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Family History Friday–Grandpa Gross

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Tale of Two Grandpas

Grandpa 1—Sam Gross

Recently I shared how my dad relied on the Readers Digest “How to Fix” book to tackle DIY jobs. Having a double mortgage, and money being tight, Dad didn’t have much cash to splash on the “experts” in such fields as plumbing, electricity and general home maintenance.

The response met with a hint of dismissal from my older friends who prided themselves on their pedigree of farmer fathers. These, they boasted were real men, Aussie men, who fixed all things by pragmatic problem solving without the help of a book. The wisdom of their farming forebears imparted to them by osmosis, apparently.


*[Photo 1: One of those Some Mothers do ‘ave ‘em moments © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) circa 1978]


In contrast, my father was a lesser being, a city dweller who had to refer to a book, of all things. My dad was a much-loved teacher, gifted in music, art and sport. He coached a winning football team of Indigenous players from Hermannsburg, Northern Territory in his youth, led a choir of Indigenous singers, and later school student Anklung bands for the South Australian Festival of Music. No flies on my dad. But I must admit, when it came to DIY, his forays into such exploits would rival the character Frank Spencer in the British sit-com, “Some Mothers do ’ave ‘em”. Still, I’m proud of my dad and love him.
But then I realised that these superior beings who were my friend’s fathers, were from my grandparents’ era.

So, I cast my mind and research back to my two grandpas: Reverend Sam Gross (my mother’s father) and Dr. Ron Trudinger (my father’s father).

Now these friends held up their ties to the land as superior. Although both my grandfathers are highly educated with Reverend and doctor between them, I can claim a link to the land too, through my maternal grandfather, Sam. His family were farmers with I imagine generations of farmers before them from Horsham Victoria in the 1850’s and extending back to Prussia.


*[Photo 2: The Gross Family Farmhouse, near Horsham, Victoria © L.M. Kling 1996]


Sam was born in 1905 and grew up with all that practical knowhow bred into his being. I never met Sam, he died before I was born, but I remember my mum saying he was good at fixing things like cars. He could’ve been an engineer, but he became a Lutheran pastor. I reckon my brother inherited some of Sam’s traits—he’s a jack of all trades—the ideal DIY man.

As a child, Sam suffered rheumatic fever which affected his heart. Consequently, he got the education with the view of becoming a minister and wasn’t expected to continue with the farm like his brothers.
The doctors told Sam he wouldn’t live past the age of thirty. But being extremely fit and maintaining his health, Sam defied those expectations.

After ordination to become a minister, and then a few years posted to Berri, in the Riverland of South Australia, Sam with his wife, Elsa (my grandma) and three young daughters (one my mother), ventured to Hermannsburg, Northern Territory. There God had called them to be missionaries to the Arrernte people.


*[Photo 3: Leaving Berri © S.O. Gross 1939]


Now, Hermannsburg is remote, more so in 1939 when they moved there. The settlement became even more isolated once war broke out.

*[Photo 4: Pastor Sam Gross with fellow ministers in Hermannsburg © courtesy of M.E. Trudinger circa 1940]


Sam’s pragmatic skills, bred and imparted to him from generations who had lived and struggled on the land as poor subsistence farmers in Germany, then as pioneer farmers in the Victorian Western districts in Australia, came to the fore in the harsh isolated conditions in Central Australia.

Sam had to venture to even more remote places in the desert west of the MacDonnell Ranges—Haast Bluff for instance. One trip in 1942, the truck broke down. Despite putting his mechanic hat on and trying to fix the car, an essential part of the engine was kaput and the much-needed part not available. Sam’s problem-solving prowess kicked in, donkeys were found and the car towed by donkey-power back to “civilisation”—Hermannsburg.

*[Photo 5: Donkey-power © S.O. Gross 1942]


A year or so after their arrival in Hermannsburg, the supervising pastor, F.W. Albrecht was stuck in Adelaide as a result of the war. Hermannsburg came under suspicion, as it was a mission set up by German missionaries back in the 1880’s, and as such with ties to the Lutheran church, had a German name and tradition. The British Army being paranoid of anything that hinted of German, was suspicious of Hermannsburg. They feared German spies were hiding out there. So, they sent officers to check out Hermannsburg.

*[Photo 6: A visit by the Airforce © S.O. Gross circa 1942]


On one of these visits, without their chief, Pastor Albrecht, Sam and Elsa had to entertain these one-eyed wary characters. How did Sam survive their investigation? My mum says her father had the gift of the gab. My grandma had the gift of hospitality. In “A Straight-Out man” by F.W. Albrecht, I remember reading the Arrernte said that Sam would be alright, he’s so Aussie they won’t suspect him. Besides, the name Gross is found in England too. Also, Sam’s first language was English and when at school, he had trouble learning German. Although German was spoken at Hermannsburg and in the family, Mum can’t remember what they did when these British Intelligence Officers came, but thinks the children were kept out the way. Maybe someone took the kinder (children) on a picnic…


*[Photo 7: Mum and her sisters on a picnic © S.O. Gross circa 1942]


Sam and his family survived the officer’s interrogation. However, the pedal two-way radio was confiscated, and later Rex Batterbee was appointed to keep an eye on the mission. This Rex did and taught Albert Namatjira to paint.

There’s much more to Sam’s story. I think this post gives a glimpse into his generation and German farming ancestry, migrants making good, living in isolation, making do, thinking on one’s feet and problem-solving.

Did I mention Sam still found time to indulge (as the Mission Board put it—another saga) his passion for photography? He used these photos of Central Australia for deputations to garner support for the mission. Many of his photos are now stored in the Strehlow Centre in Alice Springs.

*[Photo 8: One of my favourites of Sam’s photos, Ghost Gum © S.O. Gross circa 1942]


And finally, Sam outlived his doctor’s expectations. He lived to the age of 57.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2025
Feature Photo: Sam and Elsa Gross © courtesy M.E. Trudinger circa 1960

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Friday Crime–The Culvert (29)

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Up the Apple Isle
Part 2

Meeting Mavis

When she left the old man at the service station, Dee made a mental note to turn left at the fork in the road where the purple house sat; just as the man said she needed to do to find the Thomas farm. She hoped the new owners would know where the Thomas family had moved.

After parking her car off the road, and in a ditch near the creek, Dee picked her way over the road and up the uneven path to the pastel pink painted house. Chooks ran amok in the front yard, scratching and pecking at the patchy lawn. A silver-haired blue heeler trotted around the yard after the chooks, sniffing and checking out where the hens had visited.

*[Photo 1: Free-range hens near Mt. Field © L.M. Kling 2016]


The door creaked open before Dee had time to knock, and a plump woman in her early 40’s looked at her and asked, ‘Are you lost?’

Dee replied, ‘No, actually, I’m an old friend of a lady who worked here with the Thomases back 40-years ago. Name of Lillie von Erikson? Did you know her? I’m trying to track down the daughter she had here back then…Adopted out…’

‘Ah, me mum…’ a knowing smile spread across the woman’s face, ‘always suspected that woz the case. So, now the truth comes out.’

She laughed, her tummy jiggling under her apron that covered with her latest cooking venture. Then she beckoned to Dee to come inside.

Offering a side of the table free of papers, the local lady said, ‘Cuppa? I have some delicious apple pie what’s just been cooked.’

Dee, who had a weakness for dessert and anything sweet, gladly accepted.

Over tea and heavenly pie with cream, straight from the cow cream, so the woman called Mavis boasted, Dee learnt the history of the little Huon hamlet, the days of the lives of each of the inhabitants, who was related to who, how many partners each had as well as offspring. Dee’s head spun with all these extraneous details but struggled to put in even one question related to her enquiry. Mavis rabbited on and on, barely pausing to take a breath.

