100-Word Challenge–My Dad’s Car Tales

[Another fond memory from my childhood…and Dad’s catchcry, “for the time being” took a breather when, after being promoted to Deputy Principal, he bought the Holden Premier. Also, a timely piece as our recent Remembrance Day, November 11, marked the 50th anniversary of the sacking of our then prime Minister Gough Whitlam by the Governor General Sir John Kerr. I still remember where I was when that happened. At home watching the news and old Gough saying: ‘Well may we say, “God save the Queen”, because nothing will save the Governor-General.’

Anyway, a car tale from our journey to Canberra where my education in Australian politics began.]

Feature Photo: Another Holden, my brother’s rebuilt Holden Monaro © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) circa 1978

The Dream Car—Holden Premier EH, Serena (100-word challenge)

Serena, our dream family car ferried the T-Team to Canberra. In 1975, hardly a maiden for this voyage, she drove us to our destination; a comfortable, safe ride over the Hay Plains. No breakdowns. No stranded waiting for road service on the hot dusty side of the road. A smooth ride that rocked me to sleep; the vinyl with scent fresh from the caryard to us.

She mounted the snow shovelled roads to Thredbo. From her window, my first sight of snow on a brilliant sunny day, snow shining on twisted eucalypt branches.

Memories.

When Dad sold her, mum cried.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2022; 2025

***

Explore the rugged beauty of the Australian outback from the comfort of your own lounge room.

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

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or

Catch up on the exploits of Boris the over-grown alien cockroach, and the mischief and mayhem he generates. Click on the links below…

Diamonds in the Cave (new release)

How could a pleasant bunch of Wends turn so which-hunting nasty?

The Lost World of the Wends

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

Nostalgia–Christmas

Christmas Day With the T-Team 1978

[Why 1978? Nostalgia for one. Some snapshot of the past for future generations. And, well…I do wish I could share the shenanigans of current family, but I think that would leave me Christmas card less and spending the next 40 years on my own at Christmas sipping some sort of spirits to drown my sorrows, forget my regrets and missing all the entertainment Christmas in Australia brings. So, what harm would be done to reminisce about one warm Christmas Day when life was simple, and the stars of this show are now twinkling in the sky of remembrance. Needless to say, like Mr B, I will not use their real names to protect the not-so innocent, and the little bit affected.]

Christmas to a T

The sun filtered through the dusty window golden and warm. I flung off my sheet and raced to the Christmas tree; a real one that filled the lounge room with the scent of pine.


Mum, still in her nightie, watched me as I opened my presents: two skirts and a pair of scuffs.


I hugged her. ‘Thank you, Mummy.’


‘You’re welcome.’


‘So, what church do you think we should go to, today?’


‘I was thinking Maughan Church in the city.’


‘Excellent, I like that church.’


‘Well, then,’ Mum glanced down the passage way, ‘you better get ready.’


I hurried to my room and changed into my new Christmas skirt, relishing the T-female tradition of new clothes for Christmas. Even better, home sewn by mum, so no one would have the same dress as me. I pulled on a white lace shirt to match the simple V-cut skirt of fine red and white plaid.

*[Photo 1: Another Christmas, matching outfits © C.D. Trudinger 1975]


Mum called out from the kitchen, ‘Hurry, we have to get there by half-past nine.’


‘Alright.’ Easy for her to say, but the challenge was my Dad and brother, Rick. How to wake the men who lay in their bed-tombs asleep?


Mum had an idea. ‘Why don’t you put the radio on? Make it loud. Really loud.’


I followed Mum’s suggestion and tuned the radio to 5KA and turned up the volume dial until it would turn no more.


Boney-Em blasted out a Christmas carol causing Mum to jump. ‘Not that loud,’ she cried through a mouth full of milk and Weeties cereal mixed with her ever-faithful All-Bran.


An unimpressed and bleary-eyed Rick and Dad joined us on our jaunt into the city to celebrate Christmas Uniting Church style, not much different from the Lutheran Church service. Rick nodded off during the sermon all the same.


