Travelling Thursday– Road Trip in the Charger (6)

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

Road Trip to Sydney in the Charger (final)

[Based on real events but some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40-years ago.

Finally…the intrepid road trip travellers reach Sydney.]

Feature Photo: Sydney Harbour from Ferry © L.M. Kling 2002

The conference and Rick’s never had a girlfriend

As far as conferences went, not a bad one. Lots of singing, worshipping God, that is, lectures, Bible Study, eating, and meeting new friends and old friends too. Our accommodation was down Anzac Parade, about five kilometres, halfway to the beach. I shared a small apartment with Rick and Dad. Dad drove me back and forth from the conference centre at Randwick. Not sure what Cordelia did, but I think she connected with other members of her family who attended the conference and stayed with them. Rick, I think ferried Mitch and Jack to and from the conference centre.

This arrangement becomes relevant later in the week of the conference.

One session that stands out, was the one on relationships.

Rick and I sat side by side, in the front row.

This will be interesting, I thought. Maybe I’ll get some tips on how to get a boyfriend and be popular like Cordelia.

‘So,’ the speaker said, ‘How many of you have had a boyfriend or girlfriend?’

Everyone including me, raised their hands. Everyone, that is, except my brother Rick.

‘What? You’ve never had a girlfriend, Laddie?’

‘Nope?’

The speaker pointed at me. ‘What about that lovely girl next to you?’

‘She’s my sister.’

Laughter.

[Photo 1: A lone tall ship in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Abandoned at the hostel and trek up Anzac Parade

Towards the end of the conference, one more event stood out.

Dad told me to wait for him at the hostel apartment where we were staying. After lunch we had an afternoon of free time before the final worship session.

I returned to the apartment lunch with my brother and friends eager to catch up on some rest and losing myself in a book. Maybe some journal writing which had been neglected in all the activity and excitement of the conference.

However upon my return to the dreary grey corridors of the hostel, my door was locked. Oh, well, Dad said he won’t be long.

I had nothing with me. All my supplies of entertainment and comfort were locked away in the apartment.

So I sat.

For hours.

After two hours, I began to sniff.

Then snivel.

Then finally, cry.

A lady poked her head out of a nearby door. ‘Are you all right?’

I wiped my eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

She retreated into her apartment.

I looked at my watch. Five o’clock! Almost three hours I’d been waiting for Dad.

Convinced that he’s forgotten me and I’d be waiting further five hours with that lady sticking her nose in my business every so often, I stood up. Stiffening my lip in grim determination, I marched out the hostel and strode up Anzac Parade.

I prayed that God would protect me.

[Photo 2: Yachts in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Along the cracked pavement. Past long neglected houses. And cared-for ones. Over busy roads at the lights. Narrowly escaping any impact with red-light running cars. In the humidity. Under light rain. Taking a wide berth around the many hotels. And leering drunks who spilled out onto the footpath. In the ever-fading light that faded into dusk.

Five kilometres and forty minutes later, I entered the conference centre. The session where all had gathered, was concluding with prayers. All in a circle holding hands. I slipped in the circle. 

The boy next to me squeezed my hand.

Oh, he’s just being kind to poor little old me, I thought. After all, if even my father forgets me…

After, over tea and biscuits, my miffed Dad asked, ‘Where were you?’

‘What do you mean? I waited three hours,’ I retorted.

‘Couldn’t you be patient?’

‘Not when I couldn’t get into the room,’ I said. There was a limit to my patience.

‘I went to pick you up and you weren’t there,’ Dad said. ‘I told you to wait.’

‘And, what time was that?’

‘Oh, er, um, about…’ Dad’s voice faded, ‘about five.’

‘Well, I was there at five, and I didn’t see you.’ I sniffed. ‘So, I walked.’

‘But don’t you know how dangerous that was to walk here?’ Dad showing so much concern, after forgetting me for the whole afternoon.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I replied. ‘I prayed and God protected me.’

‘He did. Praise the Lord,’ Dad said and then wagged a finger at me. ‘But don’t you ever do that again.’

‘Yes, Dad.’ As long as you don’t forget me again.

Passing through the Blue Mountains

[Photo 3: A view of the Blue Mountains from actual trip © L.M. Kling 1979]

Our return to the less crowded and more sedate city of Adelaide, was serene and uneventful as the fair city itself. Especially at the time in 1979.

A few highlights. Mostly, in fact, all associated with the Blue Mountains. We had missed the beauty and wonder of the mountains on our journey to Sydney, so, Rick endeavoured for us to see these mountains in daytime on our trek home.

At the lookout to the Three Sisters, we lunched and admired the majesty of God’s creation. Even Rick using his polaroid camera, took photos of us admiring the scene. He was taken with the layers of misty blues and subtle greens cascading down into the depths, while the cliff tomes forming the Three Sisters presided over the valley.

I burst out in song and Cordelia joined in.

After a chorus, Cordelia said, ‘You should try out for the worship band.’

‘Me?’

‘You have such a sweet voice, although it does need to be stronger.’

On the drive home I considered the prospect of trying out for the band. Perhaps singing in front of the church would make me more popular with the boys. Like Cordelia. But in the end, I decided against it. Too hard. Too much of a challenge for plain old me. After all, the worship band was a highly coveted affair, where lead singers jealously guarded their position. I’d never have a chance. Sweet voice, but not strong voice would never cut it.

Back at school, I continued my enjoyment of music singing in the choir. But I’d always secretly envy the solos with their stand-out song voices. The stars with their melodic strong notes, the audience’s focus on them alone.