The apple pie was good, though, and Dee accepted a second, then third piece in the quest to ask at least one question.

*[Photo 2: Mountain Range over Huon River, Tahune airwalk © L.M. Kling 2016]


When Dee glanced out the window and saw the hill presiding over the river all black in the darkness of night, she decided to move the conversation along. She pointed at Mavis’s pie and melted cream. ‘Aren’t you going to have some?’

Mavis stopped mid-sentence about her son and ex going Mutton birding, and she stared at her plate. ‘Oh, yeah, forgot about that,’ she remarked and shovelled a spoonful into her mouth.

As she chewed, Dee said, ‘Can you tell me where the Thomases went?’

At the mention of the Thomas family and Mavis’s mouth was off again, full gallop. Dee could see that at this rate it’d be midnight before she had an opportunity to leave. She didn’t fancy navigating these tricky Huon valley roads in the darkness of night and hoped Mavis would offer her a spare room or couch to sleep…if she ever stopped talking.

Dee tolerated the whole Thomas history, from convict beginnings of their ancestors, a ship that never was that they built and sped them to the coast of Chile, another daring escape from most certain hanging, to finally straightening out their lives to buy this patch of land on God’s earth.

*[Photo 3: The Ship That Never Was play, Strahan © L.M. Kling 2001]


Dee was sure Mavis was making it up as she went along.

A few hours later after weaving through the Thomas family history over the last century, Mavis announced, ‘You see, that’s why Zoe never fitted in; she wozn’t one of us.’

Before Dee could utter, “How so?” Mavis raced on, ‘Me mum grew up with Janine, went to school wif her and they got married at the same time. But while me mum went on to have ten kids, Janine had none. That was until that girl, Lillie come to work wif them. Me cousin worked wif her on the apple farm. She reckoned something woz wrong wif that girl. You can tell if someone’s up the duff, ya know. It’s the way their tummy sits, no hiding it.’

Mavis took a quick sip of her now, stone-cold tea, gulped and continued, ‘Then the next thing, off Janine goes on a holiday and bingo, comes back wif a baby. By that time, the girl, Lillie, so me mum says is gone. She woz preggers with me at the time.’

‘Did you…?’ Dee began.

Mavis cut in. ‘I went to school with Zoe. All brains that girl, and you could tell she wozn’t one of us. She definitely had the makings of a mainlander. But Janine never budged. As far as she woz concerned, Zoe woz hers and nothing could persuade her to tell the ‘onest truth. But we all knew…I mean, the Thomases, bof of them dark haired, Irish, and here they have a blonde who looked like one of them German kids that Hitler used to go on about. What were they called, them kids?’

‘Aryan,’ Dee replied and then zipped in, ‘so where are the Thomases now?’

‘Ah, well, Janine, the mother, she’s passed, so I heard. Cancer got her, they said, but Mister Thomas, he lives in Strahan. They moved to the West Coast a few years back when Zoe woz still in high school. Told ya, she never fitted in. Heard she became some hotshot lawyer in Melbourne. If that doesn’t tell ya, once a mainlander, always one, I tell ya.’

After this comment, Mavis yawned.

‘Have you been…?’

‘No, never, why would I do that?’ Mavis said. She straightened up and puffed out her generous chest. ‘We have it all here on the apple isle, why would I go there, to the mainland?’

Dee prepared to stand. ‘I must…’

Mavis jumped up and pushed her down. ‘No, no, you can’t go out now. Here, you stay here tonight. I have a couple of spare rooms; me kids are all grown up, ya see. ‘sides, it’s dark out there and dangerous to drive at night. All the animals come out and I wouldn’t want ya having an accident. No, you must stay and have a good sleep, and, in the morning, I’ll draw a map for how you get to Strahan, okay.’

*[Photo 4: Unharmed wildlife, Echidna, Tasmania © L.M. Kling 2016]


Dee thanked Mavis for her offer. She’d forgotten about the wildlife. She’d seen more animal carnage on the roadside from Hobart to Huonville than she’d seen in a lifetime of driving in the Adelaide hills and surrounds. She would prefer not the add to the native wildlife body-count.

© Tessa Trudinger 2025
Feature Painting: Huon River Tributary, Tahune, Tasmania © L.M. Kling 2023

Sometimes characters spring from real life,
Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.
Sometimes real life is just real life.
Check out my travel memoirs,
And escape in time and space
To Central Australia.

Click on the links:

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


Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or for a greater escape into another world…
Check out my Sci-fi/ dystopian novel,
And click on the link:

The Lost World of the Wends

Travelling on Friday–Ormiston Gorge

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T-Team Next Generation: Ormiston Gorge

[In 2013, two members of the original T-Team, actually, my brother and I with our families embarked on a convoy to Central Australia in memory of our Dad…and so began the story in the making of the T-Team Next Generation that follows my memoir: Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981 available on Amazon.]

A Place to Remember

‘What? A camel race? There’ll be a fight on their hands if they insist.’ Words actually spoken by Mum when confronted with even the suggestion of a change of plans. ‘We didn’t fly all the way up to Central Australia for the weekend to watch a camel race.’

Most of the T-Team, minus the one who’d made the suggestion (they were absent), nodded.
‘We are going to Ormiston Gorge, and that’s final.’

‘To honour Dad,’ I said.

‘To scatter his ashes,’ my husband (Hubby) added.

*[1. Video: Hungry Camel, eating, not racing, Gorge Wildlife Park, near Loebethal in Adelaide Hills © L.M. Kling 2024]

The camel race idea slid into obscurity. We spent Saturday morning lazing around at Glen Helen, fighting off flies. One T-Kid resorted to wearing a cloth shopping bag over their head while other T-members bought flynets from the store. The T-Team explored the waterhole at Glen Helen, before having lunch with the congregation of flies. Then we travelled to Ormiston Gorge.

*[Photo 2: One way to avoid the flies © L.M. Kling 2013]

The road to the gorge, though unsealed was in better condition than I remembered it in 1981. More tourists, I guess. No. 2 Son and I travelled with Mum (I drove), while Hubby drove the Ford with No. 1 Son, and my brother’s family piled into their van for the trip. So, we wound our way in convoy to Ormiston Gorge. 3pm and we were spoilt for choice of parks.

‘Most of the tourists have probably moved on or gone back to Alice for the camel race,’ I remarked to Mum.

I swung into a park and then we jumped out of the car.

Mum fumbled with some sealed containers. ‘Now, how shall we do this?’

‘Just divide the ashes evenly in the containers,’ I said.

She divided up the containers and began filling them with ashes.

‘They should be here soon,’ I gazed through the tee-tree bushes. ‘They were right behind us.’

‘Better not’ve gone to Alice for the camel races,’ Mum muttered.

‘I don’t think they would. The kids wanted to swim in the water-hole.’

*[Photo 3: Dad’s Ormiston Gorge © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

No. 2 Son bolted. Now that we were at Ormiston, he wanted to see what it was about the place that Grandpa found so attractive.

Mum continued to doll out the ashes. Takes time to doll out ashes into containers.

No.2 Son returned. ‘They’re here, just around the corner.’

Mum and I followed him.

‘What happened to you?’ my brother’s wife, Mrs. T yelled. ‘We’ve been waiting here for ages. Could’ve gone to the store, bought souvenirs and come back.’

‘Can we swim now?’ one T-Kid asked.

‘Not yet,’ my brother replied.

Mum offered her boxes of precious cargo to them. Our T-Children weren’t sure about taking them, but Mum persuaded them. They’d be honouring Grandpa’s memory.