Then, the highlight of our year, Christmas at Grandma’s. Always a spread, but as it was simmering around 35-degrees Celsius, cold chicken and ham, for meat, and potato salad, coleslaw, tomato and onion salad, cucumber and beans from Dad’s garden swimming in mayonnaise, and for our serve of greens a bowl of iceberg lettuce.


The food was only second to the company. Grandma, with her G (she wasn’t a T) gifting of hospitality, had invited some friends from church. My uncle and aunty from the inner suburbs of Adelaide also came to complete the gathering around the old oak extendable table. That year, the numbers being not large, I sat with the adults. Other years children were relegated out in the passageway or exiled to the back garden to sit at the “kindertisch”. Anyway, at 15, I was almost an adult.

*[Photo 2: All decked up for Christmas dinner © L.M. Kling 2006]


After lunch, we lingered at Grandma’s all afternoon, waiting for the second wave of visitors to arrive. I flicked through Grandma’s photo albums and then read some of her books from the bookshelf in the spare room. Actually, that’s what I did, after helping Grandma and mum wash and wipe the dishes while the others lazed around chatting and playing cards.


I’d started on The Coles Funny Picture Book when called to bid one of Grandma’s friends, my uncle and aunty goodbye. Within minutes, the next influx of relatives rolled up the gravel drive. Aunt Wilma and her husband Jack stepped from their yellow Volkswagen Passat. The couple impressed me; so striking with Aunt Wilma’s elegance, matching her husband’s movie star looks and Scottish wit.


Sidling up to Mum, I asked, ‘Why didn’t the others stay?’


Mum mumbled something I didn’t quite catch before rushing up to her sister and hugging her. I followed mum with the greeting rituals of hug and kiss my aunt and uncle. Then, while the adults engaged in honey biscuits, tea and banter, I resumed my perusal of The Coles Funny Picture Book.

[Photo 3: Ah, the joys of Coles Funny Picture book © L.M. Kling 2018]


Dinner was left-overs from lunch. Sorry Wilma and Jack, but that’s the tradition. Waste not, want not, my Grandma used to say. She was a parson’s daughter and married a parson, not just any old parson, but a missionary one, during the Depression. And she and her missionary husband moved up to Hermannsburg at the start of World War 2. I was convinced that she still had rusty tins of food mouldering at the back of her cupboard from the “Dark Ages”.


Uncle Jack was in fine form—they’d obviously had a merry time at the last Christmas appointment. True to form, he kept us entertained with his brogue accent and humour, repeating variations of the Wattle ditty. Here’s how it goes with his accent:


“This ‘ere is a wat’le,
The emblem of our land,
You can stick it in a bot’le,
Or ‘old it in your ‘and.’

Jack performed this with variations, and some subtle actions that at fifteen, I was a tad too innocent to “get”, but we all laughed anyway.

*[Photo 4: This here, is a wattle…Life of the party Uncle Jack © C.D. Trudinger 1978]


As the night progressed, the bolder Uncle Jack’s jokes grew and the more most of us laughed. Perhaps not Grandma’s friends who had dared to stay on; they kept glancing at Grandma, the expression on their faces reading, “Pull your son-in-law into line, dear.”


My dad sat on the piano stool, hands under his bottom, his lips doing the bird-in-mouth thing and a snort escaping with every new and daring quip from Jack. Dad hoped to play the piano as we sang some Christmas carols, but as each joke escalated in levels of risqué, clever though they were, the likelihood of carol singing became less likely.


One of Grandma’s friends suggested we should sing some carols. Ah, the innocence of good Christian folk in the 1970’s.


Rick and I commenced our own rendition of We Three Kings


Grandma picked up a present and quietly said, ‘I don’t think we will sing this year. Let’s open our presents. Lee-Anne, you’re the youngest, you can start.’