Instead, that new year of 1979, my passion turned to art…and writing. These were the gifts God had given me.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

Feature Photo: Sydney Harbour from Ferry © L.M. Kling 2002

***

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

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Friday Frolics–Road Trip in the Charger (5)

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

Cordelia makes a brief visit to the hospital.

Jack woke and rubbed his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’

‘What are you doing?’ Mitch asked.

‘What do ya think?’ Rick said as he slowed to the 60 km/h speed limit of the town.

Mitch pointed the other way, out of town. ‘Couldn’t we just…’

‘No,’ Rick said.

‘Cordelia’s going to be sick,’ I chimed in.

Rick slammed on the brakes and skidded on the rubble on the side of the road.

‘Not yet,’ Cordelia said in a soft voice. ‘But I need a hospital.’

None of us asked the reason we needed a hospital for Cordelia. Under the light of the newly functioning headlights, I studied the strip map for the district hospital. Not much joy there. The map only showed the strip of road or highway from town A to town B, no diversions. However, we did find a 24-hour service station where Mitch asked the way to the hospital.

Upon arriving, Cordelia insisted on entering the premises on her own while the rest of us waited in the carpark. Making the most of the opportunity not to be cramped up in the car, we sat or paced around the car in the balmy night.

*[Photo 1: Missed—the Blue Mountains © S.O. Gross circa 1960]

An hour or so later, Cordelia emerged feeling better. No explanation.

And once more we piled in the car and headed for Sydney.

‘If we drive through the night, we’ll reach Sydney by morning,’ Mitch said. ‘Plenty of time for the conference.’

Rick adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and grunted. ‘As long as nothing else happens.’

I squeezed myself against the back passenger door. I had lost my place in the front with Rick to Cordelia. I had been relegated to the back seat with Mitch and Jack.

The gentle rocking of the drive lulled me to sleep.

Lost in Sydney

I yawned and stretched.

‘Hey, watch it!’ Mitch said and pushed my hand away.

‘Sorry.’ I covered my mouth and yawned again.

The Charger crawled along following bumper to bumper traffic. High rise buildings towered over the narrow road and every side street garnered either a black and white “One Way” sign, or red and white “No Entry” sign. A bridge looking like a giant coat hanger peeped through a gap in the buildings.

*[Photo 2: Sydney Harbour Bridge before there was an Opera House © S.O. Gross circa 1960]

‘Where are we?’ I asked.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Rick said.

‘Oh, Sydney,’ I said. ‘How come we’re not at the conference?’

‘You tell me,’ Rick muttered.

‘We’re having trouble…’ Mitch began.

‘It’s all these one-way streets,’ Rick said. ‘Who ever designed Sydney must’ve had rocks in their head.’

Jack suggested we head for Bondi Beach for a swim as it’s so bleeping hot, reasoning, that if we hadn’t had the car trouble, we’d have had a day to take in the sights and go for a swim.

‘Aren’t we late for the conference?’ I said.

Rick rolled his eyes. ‘Rate we’re going, we’ll never get there.’

‘But, if we go to Bondi,’ Mitch said, ‘perhaps we can find a park and work out where we are and how to get to the conference.’

‘But how do we do that?’ Rick asked. He moved the car at the speed of a tortoise along the road chock-full with near stationary vehicles.

I pointed at a sign which read, “Bondi”. Head east, follow that sign. I’d given up on attending the conference, and believing we’d be stuck in Sydney city traffic forever, resolved to content myself with the promise of the beach sometime in the next week. Not sure how Dad would feel about us not turning up, though. He’d made it his mission to persuade our little tribe to come. And, here we were, lost in the city traffic, wandering in circles around one-way streets.

*[Photo 3: Speaking of circles, Aquarium at Circular Quay, Sydney © L.M. Kling 2002]

I imagined Dad pacing the floor of the conference centre, wearing a groove in the carpet, glancing at his watch and peering out the window. ‘Where are those children,’ he’d be saying, ‘they should be here by now.’

‘Where, exactly is the conference?’ I asked. ‘Is it near Bondi?’

‘Have you got rocks in your head?’ Rick said. His face was flushed with beads of perspiration dripping from his temples. ‘Of course it’s not. And at this rate, no matter where it is, we won’t get there. We’re stuck.’

‘Um,’ Jack interrupted Rick’s rant, ‘I think it’s at Randwick Racecourse.’

‘And where’s that?’ I said.

‘Perhaps, if we go to Bondi, find a park, then we can study the map, and work out where to go,’ Mitch said.

‘Or we could lob into a corner shop and ask someone directions,’ I suggested.

The guys ignored my idea, as guys do. All this time Cordelia remained silent, contributing nothing to the discussion. Perhaps to be more popular with the boys as Cordelia certainly was, I considered I should remain silent. But, me, being me, I just could help myself. Being one of the “lads” and voicing my opinion, that is.

We reached Bondi. Early afternoon.

I remember the weather. Warm, cloudy and humid. Specks of rain assaulted the windscreen. Despite the inclement weather by my Adelaide standards, the streets around this beachside suburb were cluttered with more cars, and even more people. It seemed to me that Bondi was crowded with the entire rest of the population of Sydney; the ones who were not still stuck in traffic in the city centre.

As a result, no parks. Nowhere. Not a thin strip anywhere to put the Charger.

Rick sighed and drove through the park-less and crowded Bondi, along some coastal road and then up a road heading east again.

*[Photo 4 and Feature: What else, but the Opera House with the Sydney Harbour Bridge © A.N. Kling 2016]

Jack, who had been studying a simple map of Sydney that the RAA strip map provided, pointed at a road on the map. ‘I’m pretty sure if we turn down Anzac Parade and follow it all the way down, we will reach our destination.’