As the T-Team Revisited, we trooped into the gorge. In late afternoon, the cliffs rose somber and dusky-pink casting a shadow over the waterhole. The T-Kids gazed at the expanse of water and kept on walking.
Just past the waterhole we climbed up a ridge. When we reached the top, Mum stumbled. Mrs T caught her and steadied her. Mum sat down with the announcement:

‘That’s it. I’m not going any further. But the rest of you can.’

*[4. Painting 1 and feature: Ormiston Memories (Acrylic) © L.M. Kling 2017]

The sun caught the cliff-wall opposite, causing it to glimmer a golden orange. A ghost gum sprouting from a tumble of rocks attracted my attention. ‘I remember that tree,’ I said. ‘Dad’s favourite tree in Ormiston.’ After taking a photo, I scrambled down to the tree and scattered Dad’s ashes there.

Up and down the immediate locale of the gorge, the rest of the T-Team Revisited, wandered, silently reflecting on Dad and scattering him where he had many times trekked.

Some hikers tramped past and glanced sideways at us. The T-Team ignored them. Mum watched us from her vantage point. I climbed back up to her to check how she was.

One of the T-kids joined us. ‘The hikers asked us what we were doing, and I said we were scattering Grandpa’s ashes. They said, ‘Oh,’ and walked away all quiet. Which was awkward!’

I counted the members of the T-Team who crawled over the rocks and the other side of the rock-hole.
‘Where’s No.2 Son?’

‘I think I saw him go further down the gorge with his Dad,’ Mum said.

Down the ridge, and around the golden wall I hiked. I found No.2 Son marching towards me. ‘I want to see what’s around the bend.’

I glanced at my watch. 4pm. ‘Why not?’

We strode down the gorge and around a corner or two. Cliffs in hues of blue and purple with just the tips splashed with orange. Perfect reflections in pools.

*[Photo 5: What’s Around the Bend? © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘What’s around the next corner?’ No.2 Son was had found his hiking mojo and was keen to explore more of Ormiston Gorge.

‘Let’s see.’

We stormed around the next corner. Ormiston with its majestic cliffs, even in shade of the late afternoon, spurred us onward to explore.

‘Let’s go on. I want to see more.’

‘Let’s.’ I’d never seen such enthusiasm from No.2 Son to explore nature.

On we tramped, the sand firm under our boots. The gorge cast in hues of mauve enticed us further. More reflections in still pools caught the sun-capped heights of the eastern cliffs.

‘Just one more bend,’ he urged as he raced ahead.

*[Photo 6: And the Next? © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘Hoy! Hoy!’ a voice way behind us yelled.

We turned.

Hubby ran towards us. ‘Time to head back.’

My son stopped. ‘Oh, but…’

‘Come on! It’ll be dark soon.’

‘But I want to see what’s ‘round the corner.’

‘Too bad! I don’t want to be cooking in the dark—come on!’

*[Photo 7: Ormiston Reflections © L.M. Kling 2013]

As we dragged our feet back to Ormiston’s entrance, No. 2 Son grumbled. ‘Just as I’m getting into this exploring, Dad, you have to spoil it. You want me to get outdoors and then you call me back.’

‘It gives you a taste for another time when we’ll have more time to hike through the gorge to the Pound, okay?’ I said thinking, And perhaps climb Mt Giles one more time…

*[Painting 2: Mt Giles through Ormiston (Acrylic) © L.M. Kling 2016]

We passed the T-kids drying off from their swim in the waterhole.

MB waved from the damp depths. ‘Come on, have a dip!’

‘Too late,’ Hubby called back. ‘We have to get back to camp. I don’t want to be cooking in the dark.’

I was glad Hubby moved us on. Wasn’t in the mood for swimming. Like No. 2 Son, I yearned to explore the dreams and secrets, the twists and turns of Ormiston Gorge.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2017; revised 2018; updated 2020; 2025

Does adventure in Australia’s Centre spring to mind? Take your mind and imagination on a historic journey with the T-Team…

Find my travel memoir on Amazon and in Kindle.

Click on the links below:

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Friday Crime–The Culvert (28)

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Dee Digs

May 3, 2022
3pm
Adelaide Police HQ

Dee

After the phone call to Fifi, Dee leaned back in her chair. ‘Gotcha, Mr. Renard. Gotcha!’
She couldn’t believe her good fortune in Fifi. Didn’t take that “Rannga” much to turn against her former friend.

However, youth group rumours were not enough to “hang” Lillie, she needed hard facts—evidence. She started with the local council office at Glen Huon. After all, most apple picking happened in the Huon Valley, Tasmania. So, a good place to commence digging dirt on her nemesis.

[Photo 1: Crab apples in autumn © L.M. Kling 2024]


Thankful that she woke up the sleepy young man in the office before the council chambers closed, she trawled through the files he sent her. She was glad that such information about payrolls and workers in the area in 1981, had been digitised. Lillie von Erikson was listed as working for apple orchard owners, Greg and Janine Thomas. However, no mention of a baby or her being pregnant. Dee puzzled over the fact that Lillie, according to Fifi, seemed to have been in Tasmania long after the apple-picking season was over.

What was she doing there after apple picking? Dee wondered.

She moved onto Trove, an online digital archive, that has recorded historic newspaper articles and publications. Searched Lillie’s name in the local and state newspapers from the day.

Nothing.

She calculated when the baby would arrive if conceived in November. Then scrutinized state and also national papers for a birth in the personal pages. August—September 1981, in particular. Nothing. Still, all is not lost. Perhaps she didn’t put the birth in the paper if she adopted the child out.

But a quick check of newspaper dates available revealed that Trove only published papers up to 1950. What a disappointment!

A visit to the South Australian State Library was the next step in the search. There she trawled through the microfiche files for the Tasmanian newspapers, concentrating on births around August and September.

After an unsatisfactory August, she scanned the first week in September.

‘Ah! That looks more like it,’ Dee murmured.

She zoomed in on the notice of a daughter, Zoe, born to Lillie’s apple picking bosses, Greg and Janine Thomas. Detective Dee Berry smiled while resting her clasped hands on her belly. September 1, right in the timeframe too.

‘Interesting,’ she murmured. ‘Did the moll stay to help Mrs Thomas? Or did she give the baby to Mrs. Thomas?’

A check of the births, deaths, and marriages register, and confirmed. Mrs. Janine Thomas was over 40 when she had her first child, Zoe.

‘Not impossible, but suspicious,’ Dee muttered. ‘I think a little trip to Tasmania is what I must do.’
After saving the information onto a file labelled “Moll”, she put in an application for a visit to Tasmania courtesy of the government. After all, it was an enquiry into a murder investigation.

Who knows, Dee smirked, my enemy may be a suspect that needs to be eliminated; one way or another I’ll get her.

[Painting 1 and Feature: Sleeping Beauty over Huon River © L.M. Kling 2018]


Up the Apple Isle
Part 1

Thursday May 5, 2022
Huon Valley, Tasmania

Dee

Dee gripped the leather-bound steering wheel of Toyota Corolla hire car as it rumbled up the unsealed road. Won’t tell the hire company about that little detour, she thought. From the Council records, the Thomas farm was hidden way out west, close to the “Great Western wilderness”. The further west she drove, the thinner and rougher the road became.

She passed a tiny town with houses painted in gaudy orange and pastel greens. A purple house stood sentinel at a fork in the road. Dee took the left track hoping to reach her destination soon. She’d given up on the Sat Nav. The designated voice, named Jilly was vague and hadn’t a clue where to go.

Dee was proud that she could still read maps and follow the directions of an old local manning the service station at Glen Huon. He said he’d remembered someone like Lillie 40-odd years back. Strangers were a rarity in a small town of fifty-odd people from where he had come. He said Lillie had walked into the church, and all twenty heads turned to size up the blonde from the mainland.