So, here’s how I scored in 1978: Cosmetic mask from Aunt Wilma and Uncle Jack, hairdryer from Mum and Dad, photo album and book from Grandma and a cassette tape from my country cousins.
Grandma’s present, a book, interested me the most and I stayed up to 2am reading it.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018
*Feature Photo: Christmas Tree Admirers © C.D. Trudinger 1978

***

VIRTUAL TRAVEL OPPORTUNITY

FOR THE PRICE OF A CUP OF COFFEE (TAKEAWAY, THESE DAYS),

CLICK ON THE LINK AND DOWNLOAD YOUR KINDLE COPY OF MY TRAVEL MEMOIR,

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Far-Away Friday–My Memories

A thunderstorm right over our home last Tuesday and one that rattled the windows threatening to blow out our modem, caused us to switch off our internet. Screen-free for the day, I spent my time excavating my writings from the depths of the closet. There, I discovered this memory from my childhood, and a special cat in my life, Barney.

The poem/prose was handwritten, so I have transcribed it. The original is set below this one.

Barney

He sits supreme over all,
His fur as that of a mop
Sweeps down his skeletal
body.
Still, he is king.
Half his right ear
Pricks up with alertness,
The rest had been bitten off in a territorial
battle.
He is now supreme.
Over all of them,
One-eye, Buff-head,
And the ginger cat who lives down the street.
He is victor, no one dares
to confront him.

[Photo 1: Barney in the front garden © L.M. Trudinger circa 1973]

When small, his eyes clamped shut, feeble and defenceless,
I loved him.
Cotton wool was his fur, paws as soft and pliable as velvet,
Not to mention an adorable patch upon his button of a nose.
I held him, cuddled him.
Active, bold, curious when he frolicked in the sunlight,
I watched him.
When wide-eyed and fearful caught up in a tree, no way to escape,
I rescued him.

[Photo 2: Barney and Me in front of my cubbyhouse © L.M. Trudinger circa 1973]


He grew, years passed by many litters came forth, but no such kitten was as adorable as him. He became my favourite, waiting at the gate for my return from school.
Not only faithful was he, but entertaining, his squabbles with enemy cats became a spectacle and often afterwards I could be heard imitating him; I respected him.
We returned from a trip to Canberra one year, Barney was nowhere to be seen. Often lately he had been taking expeditions and for days would be missing.
This time, he never returned.
I missed him.

© L.M. Trudinger 1978
Feature Photo: Barney Portrait © L.M. Trudinger 1978

Original Poem/prose of Barney by L.M. Trudinger 1978

***

Read more of my intrepid adventures with my dad and family in Central Australia in my travel memoirs:
The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977


Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Travelling Thursday–The T-Team with Mr. B: Uluru

ULURU SUNSET—Lost

 [Finally, The T-Team with Mr. B: Central Australian Safari 1977 is published on Amazon Kindle.

This time, the customary viewing of an icon of Australia, doesn’t quite go to plan.]

Dad meant what he said; he believed we, as the T-Team were travellers, not tourists. So, when the sun began its journey to the other side of the earth, and edged towards the western horizon, Dad drove further west and far away from the popular tourist haunts for the sunset on the Rock.

‘Don’t go too far,’ Mr. B said as he glanced back at the diminishing size of the Rock. ‘I want a red rock of considerable size.’

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Dad replied.

But every vantage point that we considered photo-worthy, so did clusters of tourists. The ants may have been heading for bed, but the road west of Uluru swarmed with sightseers scrambling over the landscape to capture that momentous event of the sunset on Uluru.

*[Photo 1: Two blokes waiting for Uluru to turn © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

‘I hope we’re not going to miss Uluru turning red, ‘cos that’s what I came here to see,’ Mr. B said.

‘Plenty of time,’ Dad said. ‘Trust me.’

‘I’ll hold you to that promise, mate.’

Dad sighed and then turned into the next available place to park the Rover.

Mr. B glanced at his gold watch. ‘I mean to say, it’s nearly six o’clock. The sun sets at six, doesn’t it?’