Rick followed Jack’s directions and we arrived at the conference just in time for afternoon tea. And, I might add, a roasting from Dad who could not understand how we could get lost in Sydney.

Mitch, though was philosophical. ‘It could’ve been worse, but I was praying the whole time, and God got us here safe and sound.’

Dad sniffed and tapped his trouser pocket. ‘Hmm, yes, you are right Mitch. Ah, well, praise the Lord.’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

Still Free…

Journey to The Lost World of the Wends

Free on Amazon Kindle till May 7, 2023

Wild Wends-Day–A Celebration Treat

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

Wild Wends-Day — A Special Celebration Treat

Travel to The Lost World of the Wends for Free

A Story where the past and present, and vast distances in space intersect…and Boris does what he always does…

Eastern Europe, 1848

Prussian War raged, and the Wends as a village, left their homeland, with plans to set sail for Australia. From the Eastern edge of Prussia, they journeyed on a barge destined for Hamburg’s port, where they hoped to catch a cheap fare in the cargo-hold of a ship destined for the Promised Great South Land.

These villagers, never made their Australian destination. No one ever noticed, nor missed them. The neighbouring villagers assumed they had arrived in the Great Southern Land, and considered them so far away, and too distant to maintain contact. In Adelaide, also, the city for which they headed, the inhabitants were blissfully unaware of their existence. Migrating Prussians had taken their place in the over-flowing cargo-hold and were sailing across the Atlantic to Australia.

On this barge, headed by a man, Boris Roach, the Wends sang hymns of praise to God for their liberation from religious persecution, and the war. They looked to the promise of prosperity and freedom to worship God according to the Word. Their hope that their children and their descendants may thrive in their faith in the Promised Land of South Australia.

A tale where the nineteenth century meets the twenty-first…

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

***

Read more, and lose yourself in this tale where the nineteenth century meets the twenty-first…

Free from 3 — 7 May 2023

Just click on the link:

The Lost World of the Wends…

Wandering Wednesday–Road Trip in the Charger (4)

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

Our next challenge in our road trip to Sydney in the Charger were car repairs. Car parts in the outback were not so available, and in the middle of summer, the group were feeling the heat and they were hungry.

Waiting for the Alternator

Mitch’s hopes turned to practicalities as the morning dragged on while we waited for another elusive item, the alternator. I figured that the alternator must be hiding in the same place that the roadhouse in Dubbo must be.

By the time my watch read 8am, us four who were not mechanics, once more headed down the main road to the town centre in search of a “deli” as we in South Australia call corner shops, or a supermarket of some description.

We found a supermarket come snack bar, and treated ourselves to a meat pie, chips and Famers Union iced coffee. Just the sort of food one has for breakfast after a grueling sleepless night. Mitch, appreciative of my mechanic brother’s efforts, brought him back the same fare as we had eaten.

Rick was leaning against the side of his precious Charger, still waiting for the elusive alternator.

*[Photo 1: Morning in outback © L.M. Kling 2013]

A heated discussion ensued amongst the fellows. Mitch put forward that we could be using daylight to drive to Sydney.

Rick refuted that suggestion with, ‘Do you want to sleep in the car again?’

Jack began to raise his hand, but Mitch cut in. ‘No, you’re right, Rick.’

Rick went onto explain that the problem with faulty alternators is that they affect the battery. He described how in the short but slow drive to Dubbo, he drove the car in a lower gear to get the most out of the failing battery.

And so, we waited, sitting in what little shade the garage’s carpark afforded, waiting for the alternator to arrive.

Early afternoon, the sun’s heat beating down on us, Jack, Mitch, Cordelia and I again walked down to the main street for some lunch. Upon our return with stale ham sandwiches to share, Rick was hunched over under the Charger’s open bonnet.

*[Photo 2 and Feature: Mechanic’s Backyard of experience © M.E. Trudinger circa 1989]

I put my hands together in a half-hearted clap. ‘Hooray! The cavalry has arrived!’

‘No,’ Mitch had to be correct, ‘it’s the alternator.’

‘I had an idea how to repair the existing one,’ Rick said.

‘Hooray! Rick has worked out how to fix the alternator,’ I laughed.

‘You have a strange sense of humour,’ Cordelia said. ‘No wonder you find it hard to make friends, Lee-Anne.’

‘Praise the Lord!’ I raised my hands. ‘My brother can fix…’

‘Don’t make it worse,’ Cordelia said.

Perhaps she’s right, I thought, then took my sandwich pack, split from the “social police” before drifting over to Rick, to watch him as he operated on the car. Strange thing was, Mitch made a speedy dash away from Cordelia and followed me.

‘Hey, Rick,’ Mitch asked while hovering over his shoulder, ‘how long till you’re finished?’

Rick grunted in reply and swore.

I stepped back, knowing all too well not to crowd my brother when he was concentrating. Obviously, Mitch was not as aware. He leaned over Rick, blocking the sunlight from the engine. Rick poked out his tongue as he tackled a stubborn bolt.

Mitch stuck by Rick’s elbow. ‘Is that all you have to do?’

Where’s the social police now? Oh, there she is, staring at her sandwich and grimacing. She looked like a chipmunk.

[Photo 3: For a koala its always time for food (Melbourne Zoo) © L.M. Kling 1986]

I smiled observing Rick as he gritted his teeth and muttered expletives. Mitch seemed totally unaware that his attention wasn’t helping.

‘Bu#@%er!’ Rick cried.

A ping and a clunk, and the spanner dropped into the engine of no return.

‘What happened?’ Mitch asked all innocent.

Rick narrowed his eyes at his friend. ‘What do you think?’

‘Did you drop the spanner?’