‘It wasn’t long before rumours were flying,’ the station owner said, ‘pregnant, just like the lady who lived in that purple house you’ll see when you get to the town up there. Rumour has it, she’s got a child from ten different men. Anyways, that’s a lifetime ago now. Back then, if someone sneezed across the valley there, everyone in town would know about it and the person who sneezed would have died from pneumonia. Not much better now.’

[Photo 2: Tahune Tree Walk © L.M. Kling 2016]

Dee must have given him a strange look, because the station owner added, ‘Oh, er, don’t believe the rumours. Them folk up there are all related, married cousins and what not, but they don’t have two heads.’

‘Didn’t think they had,’ Dee replied, ‘I just want to know how to get to the Thomas farm.’

‘Don’t know why you want to go there; the family left years ago.’

‘Do you know where they went?’

The man shrugged. ‘The missus died, so I heard. Daughter’s become some big shot lawyer in Melbourne. Something not right there, she never fitted, you know what I mean. She wasn’t one of us.’

‘Did she look like Lillie, the blonde?’ Dee showed the man a photo she had scanned to her phone of 17-year-old Lillie.

The man paused, squinted and then nodded. ‘Yeah, there were rumours. But we could never prove it. Janine, Mr. Thomas’s missus, always insisted the baby was hers.’

© Tessa Trudinger 2025

Sometimes characters spring from real life,
Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.
Sometimes real life is just real life.
Check out my travel memoirs,
And escape in time and space
To Central Australia.

Click on the links:


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


Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or for a greater escape into another world…
Check out my Sci-fi/ dystopian novel,
And click on the link:


The Lost World of the Wends

My History on Friday–School Daze

/ lmkling / Leave a comment
Recent events on the world stage and closer to home have reminded me of this little gem I posted way back in 2016. Still relevant today—maybe even more so, as it was back then so many years ago when I was in high school. And it seems, while many of us have matured and have an open mind when it comes to opinions and how we view others, there are some who believe that if you tell a lie often enough, it must be true. The recipients who have no backbone who believe these lies are just as guilty. Need I go into detail with examples? Not here. But I may explore this issue in some of my future novels.

NOW YOU KNOW…


Year Ten at high school, and you could say I went to school each day with a big virtual sign on my back that read, “Kick Me”.

Don’t get me wrong, I had my close friends; friends who valued me for me and who saw through the prevailing attitudes of the crowd towards me. I assumed my lack of popularity was spawned from a rocky start in Year Seven—new kid when all friendship groups had been established in a ridiculously small school. And then there were those who had made it their mission in life to persecute me. I assumed they spread the rumours about me. Or maybe it was my buck teeth, and awkward way of relating to people…When you are told by your peers over and over again that you are ugly, unloved and no one wants you and you do regularly get picked last for the team, I guess you start to believe what people say.
What kept me together, were my real friends, the ones outside of school, and my friends at school. I also belonged to a fantastic youth group that met every Friday night. A close-knit, loving family helped as well.

Most of all my faith in Jesus got me through those difficult early teenage years.

Anyway, at fifteen, my teeth had been almost straightened by orthodontics, and I’d perfected the enemy-avoiding strategy of spending lunchtimes in the library. I loved learning and my best friend, and I spurred each other on in academic excellence. My goal, a scholarship. I had heard rumours that some kids thought I was not so intelligent, a fool, in other words.

[Photo 1: Free range chickens, Gorge Wildlife Park near Lobethal © L.M. Kling 2024]


At my grandmother’s place, after Sunday lunch, I helped Grandma with the dishes. As I scraped away the chicken bones, I discovered the wishbone.

‘Can I make a wish?’ I asked Grandma.

‘Well, why not?’ she replied. Although a godly woman, some superstitions from our Wendish (eastern European) past had filtered down through the generations. So, wishing on wishbones was no big spiritual deal.

Grandma and I hooked our little fingers around each prong of the wishbone. We pulled. The bone snapped in two and I won the larger portion. I closed my eyes and made my wish, a scholarship. Dad had promised that if I studied hard and won a scholarship, he’d buy me a ten-pin bowling ball. So, in truth, my aspirations for academic achievement were less than pure.

*[Photo 2: Dreams of a bowling ball © L.M. Kling 2016]

What was it about socks? I wondered as I dutifully began to pull up my socks. For our summer uniform which we had to wear in first term, we wore blue cotton frocks down to our knees and long white socks.

Woe betide any poor soul who did not pull their socks up to their knees. The length of our uniform dresses was another issue that kept certain teachers occupied. And don’t get me started on hair. I tell you, if all the students had worn their uniforms correctly, I think the teachers would’ve quit out of boredom.

So, with my socks pulled up, I waited in line to troop into the chapel for morning assembly. A tap on my back. One of my friends smiled at me. I remember her simple bob of straight blonde hair; no fancy flicks or curls like many fashion-conscious girls in the 1970’s. Farrah Fawcet flicks were all the rage and drove the teachers to distraction.

‘Good luck,’ my friend said.

‘Why?’ I asked.

Miss Uniform-Obsessed-Teacher glared at us. She had those bulging blue eyes, mean pointy mouth that forced us to slouch into submission, and for me to check my socks again.

One of my foes snaked past and muttered at me, ‘Dumb idiot.’

I shook my head and concentrated on not getting glared at by the teacher. Really, I thought, he’s at the bottom of the class and he’s calling me dumb? What is it with that guy? In his defense, he did come out with a gem once in English class when the students were rioting and so reducing the first-year-out teacher to tears. He said to me, ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’ So true for my home town.

*[Photo 3: Like sheep they were © C.D. Trudinger circa 1995]


Once inside the hallowed halls of the chapel, we went through the ritual of the school assembly. The principal delivered the talk. There’s a lecture I recall he made, don’t know if it was that particular one—how we were a bunch of jellyfish and we must get some backbone. When he said backbone I thought of the wishbone, and then that guy who said I was dumb and his cohorts. I thought of how people believe unquestioningly what others tell them, even if it’s not true. They go along with the prevailing attitude, even if it’s wrong and harmful to others. In some ways, like at school, I was a victim of these jellyfish, and in other ways, I was a jellyfish too. I had an attitude, an aversion against those who bullied me. Did I have backbone enough to get to know them as people rather than continuing to avoid them as enemies?
The principal began to hand out the awards. Ah, yes, that’s what my friend meant. Today was the day of the awards. I watched as various students marched up the front and collected their scholarships. That won’t be me, I thought.

‘And for Year Ten,’ the principal said, ‘the scholarship for high achievement…’

I looked up. What? Me?

I walked to the front, shook the principal’s hand, collected the award, then head down and with a tug of my pig tail, I walked back to my seat.

Afterwards, my friend patted me on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations! Well done! Just like you to win an award and then pull at your pig tails.’

I nodded. The whole deal of winning a scholarship seemed unreal. ‘I’ll be able to get my own bowling ball, now.’

That guy slid past me. ‘Ooh, what a surprise—we all thought you were dumb.’

‘Well, now you know I’m not,’ I replied.

*[Photo 4 and Feature: Jellyfish © iStockphoto]


Sometimes we carry our hurt from the persecution from others like a big heavy bag on our backs and the truth is it influences the way we see the world. I realised being a victim had become my narrative, and I didn’t want it to be so. As a jellyfish, I had no backbone to stand against this view of myself and how others viewed me. I feared speaking out and going against the crowd in the cause of truth, justice, mercy and compassion. I kept my opinions to myself. Then just recently, when again the baggage of victimhood crept up on me, I read the following passage from the book of Matthew in the Bible. The words encouraged and gave me the backbone to stand out and for the sake of Jesus Christ make a positive difference in the world.