We joined the tourists in the small clearing to take the Uluru-at-sunset-photos. There’s one snap I took of two travellers admiring the Rock as it deepened in colour, more a rusty-red, than the scarlet I’d seen on calendars. So, it’s taken with an instamatic camera and the quality is pitiful compared to the chocolate-box number my grandpa took in the 1950’s, but I reckon it captures the atmosphere.

*[Photo 2: Nothing like the Uluru sunset my Grandpa took © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

‘Enough of these tourists,’ Richard grumbled. Clutching his polaroid camera, he stormed up the nearest hill.

‘Wait!’ I called and raced after him.

My brother ignored me and quickened his stride. I tried to catch up but soon tired of his fast pace. I watched him vanish behind some spinifex bushes and decided his quest for tourist-free photos was pointless. I gazed at the Rock squatting behind waves of sand-hills and bushes. The view’s going to be just as good, if not better by the road and the masses, I thought and rushed back to Dad before the sun went down too far and the Rock had lost its lustre.

*[Photo 3: I mean, where’s the colour?? © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

Uluru faded from clay-red to a dull grey and the tourist congregation thinned, trickling away in their cars and buses towards the camping ground situated east of the Rock.

‘Is that it?’ I quizzed Dad. The Uluru at sunset in my mind had been spectacular in its failure to deliver. ‘Why didn’t it turn bright red?’

[Photo 4: You mean, like this? Picture perfect, chocolate box in 2013 © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘You need clouds for that. Clouds make all the difference,’ Dad said, his lips forming a beak. ‘Glad my camera’s out of action and I didn’t waste film on it.’

‘You mean, the Rock doesn’t always turn red?’

‘No, it’s the clouds that make the difference.’

‘What on the Rock?’

‘No, to the west, where the sun sets.’

*[Photo 5: Yeah, clouds like the ones we had in 2013 © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘But the photo of a red Ayres Rock taken by Grandpa had clouds around it.’

‘Yeah, well, there would’ve been clouds in the west too,’ Dad explained. ‘See, the sky is clear tonight, so that’s it for the Rock.’

‘Disappointing! A very poor show, ol’ friend.’ Mr. B sauntered past us with Matt tagging behind. ‘Come on, we better get to camp. Don’t want to be cooking in the dark. Don’t want the likes of egg soup again.’

Dad peered into the distant black lumps of hills. ‘Where’s Richard?’

I stared into the thickening darkness. No Richard. ‘Dunno, went into the sand-hills,’ I said with a shrug.

‘Oh, well, I guess he’s gone for a walk,’ Dad said.

*[Photo 6: So different in 2013—All golden © L.M. Kling 2013]

The Rock became a dull silhouette on the horizon. We packed away our cameras and waited. And waited for Richard. Darkness settled on the land. We waited some more. The icy cold of the night air seeped into our bones. We waited but he did not appear.

‘Where could he be?’ Dad said and then stormed into the bush.

Minutes later, Dad tramped back to us waiting at the Rover. His search in the nearby scrub was fruitless.

Each one of us stood silent; silent sentinels around the Rover.

‘I hope he’s alright,’ my comment plopped in the well of silence. A chill coursed down my spine. What if an accident had befallen my lost brother? The dark of night had swallowed my brother up.

Dad grabbed the torch from the glove box in the Rover, and then marched back up the sand-hill.

I paced up and down the road. Mr. B folded his arms across his chest and scrutinised the shadows of bush that had now consumed Dad. Matt gazed up at the emerging mass of the Milky Way.

‘I hope they’re okay. I hope Dad finds Richard.’ My chest hurt with the pain of losing my brother.

Mr. B sighed. ‘Probably just a—’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘There they are,’ Mr. B said. ‘All that worry for nothing. You’ll get grey hairs if you keep worrying like that.’

I pulled at my hair and then raced up to my brother. ‘Where were you?’

‘I went out along the dunes. I kept walking and walking trying to find a good spot,’ Richard said.