‘Yes. And now I’m going to have fun getting it out.’

Mitch rubbed his hands together. ‘Can I help?’ Mitch loved to help.

A grin slowly formed on Rick’s face. ‘I think you can, Mitch.’

Mitch was dancing on the spot in anticipation. ‘How?’

‘See the engine?’

Mitch nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I want you to find the spanner and pick it out for me.’ Rick wiped his sweaty brow. ‘This is hot and thirsty work and I need a drink and some lunch.’

‘Okay,’ Mitch said while studying the engine, ‘I can do that.’

In the shade of a scraggly bush by a low stone wall, I handed Rick a quarter of sandwich and bottle of Fanta. My brother and I sat on the wall and watched Mitch hunt for the spanner. Rick munched on his ham and relish sandwich, unperturbed by the dryness of bread and ham tasting too salty. He washed down some of the fizzy drink and then said, ‘Well, I better go and rescue Mitch.’

The sun travelled westwards, and shadows lengthened as the “quick” job took several hours to complete.

Just before the sun set, Rick rubbed his grease-covered hands on an old cloth and declared the vehicle ready for action. He hoped the battery would give us no trouble.

*[Photo 4: Sunset on parrots © L.M. Kling 2022]

Once again, we piled in the car and Rick turned the ignition.

A squeak.

A sputter.

Then a roar.

The Charger puttered and shook as the engine turned over and the beast began to move out of the garage carpark.

We entered the main street, passing the store which had provided our breakfast and lunch. Closed for the night. Jack gazed at the store and sighed.

As if reading his mind and everyone else’s, Rick said, ‘We’ll need to drive for an hour or so before we stop.’

Mitch put on a brave face. ‘We’ll find a roadhouse sometime later tonight to have tea.’

We watched Dubbo’s Shell service station come roadhouse flit past as we left the town.

Sitting in the front passenger seat next to my brother who was driving, I pulled out the RAA strip map and flicked through the pages. Locating the one with Dubbo, I scanned the last few pages and calculated the distance and time to reach our destination.

‘According to the strip map, it will take us about six hours to reach Sydney,’ I said.

‘So,’ Mitch from the back replied, ‘we shall make it in time for the conference.’

‘Where, exactly is the conference?’ Jack asked.

‘Randwick Racecourse, if I remember correctly,’ Mitch said.

‘Where’s that?’ I asked.

‘Beats me,’ Rick said.

‘Do we have a map of Sydney?’ Mitch said with an edge to his voice.

Rick shrugged and planted his foot on the accelerator. The Charger roared to the highway’s maximum speed of 110 km/ph.

*[Video: Long stretch of Central Australian outback highway © L.M. Kling 2021]

‘I guess we’ll have to…’ Mitch began.

Cordelia who seemed to be quieter than her usual demur self (I guess she had no social mores to report on), clutched her stomach and whispered, ‘I don’t feel very well, I need to find a hospital.’

Slowing the car, Rick sighed and shook his head. ‘I guess we better go back to Dubbo.’

Tyres crunched on the gravel before he swung the car in an arc performing a seamless U-turn and headed back towards the twinkling lights of Dubbo.

 © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

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

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Wandering Wednesday–Road Trip in the Charger (3)

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

Road Trip to Sydney in the Charger (3)

Crammed in the Charger of No Sleep

We parked in the car park of a closed service station come garage. By this time Cordelia’s request for a doctor had been forgotten. She remained silent and didn’t remind us. I wasn’t going to mention her need. She looked well enough to me when we extracted ourselves from the car and stretched our legs. She was upright and not running off to the nearest public toilet.

After a brief stamp of our legs and rubbing of our arms, Rick said, ‘We’ll need to get some sleep.’

‘How are we going to do that?’ asked Jack.

‘In the car, I guess,’ Rick replied.

Mitch herded us back into the car. ‘Come on, in we go.’

Again, we piled in. Again, Mitch crammed in the middle of us two girls, while Rick and Jack reclined in semi-luxury in the front seats.

I observed that Cordelia had no complaints and her need for a doctor remained a non-urgent issue. For now. She snuggled up to Mitch, who also made no drama of the arrangement. No sleep for me, though. I squashed myself up against the side, putting as much space between me and my cousin as humanly possible. All through the hours of darkness, I sat upright trying to sleep while Mitch twitched, and my brother snored.

[Photo 1: Full moon © L.M. Kling 2009]

In the grey light of pre-dawn, I spied Mitch pacing the gravelly clearing of the carpark. How did he get out? The Charger is only a two-door car. On the other side of the back seat, Cordelia slept soundly. Rick snorted and shifted his weight in the driver’s seat while Jack lay stock still. Looked like a corpse. Then he moved.

In an effort not to disturb the three sleepers, I slowly, gingerly, silently, crawled over Rick. My brother snorted as I landed on his knees.

‘Sorry,’ I whispered. ‘Have to answer the call of nature.’

‘Why didn’t you say so,’ Rick said, smacked his lips and continued snoring.

I pushed open the car door and crept out.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked my cousin.

‘Stretching my legs,’ he said.

‘Weren’t you comfortable?’

‘No,’ Mitch said, ‘sleeping upright and squashed up next to…next to,’ he jerked his head in the direction of the car, ‘I found it very—very…uncomfortable.’

I glanced at Cordelia sleeping like a kitten but decided not to comment on the arrangement. ‘Well, it wasn’t a Sunday School picnic for me, either. I didn’t sleep a wink.’

‘Oh, yes, you did,’ Mitch said. ‘You were snoring.’

‘No, I wasn’t; that was Rick. He always snores. Anyway, I was awake all night.’

