for the tram to pass. Dad, in his mid-70s, didn’t have such a strong voice. And my hearing’s never been good. ‘What do you mean, Molly? What mystery?’

‘Er, um, I think she’s missing Mum.’

I gasped. ‘Oh, no! You haven’t lost her. Like Zorro. The last time, when Mum went to Sydney, New Year’s Eve 2000 with all the fireworks, Zorro got spooked. He was outside when the booms began, and he was off. He’s never been seen since. You don’t have a good record when it comes to cats and Mum being away.’

‘Oh, no, no, no!’ Dad said. ‘I mean, she’s been sleeping in funny places. Just the other day I found her in my underwear drawer. She was sleeping so peacefully, I left her there.’

‘How cute.’ I paused as another tram rumbled past. The ladies by the window exploded into laughter. When they quietened, I continued, ‘But you said she was missing.’

‘Oh, no, I mean, she’s …’ Dad coughed. Always does when he’s only telling the truth in part. ‘She’s … somewhere.’

‘How can you be sure? Maybe you left her out, and she’s run away.’

‘Oh, no, no, no! I put food out for her at night. Inside. And in the morning, it’s gone. She’s eating it. She’s just hiding.’

‘I see.’

‘I mean, I think she’s just found a nice little place to sleep. Where I can’t find her.’

‘I guess.’ I scraped out the last frothy bits of my cappuccino. ‘I’ll have a look for her when I come tomorrow.’

[Photo 2: There’s Lily and Feature © L.M. Kling 2025]

The next day, after school, the boys and I rolled up the driveway, piled out and then entered through the back door of my parents’ old housing-trust home. While Mum’s away, I liked to visit Dad to make sure he’s okay.

My sons raced off to the computer room, but I lingered in the kitchen where I cleared away a day’s worth of coffee cups from the dining table and stacked them on the sink.

‘Have you found Molly?’ I asked Dad.

‘No, but the food’s eaten. I think she’s hiding under the bed in the spare room, so I put the cat’s meat there, and in the morning, again it was all gone.’

I followed Dad to the spare room to witness the evidence of an empty bowl with a few morsels of dried fish flakes remaining at the bottom.

I sniffed.

A nasty, festering sort of smell lingered in the air.

Calling my eldest, I decided we should start our Molly-search in the spare room. ‘Would you help me lift the bed-base?’

My son joined me in the small room. Two single beds, a dressing table and a large wardrobe crowded the room. We manoeuvred ourselves around one bed and lifted one end. No Molly.

‘What’s the stink?’ my son asked.

‘Not sure, but it doesn’t bode well.’ I remembered the dead mouse I’d found in that very same room when I moved to Melbourne. ‘Come on, I reckon Molly might be under the other bed.’

My son and I edged around the bed and, taking hold of each side, we hoisted up one side of the base.

Molly crouched in the corner and snarled. Dried blood had matted her fur.

‘Mum! I can’t hold up the bed much longer.’

[Photo 3: Molly enjoying her new home © L.M. Kling 2006]

Reaching, I gently lifted the tortoiseshell tabby from the furthest corner under the raised bed base. Around her neck and in the pit of her front leg, the fur had been rubbed away, exposing a raw wound. Sticky ooze stained my sleeve.

My son put down the bed and dashed to the linen cupboard in the passageway, where he grabbed a towel. We wrapped Molly up in the towel and stood in the passageway.

My younger son had extracted himself from his computer game and met us in the passage with Dad. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ he asked.

‘She’s been injured; that’s why she was hiding,’ I said.

Molly narrowed her eyes at Dad and growled.

‘Wasn’t me,’ Dad said. ‘The last time I saw her, she was fine.’

‘We have to take her to the vet,’ I said.

So swaddled in the towel like a newborn, and weak from her injury, Molly rode in my arms in the car without resistance.

[Photo 4: Swaddled Storm—they really are fur-babies © L.M. Kling 2010]

At the vet, the nurse ushered us in to see the veterinary doctor without the obligatory wait. The vet-doctor, a fresh-faced man in his 30’s, unwrapped the towel from Molly.