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me (Jesus). Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”—Matthew 5:11-12

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; 2023; 2025
Feature Picture: Huge School of Water Jelly © iStockphoto

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Travelling on Friday–Glen Helen

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T-Team Next Generation—Glen Helen

Wood for the Fire

[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 gather and multiply as we greet our adult sons and our mother (Mum T also known as Mrs T senior) for the day, and the expanded T-Team of us set off to camp at Glen Helen.]

The T-children wanted a campfire. My brother had promised them a campfire. But bushfires in the past year had made campfires, even in the middle of winter in the middle of Australia, almost extinct. On our trip up north this time, each camping ground up until Glen Helen, had restricted fires, and denied the children the pleasure of a campfire. That’s not to say the T-Team Next Generation missed out entirely of some sort of fire to cook our food. We did spend one night in one of those free parking “camps” 30 kilometres south of Marla where we attempted to make a campfire. However, the area was so well picked over for firewood, the few sticks we did scrounge together barely made enough flames to boil a billy. So, no satisfaction regarding campfires. That is, until Glen Helen.

[Photo 1: Red Cliffs of Glen Helen © L.M. Kling 2013]

Even far out in the bush, the Glen Helen camping grounds had strict conditions and regulations controlling the operation of campfires. In the Glen Helen camping grounds, there was a designated place for the fire, and we had to provide our own wood. Again, dead wood around the immediate camping site was scarce.

[Photo 2: Glen Helen station 60 years ago—more picked over, then © S.O. Gross 1946]

So as the sun sank towards the Western horizon, golden rays blessing the cliffs in hues of pink and scarlet, and the humps of spinifex glowing like lumps of gold, my son and I set out in Mum’s Ford station wagon, down the road in search of a creek offering dead branches for firewood.

[Photo 3 and feature: Glen Helen, Finke River promising wood for the fire © L.M. Kling 2013]

As the setting sun deepened the walls of the gorge into hues of crimson, I hobbled down the dry creek filled with smooth rounded river stones. Hard to imagine the creek gushing with water in flood, rushing over those stones, smoothing them to the size and consistency of bocci balls threatening to twist my ankles.

[Photo 4: Finke in Flood © C.D. Trudinger 1956]

With my camera, a constant companion and permanent fixture hanging from my neck, my focus was not only on dry sticks and logs, but on the scenery. While my son snapped off armfuls of tinder from uprooted river gums that had become casualties of former flooding, I collected snapshots in time of the setting sun, blood-red cliffs, ancient eucalypts towering above the banks and the dry river-bed of stones.
Night stole the thin grey-blue light of dusk. With the station wagon stacked full of wood for the fire, and my camera’s memory card full of brilliant photos for my art, we returned to camp.

[Photo 5: Red Cliffs of Glen Helen © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

What joy the T-Team Next Generation family had. Well, apart from their schnitzels that had gone off. Thankfully, we were able to share the extra and expensive lamb chops we had bought the day before at the supermarket. We gathered around the fire. The fire that cooked our dinner, then warmed us and the conversation late into the cloud-free night frozen with a sky packed full of stars.

[Photo 6: Fire gathering © L.M. Kling 2013]

In the past, a fire would burn slowly all night, keeping animals away from camp. The rules of the camping ground forbade that strategy. Conscious that the local fauna may come foraging, my husband packed away all the foodstuffs and loose items back in Mum T’s station wagon.

Some of the T-Lings were not so concerned about the threat of such animals. During the night, though, a half-full cereal packet would prove fair game for a roving dingo.

[Photo 7: Spot the Dingo © S.O. Gross circa 1945]

So, stories told, marshmallows burnt and eaten, most of the T-Team Next Gen retreated to their tents and snuggled into their sleeping bags. Mum T had gone to her cabin way before the rest of us. She hoped to rise early, with my help, to catch the sunrise on Mt. Sonder.

[Photo 8: Anticipated sunrise on Mt. Sonder © L.M. Kling 2013]


My brother and his son stayed chatting around the campfire. A dingo howled. Freaky. An eerie haunting cry. My nephew was sure he’d come face-to-face with the dingo when he’d taken a trip to the toilets.
I left my brother and his son to their conversation around the fire and with the responsibility of waking mum before dawn, I headed to the tent to join my husband and sleep.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2020; 2025

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Friday Crime–The Culvert (25)

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[Oops! I made a bit of a blue last time when sharing a chapter of The Culvert. A repeat of a previous chapter under the guise of a different chapter heading. How did that happen? It’s a mystery…No, actually, I confess, the chapter repeated itself in the manuscript. All fixed, so here’s the real, fair dinkum “Fallout” Chapter.]

Fallout

Norwood
Saturday, May 1, 2022
5 to 10:00pm

El


El gleaned from the afternoon that currently had turned into dinner and an excursion to an exclusive club restaurant in Kingswood, seated by an open fireplace, red wine in hand, that Lillie had loved her father. To her he was a kind man but had trouble holding down a job. She reckoned he deserted the family because he was ashamed that he couldn’t provide for them.

‘Just before he disappeared,’ Lillie said, showing an antique gold watch, ‘he received this watch and he said, “I’ve lost my job, and this watch is all I have to show for it.”’

‘Can I have a look?’ El asked.

Lillie took the watch from her wrist and handed it to El who studied it, turning it over in her hand. She recalled the watch Zoe was holding the other day after the discovery at Mt. Lofty.

*[Photo 1 and feature: The gold watch © L.M. Kling 2024]

An inscription on the back of the watch read: In appreciation. P.E.

For what? El wondered and said, ‘Interesting. Nice watch. Would be worth a few bob, I’d imagine.’

Lillie shrugged. ‘Yeah, it’s gold.’

‘Golden handshake, I guess,’ El remarked. Then without thinking glanced at Jimmy and asked, ‘Who’s P.E.?’ Lillie had consumed a few glasses of some red wine by then. Lillie’s choice. Madam being a connoisseur of red wine. She particularly recommended drops from the Clare Valley.

Jimmy squirmed in his seat, and mumbled, ‘My dad. His boss.’

‘Golden handshake?’ El said.

‘Hard times, had to lay off people,’ Lillie jumped in and with an edge to her voice. ‘Nothing personal, he reckoned. It broke him, though.’ She then gulped down her glass of red and poured another.

‘Is that why he left?’ El said.

‘You betchya!’ Lillie said followed by another skull of wine. She started to pour more Clare red into her glass.

Jimmy placed hand over the glass. ‘I think that’s enough, dear.’

‘Oh,’ Lillie glared at her husband, ‘I’ve only started, dear.’ She nudged his hand out of the way and completed the task of filling her glass. Then she offered the remainder of the bottle to El. ‘Want one?’

‘Why not?’ El replied. She shouldn’t, she knew she shouldn’t, but with this woman of status and force, resistance seemed pointless.

She watched Lillie fill her glass. I’ll just sip, she thought.

*[Photo 2: Enjoying a wine © L.M. Kling 2023]



Lillie, now slurring her words and swaying, launched into a diatribe; wrongs done to her and her hard life. Her mother, once Dad had gone, worked two jobs to send her to college. But poor Lillie suffered bullying from the rich kids. Did she mention her nemesis? Dee. Dee Berry. Oh, how she hated that Queen of bitches.

Jimmy nodded. ‘Oh, yes, Dee. Oh, my goodness!’ He turned to Lillie and gestured. ‘Tell her about the time she beat you up in the woodwork room.’

El covered her mouth as she tried her best to hide the smirk forming on her mouth. ‘Dee Berry? You went to school with Dee?’

‘Yeah, piece of work she was. Had it in for me from the moment we met eyes back in Year 8. We both liked the same guy—Danny. Danny Hooper.’