But Mitch was adamant that I snored. Just like Rick.

‘What do we do for breakfast?’ I asked.

Mitch shrugged.

‘Perhaps there’s a roadhouse around here somewhere,’ I said. ‘I’m starving.’

Mitch though advised that we must wait until the others had risen before we venture into town to find a place to eat.

I gazed in the direction of the main street with the shabby buildings all monochrome, the sun’s rays yet to burst over the horizon. I hoped that there was a place to eat in this sleepy town.

‘Is this Dubbo?’ I asked.

Mitch again shrugged.

‘Looks awfully small for Dubbo.’ I remembered when our family had visited Dubbo on the way back from Canberra three years earlier. We had toured the zoo there at that time. Didn’t take much time to tour the zoo. Rather small, actually and I went away disappointed. Still, my memory of Dubbo was that it was much bigger than this tiny collection of real estate.

‘I think so,’ Mitch replied. ‘We’re on the outskirts.’

‘Lucky I found this garage,’ Rick said while strolling up to us.

Mitch smiled. ‘Well, that’s an answer to prayer. We won’t have to go looking for one.’

‘No, just a place to eat. I’m hungry,’ I said.

[Photo 2: Country town NSW © S.O. Gross circa 1960]

By the time the sun had peeped over the horizon, Jack and Cordelia had woken and piled out of the Charger.

While Rick commenced preparatory work on the Charger, the rest of us four, ventured down the main street in search of a roadhouse. We figured that at this early hour of the day, nothing much else would be open. However, the roadhouse remained elusive, and we returned to the Charger at the garage hungry.

Upon our return we noticed Rick and a man standing under the raised bonnet of the car. They were in deep discussion.

As we approached, the man waved at Rick and walked away towards the garage, now open.

[Photo 3 and Feature: On the bonnet of the Charger © courtesy R.M. Trudinger 1983]

‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

‘That’s the owner of the garage,’ Rick replied. ‘He saw our car here and came over to find out what we were doing parked here.’

‘Oh, yeah, and?’

‘He thinks he might have an alternator for us, so I’ll be able to fix the car and then we can be on our way.’

‘That’s good,’ Mitch said. ‘How long will that take?’

‘Oh, not long, just a half an hour once I get the part.’

‘So, we can swing by the roadhouse on the other side of the town on our way out once the car is fixed, then,’ Mitch said all hopeful.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

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

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Wandering Wednesday–Road Trip in the Charger (2)

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

Road Trip Adventure in the Charger (2)

Part 2

No Headlights

The highway, so straight, never curving to the right nor the left, was hypnotic. Again, in the late afternoon, the burning sun on the back of my neck, now sinking in the West, and the rushing of air from the open window, lulled me into a state of semi-sleep.

By increments, as sunset turned to dusk, the air cooled. I trusted Rick to keep us safe on the highway to Sydney. I noted Cordelia resting her head on Mitch’s shoulder and then I sank into a deep satisfying sleep.

[Photo 1: Sunset near Sale, Victoria © L.M. Kling 1989]

‘Oh, no!’ Rick said.

‘What?’ Mitch cried.

‘We have no headlights.’

‘What do you mean, no headlights?’ I asked.

Car slowed to a stop by the side of the road, again. Groggy from sleep and the hypnotic effect of the endless highway, we piled out of the Charger and milled around the non-functioning headlights.

Mitch peered at the offending lights. ‘Are you able to fix them, Rick?’

Rick pulled up the bonnet and in the dim light examined the engine. He poked around at the dark nether regions of the Charger’s insides.

Mitch hovered over Rick’s back while he prodded and poked at the parts in the dimness. ‘Do you need a torch?’

‘Do you have one, Mitch?’

Mitch shrugged. ‘I don’t…didn’t think…would you have one in the glove box?’

‘Might have, but the battery’s gone flat,’ all mumbled to the engine.

Mitch had already left to torch-hunt in the Charger’s glove box. At this time, I watched Jack busy himself sorting through luggage at the rear of the vehicle.

Cordelia sat all hunched over on her duffel bag. ‘I still don’t feel well,’ she said.

‘Are you carsick?’ I asked.

‘No, it’s worse than that,’ she answered. ‘I think I need to see a doctor.’

I gazed around the silent darkened landscape. ‘Maybe at the next town, we can try to find one.’

Jack called, ‘Hey, I’ve found another torch.’

The feeble light of Rick’s torch wandered over the car engine. 

‘It’s the alternator, it’s cactus. Needs replacing,’ Rick said. ‘We’ll need to park here for the night and in the morning, I’ll fix it at the next town.’

Cordelia clutching her stomach walked up to the lads. ‘I need to see a doctor; I’m not feeling at all well.’

Mitch glanced at the girl, his eyes wide and brow furrowed. ‘Perhaps we better push on and find a doctor—hospital—something.’

‘How can we?’ Jack said. ‘We have no headlights. It’d be dangerous.’

‘I’m not driving without headlights,’ Rick said.

‘How far to the nearest town?’ Mitch raised his voice. ‘The girl needs help.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘How far is it to Dubbo?’

Mitch grabbed the RAA strip map, Jack handed him the torch and with the stronger light Mitch flipped the pages and then studied the relevant page.

Cordelia sat down on her bag and was silent.

[Photo 2: Twilight at Brachina Gorge, Flinders Ranges, South Australia© L.M. Kling 1999]

‘Says here,’ Mitch began, and then continued, ‘we are twenty miles from Dubbo.’

‘I’m still not sure…’ Jack said.

‘Oh, come on,’ Mitch huffed, ‘only twenty miles. If we use the torches for our light, we can get there safely.’