Dad chuckled. ‘And when he did, he waited for the Rock to turn red.’

*[Photo 7: More of the “Red” Rock close up © L.M. Kling 2013]

For the night we camped in an aboriginal reserve seven miles out of the Uluru—Kata Tjuta Reserve. In preparation for the trip, Dad had successfully applied for permission to camp there. This time Dad and I had two fires going each side of us as the previous night was so cold that I had little sleep. We hoped that two fires would be better than one to keep the chills away. Mr. B and his son Matt on the other hand, settled for one shared fire and superior fibres of their expensive sleeping bags to keep the cold out.

And Richard, after all his effort to scare us by almost getting lost, buried himself in his rather ordinary cotton sleeping bag, next to his single fire, and was the first one, after our rather simple rice dinner, to be snoring away, lost in the land of nod.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2018; 2022; 2023

*Feature Photo: Sunset on the Rock © Lee-Anne Marie Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977

***

Find out how the adventure with Mr. B progresses.  

Click on the link, The T-Team with Mr. B

And join the journey back in time to the 70’s and into the Centre of Australia.

Travelling Thursday–Road Trip in the Charger

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

Monday Musings–Good Intentions

GOOD INTENTIONS

We all have our ideas how the world should run. We think we know what’s best, what’s good, and what will work. If only everyone would follow our advice, the world would be a paradise.

When I was twelve, my parents thought it best I go to a new school for my last year at primary school. That school was a feeder school to the secondary school they planned to send me.

*[Photo 1: Full of hope of a new adventure © M.E. Trudinger 1975]

‘You’ll make some friends who’ll be there for you when you go to high school,’ they said.

Good intentions; a sound plan for transition…

Their plans just didn’t work out as they intended.

Two weeks into first term at that new school, I realised I’d connected with nobody. The girls in my class had formed their tight-knit friendship groups way back in Year 1, so I had no friend-prospects.

At recess, I sat alone Indian-style on the grass under a tree. Never mind, I thought, my books are my friends. I’ll read out the year. I opened my latest novel. Besides, I have plenty of friends outside of this school.

For the next few days nobody and my books kept me company at recess and lunch. What better way of dealing with loneliness of an hour by entering another world and the characters there. No different from the previous year at my old school when I ignored my friends in preference to researching dinosaurs and aliens in outer space.

*[Photo 2: One of my books, the Lost World of the Wends © L.M. Kling 2021]

Then the good intentions of the teachers came into play. The new Year 7 girl reading her books every break? Oh, no! We can’t have that! She must socialise.

So, with good intentions, the teachers denied me the joy and escape of reading. They forced me to play with my peers.

However, my peers, comfortable with their set, didn’t appreciate the teacher’s good intentions. As I followed one group into the girls’ toilets, the leader spoke up. ‘Nothing personal, but stop shadowing us.’

Fine then. I wiped the tears stinging the corners of my eyes and bit my lip. Sorry for upsetting your perfect little life. I’ll go find someone else to be my friend.

Soon after, I teamed up with a Year 6 girl. She sat on her own at lunch. I’d been kicked off the bench by the other cohort of Year 7 girls because I liked cheese and gherkin sandwiches. Rather than making a big deal of the excommunication, I wandered over to the Year 6 girl and sat beside her. She didn’t mind my choice of lunch.

*[Photo 3: Happiness is a friend, Poatina Tasmania © L.M. Kling 2010]

For the next week, we enjoyed each other’s company. We played on the monkey bars and joined others in her class playing four-square (a type of hand-tennis). For five days, my cliquey peers were happy, the teachers were happy, and I was happy. I’d found a friend.

But good things were not meant to last at this new school. The beginning of March, and just a hint of an autumn-south-westerly breezed through the classroom porches. I kicked off my shoes, pulled on my scuffs (major rule: no shoes inside the classroom), and lined up ready to enter class. The Year 6 teacher sought me out and took me aside. ‘You aren’t allowed to play with Year 6 students,’ they said. ‘It’s against the school rules.’