A snort escaped from El. Dan? That’s one for the books.

‘Did you know her?’ Jimmy asked.

El in a moment of awareness, cleared her throat. Don’t mention her association with the police force. ‘Ah, small world. Adelaide, you know.’

Jimmy narrowed his eyes at El. ‘What sort of work did you say you did?’

Ah, trick question. ‘Public service in human resources and management,’ El was quick to reply. She’d added the “resources” to give some distance to the management (aka policing part). Now to distract him. She took a sip of wine, then said, ‘Speaking of your father, what ever happened to him?’

Jimmy blanched and turned away. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

El bit her lip. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ From what she had gleaned from Dan’s notes, Percy Edwards was himself a piece of work. ‘I understand.’ She decided not to mention the body in the freezer, even though she knew Percy was most likely the body they’d discovered under the culvert bridge on route up Mt. Lofty. She figured by this time, Dan or Dee had informed Jimmy of the discovery.

Meanwhile, Lillie was on a roll with the alcohol. She poured another drink, lost count of how many, and drawled, ‘Oh, my, Dee hasn’t changed. She’s plaguing me again. What is it with that woman?’

‘Yeah, no stopping that woman.’ Jimmy bobbed his head up and down. ‘She’s a copper now.’

‘Suits her, but why does she have to drag up the past and bother me?’

‘Why?’ El asked. ‘What’s she done?’

‘Aw, my brother hit a kangaroo way back in 1981, and now they think he’s killed somebody,’ Lillie said. ‘Hell, who do they think they are? Sven wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

*[Photo 3: This Kangaroo was not harmed in this episode © L.M. Kling 2021]

Jimmy patted his wife on the hand. ‘They’re just doing their job, Honey.’

‘Yeah but takes Dee to start bugging me again.’ A cloud fell over Lillie’s expression. ‘I tell you, if that Constable Berry calls me again, I’m going to sue for harassment.’

From there the conversation meandered from current trends in politics, bitcoin (and the Edwards’ massive profits) to conspiracy theories and Lillie’s passion for pro-life. No mention of her early travels to Tasmania and adopting out her baby there.

She smiled and considered the extended time with the couple, a most productive time. She checked her watch. My goodness! 10pm!

Lillie slapped her on the back. A friendly pat that with her level of inebriation had been a slap rather than a pat. ‘I really l-l-like you, El. I feel l-l-like I’ve known you forever.’

‘Yeah, likewise,’ El replied. She realised that, although she’d warned Francis she’d be out on reconnaissance with team Edwards this night, he’d be starting to get worried. She also realised she, herself had too much to drink to drive home.

El glanced at her phone to phone for a taxi.

‘Hey, El, dear, come tomorrow and we’ll get some serious painting done.’

El nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan, but um, I need to…’

Her phone pinged. A message from Francis. Where are you?

At the “Fireside” in Kingswood. Pick me up? Over the limit. El returned.

Francis: Ok, be there soon.

El assumed that Francis would text her from the car when he arrived, and she would make her escape. She would learn never to make assumptions.

*[Photo 4: Time is ticking, German Cake Shop Hahndorf © L.M. Kling 2023]


Twenty minutes later, with Lillie praising the glory of not-so-local celebrity politician, Ivan T Rumf, a slim blonde in a grey jogging suit, stepped through entrance door to the lounge.

Jimmy jumped up. ‘Zoe! Fancy meeting you here.’

Lillie continued extolling the wonders of Ivan T Rumf’s financial wizardry. Barely noticed Zoe’s presence, until…

Zoe refused the offer to join them for a glass of the good stuff and being converted to the cult of Ivan T Rumf. El assessed from Zoe’s sour expression as she waited, that she was not a fan of the money mogul.

That sour expression and lack of enthusiasm for Lillie’s current pet topic, got Lillie’s attention. She looked Zoe up and down. And narrowed her eyes. She rose with hands on hips and snapped, ‘Who do you think you are, Madam?’

Zoe stepped back and holding up her hand, tried to diffuse the situation. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve just come to collect my friend.’

‘Come now, Honey, it’s okay to have a different opinion.’ Jimmy tapped Lillie’s knee. Then to El and Zoe, ‘It’s the alcohol talking; she won’t remember a thing in the morning.’

Zoe and El glanced at each other. El rose, shrugged on her coat, lifted her handbag, and prepared to leave.

‘Hey, El, my friend, what do you think?’ Lillie tugged El’s coat sleeve.

Jimmy leaned back and smiled. ‘Hey, you know, just looking at you two. I mean, Zoe my Tassie friend, and Lillie, and I could swear you two are sisters.’

To say Lillie made a scene would be a gross understatement. Foot stamping. Fury flying. Abuse hurling. Colourful language not befitting of a prestigious college principal.


After making a hasty retreat out the establishment and into Renard’s car, El said breathlessly, ‘Sorry about that.’

‘What happened?’ Francis Renard asked.

‘She-she exploded,’ Zoe said. ‘What was all that about?’

‘Well, I’m glad I didn’t go in,’ Renard said. ‘How embarrassing for you.’

El sighed. ‘I think we have our answer, amongst other things.’

‘What do you mean?’ Zoe said.

‘If there’s any doubt, her over-reaction said it all,’ El replied.

Zoe scratched her forehead. ‘I don’t get it. You’re speaking in riddles.’

Renard huffed. ‘What the detective is trying to say, is that that crazy woman was your mother. Geez, I never knew she had a crazy side.’

El chuckled, ‘Ah, repression, does that to a person. Comes out sideways.’

‘Her?’ Zoe glanced behind her through the rear car window. ‘That woman who made a scene? Glad she gave me up…I can see the headlines now, “Judge’s birth mother is a nutcase.”’\

El raised her eyebrows. ‘Judge? You want to be a judge?’

‘Why, yeah. It’s all in my five-year plan; I was just taking leave after my mother died.’

*[Photo 5: Brighton Jetty Sunset © L.M. Kling 2025]

On the drive back to Brighton, Francis Renard sat in the driver’s seat, tall, his chest puffed out. A grin split his face, and he said, ‘My daughter, a judge. My daughter a judge.’

And El contemplated. Perhaps I could return to work as a detective. Despite the fallout, she had enjoyed her foray into covert investigation. For her, Lillie’s outburst had been the highlight.

However, she was a tad concerned how she’d manage retrieving her car from the Norwood address the next day.

© Tessa Trudinger 2025
*Feature Photo: The gold antique watch © L.M. Kling 2024

Sometimes characters spring from real life,
Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.
Sometimes real life is just real life.
Check out my travel memoirs,
And escape in time and space
To Central Australia.

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


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The Lost World of the Wends

Travelling on Friday–Standley Chasm

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[Twelve years ago, 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.
One Friday every month, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.
This time, the T-Team part ways for the day, and two of us set off to explore Standley Chasm.]

Bonus! An all-you-can-eat breakfast greeted us at the Chifley the morning after. The same can’t be said about the T-Team. Richard had slept in and not much was happening in my brother’s “camp”. Meanwhile, we had made the most of the morning, walking to the town centre.

[Photo 1: Chifley Resort © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘Gotta get tyres for the trailer, ‘n nothing’s open yet,’ Richard mumbled on the other end of my mobile phone.

‘Having a quiet day, then,’ I replied gazing around the near-empty local Big-W department store. Anthony held up a pair of cargo pants and indicated that he’d try those on. Then he began rifling through the bargain rack for more pairs to try.

‘Not exactly,’ Richard sniffed, ‘gotta get tyres.’

‘Oh, well, we’re thinking of going to Standley Chasm. Maybe we can all go together in the afternoon if your tyres get sorted.’

‘Hmm, will let you know.’