‘What, waving the torches out the side of the windows,’ Rick said, ‘Are you mad?’

‘If we go slowly, we can make it,’ Mitch said. ‘Come on, give it a try. For Cordelia’s sake, we have to try.’

[Photo 3 and Feature: Rick will save the day…eventually © courtesy R.M. Trudinger 1983]

At Mitch’s insistence to save this damsel in distress, we piled back in the car, and crawled down the highway, torches flashing back and forth from the rear windows.

After a few minutes, Rick shook his head, his curls flopping about his damp forehead. ‘It’s not working.’

‘What about,’ Mitch sighed, ‘what about, if I sit in the front and you and me shine the torches from the front.’

‘If you think it’ll make a difference,’ Rick muttered.

Mitch changed places with Rick who was driving, and Rick moved into the front passenger seat where Jack had been sitting. Jack then bumped Cordelia into the middle and sat behind Mitch.

The car crawled a few metres with Rick and Mitch waving torches from their front positions.

I looked behind me at the expanse of dark landscape, and the sky clotted with the Milky Way.

‘I hope the cops don’t catch us,’ I murmured.

‘What cops?’ Jack said.

The Charger slowed, and then stopped.

‘It’s not working,’ Rick said.

‘But we’ve hardly moved,’ Mitch said.

‘I think it’ll be better if we don’t use the torches and I drive by the starlight.’ Rick sniffed. ‘I think my eyes will adjust. And we’ll take it slowly.’

‘I can do that,’ Mitch said.

‘No, I’ll drive.’ Rick pushed open his door and marched over to the driver’s side. ‘It’s my car. I know how to handle it.’

Mitch breathed in and out with an emphasised sigh. ‘If you insist.’

Rick forged ahead on the highway to Dubbo at a leisurely twenty miles an hour. I know it was twenty miles (not kilometres) an hour as it took us an hour to reach the outskirts of Dubbo. Mitch couldn’t resist the urge to hang his arm out with Jack’s torch, offering slim beams of light to guide Rick as he drove. Fortunately, we met no police on patrol.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

Join the Free Adventure into space beyond the Holiday season.

A treat for all my friends and followers.

Download for free (from April 9—13) from Kindle

Click here on Mission of the Unwilling

Easter Treat

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

Mission for Free – An Easter Treat…

If you are wanting space adventure and the mischief and mayhem that alien cockroach Boris creates…

A Taste from Mission of the Unwilling (2nd Edition)

Avoiding Monica’s Playroom, (I thought Maggie might be lurking there), I headed for the Driver room. Would Günter zap back to a Grey and be piloting there? Or would just his apes be in the Driver room? I approached the junction where the right passage led to that room of monitors and Günter. I sensed someone sliding along the wall behind me and looked back.

A lump lodged in my throat. Not the Grey Nurse again!

‘Where is he?’ She tugged at my collar choking me. ‘You go to him—get him. I want him.’ Does she ever give up?

‘If you’re that desperate, find him yourself.’ I veered the other way, ducked around the next corner, and lost her.

I headed for the Engine room. I had to see John and talk to him about all my troubles. And warn him Boris might be back. What I liked about John was he didn’t talk much; he just sat there and listened.

I entered the maze of towering machines, pumps, and raw veins of bound wires. Anxious, at every sound of a swish behind me, I checked my back. Every wheeze, and I slammed myself up against the closest engine cowling, flattening myself for cover. I reached John’s small office and lurched through the entrance.

Hands gripped around my eyes. Darkness, even darker.

‘We must leave here,’ a deep voice said. ‘Now.’

‘Why?’

‘It is not safe; there has been an accident.’

‘Günter, is that you?’

He pushed me, guiding me. Something oily underfoot made me slip. He held me. Then carried me out.

In the light of the corridor, I blinked. Günter appeared pale. His forehead was covered in beads of perspiration. And as he held me, he trembled.

My shoe stuck to the floor. I lifted my foot. On the tiles, a bloodstained shoe print.

‘W-what’s going on?’ I asked.

‘I-it is J-John…’ Günter rasped. ‘I-didn’t want you…to see…’

‘John? Is he…no, not John…he can’t be…’ I moved to enter the engineering room.

‘No danger.’ Günter pulled me back. ‘He is…he is gone.’

Günter cradled me in his arms as we both wept.

***

Continue to feast on this story over the Holiday season.

A treat for all my friends and followers.

Download for free (from April 9—13) from Kindle

Click here on Mission of the Unwilling

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2022

Feature Photo: Mission of the Unwilling cover © L.M. Kling 2022 (UFO © Liz Maxted)

Travelling Thursday–Road Trip in the Charger

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

Road Trip to Sydney the summer of 1979 – Episode 1

[Based on real events but some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40-years ago.]

Lost Control

A conference on the gifts of the Holy Spirit. I wonder what gifts God has for me? I pondered while dozing in the back seat of my brother Rick’s Chrysler Charger. And Dad…why was it that Dad had to go all on his own by car to the conference? Oh, well…much more fun travelling with my peers.

Crunch!

I sat up. Rubbed my eyes. ‘What happened?’

The car fishtailed. Rocking the carload of us back and forth.

‘Hey, mate!’ Rick, my brother yelled at the driver, ‘Jack! You trying to kill us?’

Without reply, Jack, bit his thin upper lip and swung the Charger to the right, and into oncoming traffic.

I gasped.

A truck bore down on us.

Jack, who reminded me of Abraham Lincoln, clenched his strong jaw and corrected back to the left. Keep left, that’s what you do when driving in Australia. Jack’s usually blonde curls appeared dark from perspiration.

The semitrailer gushed past us, sucking the air out of our open windows.