‘Oh,’ he said with a grimace, ‘it looks like she got her collar stuck under her front leg. Must’ve been like that for a while.’

Dad blushed and coughed.

‘You didn’t notice?’ the vet-doctor said, looking straight at Dad.

‘Yeah, well,’ Dad said as he shifted around the table, ‘my wife’s gone …’

The vet’s eyes widened with that look of pity. ‘Oh, I’m sorry—’

‘No, I mean, she’s gone to Sydney—on holiday.’

‘Oh.’

We all laughed.

‘Molly is my wife’s cat. And she took to hiding when my wife went away.’

*[Photo 5:  Schroedinger’s cat. Fur-baby Spike attempting to hide © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1984]

We’d found Molly just in time. The veterinary doctor treated her with antibiotics and a stay in the animal hospital. She made a full recovery.

Not sure that Dad ever fully recovered from the wrath of Mum when she returned from Sydney to discover he’d almost lost another cat in his care.

***

In Memory of Molly who lived to the respectable old (cat) age of 18.

As the Good Book, the Bible, says in Matthew 6:26-27

“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2026

Want more, but too impossible to travel down under? Why not take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Click here on:

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

 Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

And escape in time and space to Central Australia …

Arty Travel Friday–Mt. Giles

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Story Behind the Art

Quest to Conquer Mt. Giles

[The last few days of SALA, so here’s more from my Central Australian painting collection, photos and memories of our safari adventures with my dad.

Extract from Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari ]

Dad sucked on his lemon (a proven refreshment and guard against dehydration). ‘About a-quarter-to-twelve.’ He continued to sit and suck on his lemon as if in no hurry.

‘A-quarter-to-twelve?’ I stood. ‘We’ll never get there. We can’t even see the trig.’

‘Well, um-er, we better get a move on.’ Dad rose and slung his pack over his shoulder. The T-men shuffled up a worn kangaroo track. I took a quick swig of water and bounded after them.

[Painting 1: Mt. Giles—our goal © L.M. Kling 2010]

We stopped at a three-pronged fork in the trail. Three mountain points stood before us. ‘Now, which way shall we go?’ You’d think Dad would’ve worked the route out before we embarked on this project, using his compass and detailed maps. But apparently, he hadn’t.

Phillip (older cousin) raised an eyebrow.  Richard (my brother) scratched his chin. Ashleigh (younger cousin) shook his head, and I shrugged.

Dad hummed and hawed.

‘We could hike up and down the gully to see,’ Richard said.

Ashleigh sighed. ‘That would take too much time.’

‘What about the saddle?’ I asked.

The men looked at me, their eyes narrowed. ‘To which point?’ Dad spoke for them all. For the next few precious minutes, the men bantered about what option to take, cutting me out of the decision-making.

‘Ah, well, time’s running out. I guess we can’t expect to reach the top,’ Dad announced with the damning tone of resignation.

I stomped off towards the saddle.

[Photo 1: Mt Giles from the Pound © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I bolted on southwards and upwards to the spur. Even menacing prickle bushes didn’t stand a chance as I charged through them. Behind me I could hear the Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! as Dad hacked his way in pursuit of me. ‘Come back! You can’t go off on your own!’

Scratched and sore from the fight with the bushes, I stopped. A tightrope path lay ahead. Not even enough width for my feet on this razorback. I turned and watched the shrubs shake.

Dad emerged, brushing seeds and thorns from his arms. He shaded his eyes as he looked up. ‘You’ve taken the correct action.’

‘What?’ I scratched my eyebrows. Dad’s big words confused my exhausted mind.

Wheezing, Dad caught up to me. ‘See?’

He pointed at the nearest mound. ‘See, the trig?’

I squinted towards where the hill met the cobalt blue of the sky. At the highest point, a thin wire shimmered in the heat. ‘Oh, yeah!’

While Dad and I gulped down some water, Richard, Phillip and Ashleigh galloped past us. ‘Watch your step on the spur!’ Dad warned.