‘Okay, will hear from you then.’ I clicked off the phone and said to Anthony, ‘He doesn’t sound optimistic on the tyre-issue. Might be busy all morning.’

[Photo 2: Remember the tyre carnage? © L.M. Kling 2013]

By noon, the T-Team still weren’t ready; Richard still had to take the car to get the new tyres.
‘At least I’ve found a place that can do our tyres,’ my brother mumbled to me on the phone before he left on his tyre-mission.

[Photo 3: Ranges surrounding Alice Springs, Olive Pink Botanic Garden © M.E. Trudinger 2010]

So, Anthony and I travelled alone on our quest to explore Standley Chasm. Actually, we’d barely left the outskirts of Alice Springs travelling west on Larapinta Drive to the MacDonnell Ranges before Anthony piped up, ‘How far is it to Standley Chasm?’

‘Not far,’ I replied, then retrieving the map from the glove box, I hunted for the chasm’s location and then calculated the distance from Alice Springs. ‘It’s 50km, so about half an hour’s drive.’

‘Oh, you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cos, if it’s further, we’ll miss the red cliffs, or getting in, or we’ll be home after dark.’

[Photo 4: Spectacular view of Stanley Chasm we wish to see © S.O Gross circa 1950]

‘Already have,’ I sighed. ‘But I’m sure the chasm will still be spectacular. And the hike there will be good exercise.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’

‘Anyway, it’s not far. Besides, there’s plenty of other gorges to explore.’

Before Anthony could voice any further misgivings or regrets that we should’ve left earlier and not waited for the T-Team, the sign for Standley Chasm appeared to our right. We parked in the carpark shaded by a gathering of majestic eucalypt trees and then followed the path to the kiosk.

While waiting in line to pay the entry fee, we read the sign which assured us that we had plenty of time before the park closed at 5pm.

I nodded at the notice board and remarked, ‘All that worry for nothing.’

‘Depends how long the walk takes,’ Anthony said while nibbling a nail.

‘Doesn’t take long,’ I said. ‘I’ve been here before. Takes less than an hour.’

‘I hope so.’

I shook my head. ‘Look, we’ll walk for an hour and then turn back, okay?’

Just to be sure, when we paid for our entry tickets, I asked pleasant Irish man who ran the kiosk, how long the walk should take. He explained that it was mostly easy and would take the average hiker about half an hour.

[Photo 5: Along the way © L.M. Kling 2013]

So, rather than waste precious Anthony-time having lunch first, we set out on the adventure to the chasm. Anthony raced ahead. I wandered along the meandering path taking note of various scenes I would snap on our return. Who knows, we may make it in time for the spectacular red cliffs on both sides. Although the lack of tourists hiking either way, made me suspect that, that time had passed.

[Photo 6: Billabong © L.M. Kling 2013]
[Photo 7: Just beyond, tempting us © L.M. Kling 2013]

Twenty minutes later, Anthony and I beheld the awesome cliffs of the chasm; one side glowed golden orange, while the other side was a dark sienna. We sensed the peace and serenity of the place.

[Photo 8: The Chasm at last © L.M. Kling 2013]
[Photo 9: Perfection of Light © L.M. Kling 2013]


I scrambled over the tumble of boulders in the chasm and made my way to the pool. Beyond the rockpool, a sign prohibited us from venturing further. The deep water caught a perfect reflection of the boulders and cliffs.

[Photo 10: Pool’s reflection © L.M. Kling 2013]

In memory of my Dad, I photographed Anthony by the same tree where I had captured Dad in all his grumpiness some 36-years prior.

[Photo 11: Anthony by tree near Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]
[Photo 12: Grumpy Dad by tree © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

Upon our return to the entrance, we munched on our sandwiches and observed a group of aspiring hikers pitch their tents and then pull them down again. What’s that about? we wondered.

Then, a group of tour guides sat to eat their lunch on a picnic bench below us on the other side of the creek. Anthony had to comment, ‘There’s seven of them and only one of them is Indigenous.’

[Photo 13: Standley Chasm admired by tourist group © L.M. Kling 2013]

On our return to Alice Springs, we stopped by the caravan park where I booked our sons in. We had already booked ourselves into a cabin at the caravan park and had originally thought they could stay with us. And Mum, all concerned about missing out, had her cabin organised months ago. Even so, we had no problem arranging a separate cabin for our grown-up sons who we felt would be happy with more space.

[Photo 14: Vision of near Future at the Alice Springs Tourist Park © L.M. Kling 2013]

With late afternoon casting the long shadows of the approaching night, we made our way to where the T-Team were staying. We had been in touch with Mrs. T and had arranged to meet there. When we arrived at the appointed time, no T-Team. Calling Mrs. T on her mobile phone yielded no joy, nor answer.

‘’Not again!’ Anthony groaned.

‘Let’s go to the shops and buy some meat for a BBQ. Then we can find a picnic area and cook up our meat.’

My suggestion sounded reasonable to Anthony, so, off we drove to the local IGA supermarket. Just around the corner. Won’t be long. Maybe the T-Team will be back by the time we return.

‘That’s funny,’ I pointed at some bushes on the traffic island, ‘there’s a cop car hiding.’

‘I didn’t see anything,’ said he who was concentrating on driving.

I ducked into the shops to by some lamb chops and bread. Not much choice; I wanted to snag some sausages but couldn’t see any around. So, armed with the purchased, at some expense, meat and bread, I hopped back in the car.

[Photo 15: Ye good ol’ Aussie Barbeque © L.M. Kling 2020]

Anthony laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’ I asked.

‘While you were in the shops, a bikie guy was arrested right next door in front of the bottle shop.’ Anthony fired up the engine with the characteristic roar of the Ford. ‘I wonder what he was up to?’

Just then, Mrs. T rang back. ‘Sorry we weren’t there when you came. We was down the street and bought tea for all of us.’

So, with the chops saved in the ice box for camping at Glen Helen, we joined the T-Team for dinner, followed by a raucous game of “Chook Chook”, an educational card game trading poultry.

[Photo 16: Chook Chook © L.M. Kling 2017]

Afterwards, Mrs. T joined her friends on the back deck for a drink or two, the T-Lings continued with another round of card-playing with their father, while Anthony and I returned to another night of luxury at the Chifley Hotel.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020

*Feature Painting: Standley Chasm Men © L.M. Kling 2018

VIRTUAL TRAVEL OPPORTUNITY

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Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Friday Crime–The Culvert (24a)

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Fallout

Norwood
Saturday, May 1, 2022
1:00 to 10:00pm

El

When the football hammered on her favourite station, El switched to her USB drive and cheerful strains of Vivaldi swung into action. Nothing like this energetic Italian composer to get El into the mood for painting. Today, Lillie Edwards awaited another Saturday portraiture session.

El sighed as she replayed a rather awkward conversation with Dan. He so much wanted her to return to the force. El had put off the inevitable as long as possible. The longer she was away from the pressure of policing, the longer she enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in, and spending each day as she pleased, the less she was inclined to return to the drudgery of work. After all, she loved painting. Why spend days, weeks, months years behind a desk drowning in paperwork? Why waste time running multiple steps behind chasing criminals? Then, why spend all her hours again behind a desk researching, building up a case, just to watch the guilty slip through her virtual fingertips when at court, a clever defence lawyer convinces a jury to find them innocent?

With painting, she witnessed pleasant results in a few hours of dibbing and daubing while listening to her favourite podcast. Admittedly, lately, a certain crime story podcast was her go to of the month. Somehow, listening to crime stories proved more therapeutic than being involved in actual crime solving. Or so she told herself…

*[Painting 1: Somerton Beach Sunset (watercolour) © L.M. Kling 2017]

‘Would you consider returning to the force, El?’ Dan asked, desperation in his voice. ‘There’s nothing to stop you, now.’