Rick held up his thumb and forefinger in pincer mode. ‘You missed them by that much.’

[Photo 1 and feature: Rick’s Charger in strife © L.M. Kling circa 1984]

Rick’s navy-blue tank top was soaked with sweat around the neckline under his mouse-brown curls, and under his strong arms. Mid-January and the full car with only open windows for air-con, steamed with heat. And body odour.

To my right in the back seat, Mitch, taller and thinner than my brother but sporting dark brown curly hair, wiped his damp mauve polo shirt and then sighed, ‘That was close.’

Cordelia, in the briefest of shorts and tight-fitting t-shirt, showing off her classic beauty and assets, sat the other side of Mitch.  She clutched her stomach. ‘I feel sick.’

Mitch leaned forward and tapped Rick on the arm. ‘How long till we reach the next town?’

‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ Cordelia said.

Rick nudged Jack. ‘I think you better stop.’

Jack rubbed one hand on his blue jeans, straightened his long white shirt, placed his hand again on the steering wheel and kept driving.

Cordelia cupped her hand under her chin and groaned.

I smoothed my white wrap-around skirt, and then brushed my light cream-coloured blouse patterned with blue roses. No way did I want Cordelia to mess up my most flattering-to-my-slim- figure clothes.

[Photo 2: In my slimming white wrap-around, Clealand National Park © M.E. Trudinger 1979]

‘Stop!’ Rick shouted.

‘I can’t!’ Jack said and continued to speed down the highway. The golden expanse of the Hay Plains dried out by the fierce summer heat spanned the horizon. White posts flitted past. The red-brown line of bitumen of the highway stretched to its vanishing point on that horizon. A faded white sign flashed past. Dubbo, 265 miles. How long had Australia been metric? A few years at least; not that one would know travelling in outback Australia in early 1979. Still…

Another groan from Cordelia.

Rick screamed at Jack. ‘Stop!’

Jack slowed the car and rumbled onto the gravel beside the road.

Cordelia leapt out and hunched over a shrivelled wheat stalk. I looked away and covered my ears from the inevitable sound of chunder.

‘That was close,’ Mitch said.

‘Remember that drunk guy, your brother brought back to Grandma’s?’ Rick said. ‘Took me a week to get the smell out of her Toyota.’

‘Hmm,’ Mitch replied. ‘That was unfortunate.’

‘You mean, the guy who kept singing “Black Betty”?’ I asked. I remembered that fellow. He had messy blonde hair and a moustache. He lounged on the back seat of Grandma’s car while I sat all prim and proper in the front waiting for Mitch’s brother to drive us to Lighthouse Coffee Lounge. ‘He kept saying I was so innocent.’

‘Well,’ Mitch said, ‘you are.’

I guess I was at 15; but hated to admit it.

Cordelia stumbled back into the car. ‘That’s better.’

[Photo 3: Proud owner of his Chrysler Charger © courtesy of R.M. Trudinger 1983]

Rick and Jack arranged to swap places. So, after a brief stretch of legs and a nearby scraggly-looking bush receiving five visitors, we set off on our quest for Sydney. After all, we still had ages to go before arriving there for the Revival Conference. We hoped to arrive with enough spare time to see the sights Sydney had to offer.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

***

Easter, the season for holidays and intrepid road trips…

Or for a reading adventure…

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

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Or

Is Sci-fi adventure more your thing?

Come along for an Easter holiday where a road trip goes wrong and off the beaten track in…

The Hitch-hiker

100-Word Challenge–Stolen…Almost

/ lmkling / Leave a comment

With an exhibition coming up in April, I thought this cheeky little piece, a 100-word challenge might fit the bill, so to speak. The actual incident of imagined “water/wine-theft” took place several years ago, but I believe the gallery involved still takes their rules very seriously.

Stolen…Almost

‘Where can we get some water?’ my friend asked.

I pointed at the casket of spring water languishing in the gallery. ‘There’s some just there.’ A glass wall confined the well-watered and wined gallery guests. We had been guests, but this gallery was devoid of seats. We wanted to sit. And eat.

‘Sign there bans wine not water.’

I stowed into gallery, collected cups of water and walked to the door.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ self-appointed wine-police snapped.

I placed the stolen water back on the table and left.

Transubstantiation. My first virtual miracle; turning water into wine.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2023

Feature Painting: Sleeping Beauty on Huon © L.M. Kling 2017 (currently displayed at Brews &Views Café, Marino)

***

Want more memoir? Some travel?

Take a journey into Central Australia with the T-Team…

Click on the link:

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or

If Sci-fi is more your thing

Check out my War Against Boris series…

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

The Lost World of the Wends

School Daze–Mrs. Cranky

/ lmkling / 1 Comment

[Sharing experiences from our school days at writers’ group this morning reminded me of learning in the 1960’s.]

I Threw the Book Back at the Teacher

Mrs. Cranky (not her real name), our relief teacher looked like she’d stepped out of a Dickens’ tale—that’s what I remember of her from when I was in Grade 1. At the age of six, to me, she appeared so old, as though she were prehistoric; all skin and bone and a scowl fixed on her face.

Mrs. Cranky’s methods of discipline matched her looks; old fashioned and mean. I started school in the late 1960’s in Australia.

The regular infant schoolteachers were kind and gentle. I loved school. I loved learning. I came from a home that valued education. The regular teachers perhaps tired of my constant hand-in-the-air to answer every question and tried to dampen my enthusiasm saying, ‘Give someone else a go.’ But I experienced no trouble until Mrs. Cranky took over our Grade 1 class for a term.