We picked our way along the razor back ridge. I held my breath and resisted the urge to look down past the tight-rope path where I placed each step. Holding my arms out straight either side, I teetered and tottered to the end of my ordeal. When I reached the slope at the other end, an incline with generous girth and no cliff in sight, I collapsed to my knees, then bent over and kissed the sandstone.

[Photo 2: Razor-back Ridges of Giles © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

However, my rejoicing was short-lived, and I rose to my sore feet to push on. After plodding up and down more ridges, more rocky slopes, and more frequent rests to nurse my aching calves, our allotted time to reach the summit by 12:30pm lapsed.

We gathered around Dad.

‘What’s the verdict?’ I asked. A breeze cooled the back of my neck.

Flies gathered on Phillip’s back. Richard slapped between Ashleigh’s shoulder blades and clapped the flattened insects from his palms. ‘Twenty.’ He flicked the last of the sticky flies from his palm.

‘Well,’ Dad took a deep breath, ‘We’ve come this far, we might as well go all the way.’

‘We have a full moon, that’ll help,’ Ashleigh said.

Phillip waved a pesky fly from his face. ‘Okay!’

‘Let’s go!’ Richard slapped his hands together near Phil’s nose and killed that fly too.

‘Alright!’ I said.

Determined to reach the peak, we plunged forward, despite being famished, wrung of perspiration, weary and late. We were so close. Every so often, the trig teased us, appearing as we reached a high point, and then vanishing as we dipped into a valley. Richard and Phil raced each other.

I climbed over a wall of rock and saw the trig wobbling above the slope in the oily heat. I scrambled upwards. A saddle stretched and rose before me. Damn! Another false top! I struggled over the saddle to face another false top. After staggering over the fifth false top, I saw the trig and blinked. Was it real? Or was it a mirage? I limped up the jagged path, pain shooting down my calf muscles with each step. The trig disappeared behind an outcrop of rocks. We’ll never get there!

[Photo 3: One Ridge After Another © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

I skirted the rocks and saw the trig fifty meters away, bold, rusty, and high. Under the shade of an orange sheet that fluttered like a flag in the wind, Richard, Phil and Ash lounged by the stone cairn, packs off their backs, stirring Salvital into their cups of water and then sipping with delight the reward of their labour. The time was one o’clock.

Ten minutes later, Dad dragged himself over the last ridge and limped to the summit. There, he sat on a rock and rubbed his knee. ‘O-o-oh!’ He inspected the damage, red and swollen. ‘I tripped and fell on my knee. I hope I can get down alright.’

‘You better,’ Phillip laughed. ‘You can’t exactly camp up here.’

‘You’ll have to get down,’ Richard said.

‘Yeah!’ I gazed at the view, entranced by the once-ancient ocean bed surrounded by islands of mountain ranges that snaked like the backbone of a prehistoric creature into the haze on the horizon.

[Photo 4: View from the summit—Foreground, the Pound, Ormiston Gorge behind, and in far distance, Mt. Sonder (left) and Mt. Ziel (right) © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1981]

‘Hey, look at these!’ Phillip excavated some calling cards from a tin can wedged in the monument to the summit. Our predecessors had conquered the mountain one year earlier to the day. The scribe wrote: “The climb was well worth the effort”. They described ascending to the peak by the southern ridge starting from Giles Spring. This tip gave us the idea to descend by the south ridge and traverse west through the pound to the camp.

We celebrated with lunch of “scroggin” (a muxture of nuts, dried fruit and chocolate) and copious amounts of Milo and strawberry-flavoured Quick mixed with powdered milk and water. We took photos of the stunning scenery and each other as evidence of our triumph over adversity.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2017; updated 2021; 2026

Feature Painting: Trekking towards Mt Giles challenge (Pastel) © Lee-Anne Marie King 2021

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

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

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Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari

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

Arty Friday with the T-Team–Kata Tjuta

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The T-Team With Mr B (14)—The Olgas and Ayers Rock

 [For the SALA month of August, my painting, “Sunrise on Kata Tjuta”, is displayed at Marino Community Hall. So, this week I am revisiting my travel memoir, The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.