‘I’ll think about it, and get back to you,’ El replied. The thought of returning to work, fighting the peak hour morning traffic, battling to find a park, and the daily grind of managing unruly people, set El’s teeth on edge.

That conversation happened on Tuesday.

Friday, Dan called again. He had asked, what was her decision.

While gazing out at the rolling waves from her wall to ceiling window, and still dressed in her dressing gown, El said, ‘I’m sorry, Dan, I’m not ready to come back.’

‘But why?’

‘I need more time.’ Just couldn’t break it to him that she really didn’t feel like ever returning. ‘The stress of the last couple of years has taken its toll.’

‘Oh, please reconsider, El.’ Dan’s voice softened to a whisper. ‘Just between you and me, Dee is driving me crazy. With her bean-counting.’

‘And her paranoia, no doubt.’ El snipped. ‘Look, it’s people like her that make the job an issue for me.’

‘But what about the challenge, the thrill of solving a case?’

‘Hmm, only to see it all fall apart and dissolve in court. And people like Dee who with their darn bean counting miss the whole point and give the defence lawyers a win on a silver platter.’ El shook her head. ‘Nah, I’m done.’

‘What? I thought you said you just needed more time.’ Dan sounded hurt.

‘Oh, I mean, for now. But if I decide not to return, I may still consider being a private detective. Be my own boss and bypass Dee and her cronies.’

‘Oh…but…’

‘Face it, Dan, I’ve had it up to here with the government and how they’ve treated us.’

‘But we need more…’ Dan sounded sad.

‘I know.’ El shifted in her seat on the lounge chair. Guilty. ‘Downward spiral. Less workers. More work for those left. Crime goes up. But-er-I’m pretty fragile at the moment. I can’t take the pressure.’

Renard chuckled in the background. ‘Can’t blame ya, they have treated public servants poorly. I’d quit too, if I was you.’

El turned and glared at Renard who pretended to concentrate on the newspaper crossword. She placed her finger on her mouth. ‘Shh!’

‘And you think I don’t have problems, El?’ Dan snapped. ‘You know, I’d much rather be an outback cop, on the coalface, than having to put up with all this cr—I mean politics here in the city. I mean, with all the demands put on me, I don’t have a life. It’s just work, and sleep. Hell, and then I can’t sleep because this cold case has got under my skin.’

*[Painting 2: Mt. Giles Through Ormiston Gorge (acrylic) © L.M. Kling 2016]

‘Is it personal, Dan?’

‘Hell, yeah, it’s personal.’ Dan’s tone had a sense of urgency. ‘I mean, I remember Jimmy and Lillie Edwards from youth group. I remember when Lillie’s father Jan disappeared. And then, a year later, Percy, Jimmy’s father vanished. So strange. So strange.’

‘Perhaps, then, you are too involved,’ El said with a sniff, ‘you need to step back from it. perspective, remember. After all, just a thought, who says they didn’t run off together?’

‘Yeah, yeah, but something about the whole case doesn’t sit right. I can’t rest until I…’

‘Sounds like a rabbit hole, Dan.’

‘Well, let’s just say, Dee’s already dived in and buried herself in it. And so, I have to go along and pull her out.’ Heavy breathing. ‘That’s why I wanted you to consider coming back. Helping. I mean, you came to me with the cold case. You asked me. The least you could do is…’

‘I know. I know. I regret that. Moment of weakness.’ El clenched her fists. Be strong. Resist temptation. ‘Sorry, Dan, no can do. I’ve reconsidered and I’ve got to put my mental health first, or I’ll be no use to anyone.’

‘Not even now we’ve found a body?’ Dan urged. ‘Not even a little bit curious?’

‘No, Dan.’

‘Please, can’t you just find some time to do some digging. In an unofficial capacity, perhaps? Please?’

Renard swayed his head while filling in a crossword clue. ‘He’s desperate.’

‘You know that’s not…’

‘If you could just…I mean, I have a family…I’m so busy, Leo, my son has gone rogue. I think he has a girlfriend but…I don’t know where he is half the time. And I haven’t seen my girlfriend Jemima and our daughter Bella in weeks.’

El sighed. Nothing like a guilt trip to make her give in. ‘Alright, I’ll see what I can…’

‘Thank you! Thank you! I’ll send the details of discovery your way. Thank you.’

*[Painting 3 and Feature: Desert Park, Alice Springs (pastel) © L.M. Kling 2025]

El pulled up in the wide driveway of the Edwards’ mansion. Just what she didn’t need, another hidden agenda behind the portrait session in honour of Lillie Edwards. Somehow, she envisioned the rabbit hole of the Edwards-Von Erikson cold case drawing her into its vortex too.

She giggled. Perhaps there was something in that idea that Percy and Jan had run off together. Then again, perhaps things turned sour, and Jan, in disguise, had given Percy the “heave-ho”. A variation on that famous cold case back in the ‘70’s of the body in the freezer.

El smiled and nodded while alighting from the car. Yes, she might start with that story and see if she sensed a reaction from Lillie.

Lillie, wearing a flowing, rainbow-coloured poncho, welcomed El into her mansion.

‘Sorry about the clutter, El,’ Lillie waved a hand at the stacks of books and piles of papers, tableaus ready to dance on what was intended to be a ballroom floor. ‘Every holidays, I intend to tackle that lot, but…’
While skirting the newspaper piles at the edge of the open hallway, Lillie led El to the spare bedroom come art studio. Freshly brewed coffee percolated its aroma, filling the room. Lillie glided over to the table holding the coffee and a silver standing tray with a pyramid of cupcakes laden with icing. El mused, pink icing with cupcake. Would she scrape off the icing and eat the cake? Risk offending her portrait muse and host who had gone to all that trouble, slaving the whole morning buying those cupcakes from the local bakery?

‘Coffee? Cupcake?’ Lillie’s shrill voice shook El out of her sugar-frosted nightmare.

El politely smiled and said, ‘I’ll have some coffee, but, um, I’ll need to pass on the cake. My sugar levels were a bit up, so I need to…’

‘But they are gluten-free.’

Before El could make another lame excuse, a cake appeared on a Noritake plate graced with delicate grey leaves and accompanied by a matching cup and saucer filled with coffee and cream.

‘I thought we could have some afternoon tea before you get down to painting,’ Lillie said while biting into her icing with cupcake. Gluten-free. ‘I’m sure that’s how that famous artist on the ABC does it.’

‘Get to know the subject—I mean, person he’s painting, you mean?’ El said, then sipped her coffee. ‘So, in that vein, let me ask about your childhood. Where did you grow up?’

*[Painting 4: One Day in the Barossa (acrylic) © L.M. Kling 2018]

From that question, more followed with the answers. No painting that afternoon, only more coffee, more cake, then biscuits which were brought in by Lillie’s husband, Jimmy—interesting—and finally, to keep the conversation flowing, some white wine, a Moscato, from MacLaren Vale. By the time the wine appeared, Jimmy had joined the party and El mused that this was the most successful informal interview she’d ever performed.


© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2025

***

Sometimes characters spring from real life,
Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.
Sometimes real life is just real life.
Check out my travel memoirs,
And escape in time and space
To Central Australia.

Click on the links:


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


Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or for a greater escape into another world…
Check out my Sci-fi/ dystopian novel,


And click on the link:


The Lost World of the Wends

Fifth Friday Flashback

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School’s back this week. And all the parents of school-aged children breathe a sigh of relief as their little and not-so-little treasures return to the classroom. So glad that for me, that season has passed.

Even so, a fitting tribute to the time I once was a teacher…

School Daze: Teacher Training

Feature Photo: Classroom, Hermannsburg © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955