Mrs. Cranky seemed to have been buried in the education system and then dug up. I reckon probably as a last resort and I’m sure the headmistress must’ve done an archaeological dig in search of a relief teacher and come up with this old fossil.

I mean to say, if the department had known what archaic methods this woman was using to control the class of us infants, surely, she would’ve been asked to retire.

As Grade 1 students, we submitted to her authority with fear and trembling, not to mention a few toileting accidents on the classroom’s linoleum floor. I guess Mrs. Cranky’s colleagues congratulated Mrs. Cranky on her class of obedient and quiet students.

How was I to know, as a six-year-old, that a teacher shaking, hitting and shouting at children was not appropriate? But I sensed something was off.

So, on one dull winter’s day, Mrs. Cranky presided over her class from her desk. She’d taught us our arithmetic lesson which seemed to make her particularly angry.

As we finished our work, simple sums where neatness was prized over correctness, we lined up at the desk, our work to be marked by Mrs. Cranky.

I finished my sums and joined the queue which by this stage stretched from the desk to the door. Now I was not the most observant pupil and as work was too easy, I tended to daydream. My mind wandered out the window and floated to the clouds as I waited.

A mathematics exercise book flew past me. My mind returned to my body in the classroom. I looked from the book, pages strewn on the floor, and then at the teacher’s desk.

‘This is rubbish!’ Mrs. Cranky screeched and tossed another book across the room.

As I watched that book land in the aisle, one more book whizzed past me.

‘Go pick it up!’ Mrs. Cranky said.

My classmate scuttled over to the book on the floor, picked it up and slunk back to her seat.

Mrs. Cranky was on a roll. ‘Rubbish!’ she cried, and I ducked yet another book-missile.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked the boy in front of me.

The boy shrugged.

Mrs. Cranky glared at me and said, ‘Go to the back of the line, Lee-Anne!’

I took my place at the end of the line. I checked my work. Yes, one plus one is two. Yes, all my sums neat and correct in my estimation.

A book landed at my feet. I went to pick it up.

‘Don’t you dare, Lee-Anne!’

I straightened up and watched another poor pupil pick up his book, bite his trembling lip and shuffle to his desk.

This is not right, I thought. As I waited my turn, I imagined my counterattack if the teacher cast my sterling efforts across the room. It seemed to me I’d wasted half a lesson standing in line and watching the Maths books fly.

My turn. Surely Mrs. Cranky would see my superior efforts and not throw my book.

She did throw my book. And with much demented screaming and ranting that my work was the worst she’d seen in all her years of teaching. Considering how old she looked, boy, that must be bad.

Her implications that I must be the worst student in the history of the world sank in. What? How dare she! No, that can’t be right. I won’t let her get away with that. She had crossed the line.

I paced over to my wreck of a Maths book, plucked it up and then flung it back at Mrs. Cranky.

O-oh, bad move. Very bad move.

I’d stuck my neck out, executed justice for me and my classmates, but had not considered the consequences.

Mrs. Cranky’s face flushed red. Her eyes bulged from her bony sockets. She bared her teeth.

My situation was not looking good.

I fled. First, I scampered down the nearest aisle to the back of the class. Mrs. Cranky armed with a twelve-inch ruler clattered behind me. She screamed and raged. ‘Why you little…!’

I ran along the back of the class. Mrs. Cranky followed. She swatted the ruler at me. Missed!

I weaved through the maze of desks and chairs. I searched for refuge from the teacher’s rage and ruler.

I dove under a desk. But the boy with red hair swung his feet.

Mrs. Cranky gained on me. She growled. She waved the ruler at me.

I fell to my hands and knees and scrambled under another desk. More legs, more kicking at me. I crawled along the floor. Mrs. Cranky chased me into a corner.

I had nowhere to go.

Mrs. Cranky cut the ruler into my tender thighs. ‘There, that’ll teach you for throwing the book at me,’ she said.

***

Education, I decided was not so much for gaining knowledge as to learn to submit to the control of authority. The system taught me that to be successful and get good grades I must behave, be quiet, don’t upset the norm or challenge the people who had power over me. So, I learnt to be a “good” student, and when I grew up, a “good” citizen, minding my own business out of fear of that wrath, that punishment, if I question or challenge the status quo.

However, recently, as I’ve matured and seen injustice and oppression, sometimes suffered by those close to me, I have been challenged and I wonder: Have I allowed evil to prosper because I’m too afraid to speak up?

This is why I write. My words can be used to promote God, His love and goodness. They can also be used to speak out against deception and injustice. Part of me is still afraid of retribution, that figurative “twelve-inch-ruler” ready to strike because symbolically I’m “throwing the book back at the teacher”.

In the good book, the Bible, 1 Peter 3:17 says: ‘It is better, if it is God’s will, to suffer doing good than doing evil.’

True, as a Grade 1 student, it was not the wisest choice to make and “throw the book back at the teacher”, but as an adult, it is my hope and intention to “throw the book”, that is, my words into the world and community for good; right the wrongs, stick up for the oppressed, defend the victims of bullying and make waves to change attitudes and thus generate God’s character and values of justice, truth, responsibility and love.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2023

Feature Painting: Sunrise over Brachina Gorge (c) Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014

(Brachina Gorge is in the Flinders Ranges, South Australia. Brachina Gorge is known for the abundance of fossils that can be found there. Probably won’t find the likes of Mrs. Cranky,  there though.)

***

Want to explore some more?

Another world? Another place and time?

Escape into some space adventure? Or just delve into some plain dystopian adventure?

Click on the links to my novels below and learn how this war on the alien cockroach Boris began and will continue…

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

The Lost World of the Wends

***

Or if memoir is more your thing,

Check out the T-Team Adventures

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981