In this episode, the T-Team suffers more carnage to the trailer. This time the tyres take a beating. But there are unexpected rewards for those who wait …]

Tyre Carnage On Way to the Rock

We sailed along on the road to Uluru, the warmth of the sun on our cheeks and breeze in our hair. Sand-hills rolled up and down and then into the distance. Black trunks of ironwood trees flitted past. The Rock made random appearances and disappeared. A wheel flew past and bounced into the bush.

*[Photo 1: Glimpse of Uluru and Kata Tjuta © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

I looked at Richard. ‘What was that?’

‘A tyre.’

‘Where did that come from?’

‘The trailer,’ Richard remarked with a sigh and pointed.

The trailer scudded on its side, red dust billowing all around it.

Richard leaned over the rail and thumped the driver’s window. The Rover eased to a stop and Dad leapt out. ‘What?’

‘The trailer!’ Richard said. ‘Again!’

*[Photo 2: Shredded tyre travails of the T-Team’s travels © L.M. Kling 2013]

The men gathered around the trailer and discussed their options in lowered tones. Dad frowned, he put his hands on his hips and gazed at the ground as Mr. B glared at him.

‘Poor! Very poor for a trailer!’ Mr. B muttered. ‘What are we going to do about it, mate?’

Dad shifted his feet and then with his boot scuffed the stones. ‘I don’t know. What do you reckon, Richard?’

Richard shrugged.

‘I say, laddie, can you find that tyre?’ Mr. B asked.

‘It’s long gone,’ Richard said. ‘But I’ll try.’

‘They’re expensive.’ Dad kicked the one remaining trailer tyre. The men stared at the one-wheeled trailer as though they were visiting a gravesite.

‘Alright,’ Richard muttered, ‘I’ll go and see if I can find it.’

Richard stomped down the road. He placed his hand above his eyes and peered in the direction the tyre had vanished into the scrub.

Matt caught my gaze. ‘Boring!’

‘Let’s go up that hill and see if we can take a photo of Ayers Rock and the Olgas,’ I said. As we were walking, I conveyed the information I had gleaned from Dad about the Olgas. ‘Did you know, Matt, that the people who own this land call this amazing collection of giant boulders, Kata Tjuta which means “many heads”?’

‘How far are the Olgas from Ayers Rock?’ Matt asked.

‘My dad reckons they are 30 miles west of Uluru,’ I replied. ‘he says we’re going to camp outside the national park, just beyond the Olgas.’

‘Olgas, that’s a funny name.’

 ‘Yeah, it’s German, I think. Dad was telling me that in 1872, the pioneer explorer Ernest Giles discovered them and called them “The Olgas”, after Queen Olga of the German Kingdom of Württemberg.’

 ‘Imagine having a few rocks named after you.’ Matt laughed. ‘The Boulders of Lee-Anne.’

‘Matt’s Massif,’ I joked.

Matt tittered. ‘What about, Richard’s Rock?’

‘Hey, I just remembered, back in Ernabella, there’s a Trudinger Hill. How cool is that?’

‘So, every time, people see those funny rocks and boulders in the distance, they will be reminded of some mouldy old German queen.’

‘Now that you put it that way, sounds a bit odd, us Europeans putting our names on the features of this ancient land. I wonder if they’ll eventually change the names back to what the Pitjantjara peoples call it someday.’

3.
4.
5.
[Photo 3,4, & 5: Views of Uluru and Kata Tjuta © L.M. Kling 2013]

We mounted the nearby rise and admired the Rock, bathed in the blue of midday.

‘There are certain advantages to trailers breaking up,’ I remarked.

Matt nodded. ‘Yep, sure are.’

‘It’s like an adventure.’

‘Yep, sure is.’

*[Photo 6: Sunset on Uluru © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

The men decided to leave the trailer on the side of the road and fix it upon our return when we passed that way. By then we hoped to have the parts and equipment required to reattach the rogue wheel that Richard had found and then hidden underneath the trailer.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018; updated 2022; updated 2026

*Feature Painting: Sunrise on Kata Tjuta (Known as The Olgas until 1993 but by 2002, its name has been officially reverted to its indigenous name, Kata Tjuta) © L.M. Kling 2013

***

Want more? Want to know exactly how many tyres the T-Team trashed?

Why not binge on the T-Team Adventures in the Centre?

Click here for:

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

 Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

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

Travel with the T-Team: Homeward Bound

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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 Friday–Other Side of Ormiston Gorge

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Story Behind the Painting–Ormiston Gorge

[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]

Fishies in the Billabong

After relishing the sweet crunch of cornflakes for breakfast, the T-Team drove back to Ormiston Gorge. We hiked through the gorge admiring the red cliffs, ghost gums and mirror reflections in the waterholes, and took less than an hour to reach the end with the view of Mt. Giles, lumpy and sapphire blue.

*[Photo 1: View of Ormiston Gorge as we hike through © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Settling near a waterhole framed by reeds, Dad built up a fire on the coarse sand while our family friend, TR rolled up his trousers and dipped his toes in the pool. ‘Hey!’ He pointed and did a little dance. ‘A fish! I see a fish!’

*[Photo 2: The Other Side of Ormiston © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Our cousins, C1 and C2 raced over to TR. ‘Where?’ They peered into the pond. I trailed after them, hunting for fish through the plumes of muddied water near TR’s white calves.

‘There!’ TR waved his finger at the middle of the waterhole.

C1 squinted. ‘Oh, yeah.’

C2 waded into the water and peered. ‘I don’t see anything.’

*[Photo 3: Waterhole closer © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

Richard hunted and fossicked through the cooking equipment Dad had scattered around the campfire. ‘You got a sieve? A net? Anything?’

‘What for?’ Dad asked.

‘The fish.’

‘Ah, you know, those fish can lay dormant in the dry creek bed for years and when the rain comes, they spawn.’ Dad just had to tell us.

‘Well, this little fishy is going to be our lunch.’ Richard snapped his fat fingers together like crab claws. ‘I’ll catch it with my hands if I have to.’ He strode into the pool with such force the waters parted like the Red Sea. ‘Now where’s that fish?’ He said as he sank up to his waist.

‘There it is!’ TR gestured. ‘To your right.’

*[Photo 4: Mt Giles over pound © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

Richard glanced, his smile faded. ‘Oh, is that all? It’s just a piddley little thing. Not enough for lunch.’ He was neck deep in the water and prepared to swim. He shot up. ‘Ouch! Something bit me!’

‘Better watch out, might be Jaws,’ I said.

‘You didn’t tell me there were yabbies.’ Richard bobbed up and down, then reached down to catch his feet. ‘Ouch! It bit me again!’

‘Why not yabbies?’ C1 said.

‘Now that’s an idea.’ Richard replied.

‘Ah! Shrimp!’ C2 waded towards his cousin. ‘I love the taste of shrimp.’

‘Hmm, yabbies,’ Richard said. ‘We used to catch yabbies all the time when we were young.’ With an explosive splash, he submerged in search of the yabby that had bitten him.

Dad, TR and I waited for the damper scones to cook and watched Richard and C1 turn bottoms up like ducks in the water in their quest for yabbies. C2 waded in the shallows of the pond, a roughly sharpened stick in hand ready to skewer any hapless water-creature.

*[Photo 5: Eating lunch © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

Soon we breathed in the sweet aroma of baked scones. Dad flipped the foil wrapped balls out of the coals. ‘Lunch is ready!’ He clustered the silver spheres together using a small branch as if they were balls on a snooker table. Empty-handed the lads dragged their soaked bodies from the waterhole and schlepped to the fire place to collect their consolation prize of damper scone.

Richard held his stubby index finger and thumb in the form of the letter “C”. ‘I was this close to getting a yabby.’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; Updated 2018; 2021; 2026

*Feature Painting: The Other Side of Ormiston © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016

***

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 1981