*[Photo 4: Beginnings of autumn © L.M. Kling 2021]

The school with good intentions had a rule: Students must only mix with students the same age as them and from their class.

So again, good intentions forced me out on my own again. I rode home that day, tears streaming down my face. I failed to understand. The injustice of it. They want me to socialise and then thwart every effort for me to do so, with all their damn rules.

With good intentions, the next day, Mum marched into the office and spoke to my teacher. With good intentions, my teacher reprimanded the girls in my class.

Made no difference. My peers wanted no part of those good intentions. And they didn’t like being told off. Not one bit. I paid for those good intentions right through secondary school, actually.

I considered making friends with some boys in my class. But after one day sitting at a table in class with them, I figured that making friends with the boys in my class wasn’t an option. Probably a rule about that too. After all, our teacher gave us a lecture on the evils of wearing bikinis…so…

[Photo 5: Beware, the bikini…modesty at Moana © R. Trudinger 1982]

For the rest of that year, I became very good at keeping out of the supervising teacher’s gaze at lunchtime and pretending to play with my peers while making sure I didn’t appear to be “shadowing” them. The bullies helped this charade by “shadowing” me. Not that I appreciated their efforts at the time. As the year wore on, I managed some illicit liaisons with my books behind the bushes, when the teachers weren’t looking.

My mum carried the burden of guilt from her good intentions of the year I lived friendlessly. But she needn’t be. My parents’ intentions were good. Though I suffered, these challenges were good for me. I learnt to persevere. I learnt that being alone doesn’t mean that I must be lonely. God was and is with me. I learnt not to quit. In short, I developed character. Besides, this school inspired me to learn the Japanese language, setting me on my future career path teaching the Japanese language, as well as travelling in Japan. And most of all, I learnt to see the kids sitting on their own and be their friend.

[Photo 6: Tokeiji, Japan © L.M. Kling 1984]

Yes, good intentions may not work out as we intended, but God can turn around our struggles, and our failures, with His best intentions for us.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”—Romans 8:28

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2022

*Feature Photo: Alone, in Japan © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 1985

***

Read the stories inspired by the year of living friendlessly…

Click on the link,

To download my novel

The Lost World of the Wends

Or…

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

Or

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Click on the link to my most recent post,

My Cover Journey

100-Word Challenge–Putt-Putt Pa

[Have been engrossed in a murder-mystery, come thriller manuscript that I wrote in 2009, and then filed away. Wrote it so long ago I have to read it to find out what happened. So, completely forgot to post my 100-word challenge last week.

Anyway, Dad’s mid-life crisis vehicles keep rolling in. Was this new development a reflection of the direction Dad’s mid-life crisis was taking? Or was he just having a go?]

100-Word Challenge — Have a Go

After lunch at Grandma’s one Sunday, my cousin showed off his prized Ducati. Inspired, Dad resolved to have a go, and buy his own motorbike.

The first hint that Dad was dissatisfied with current transport-arrangements, was expressed in a progressive story game, where he described money-saving qualities of a motorbike. I pointed out the dangers, my cousin’s friend had died in a motorbike accident.

Soon after, Dad came puttering down the driveway on Putt-Putt, a bright orange motorbike. From then on, for a time, Dad puttered his way from Somerton to work in Port Adelaide. Everyone was happy, until…the accident.

© L.M. Kling 2019; updated 2022

Feature Photo: Born to be free: Dad on Putt-Putt in Grandma’s backyard © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1978

***

Indie Scriptorium

If you’d like to polish your writing skills or find out more about our new project, a self-publishing collective, click on the link to Indie Scriptorium

Or…

Catch up on the exploits of Boris the over-grown alien cockroach, and Minna and her team’s attempt to subdue him.

For good holiday reading click on the links below…

The Lost World of the Wends

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

Or…

Join the Journey, click on the link below:

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari

Dad’s Mid-Life Crisis Cars–The Mazda

My dad’s midlife crisis took a turn … for the worse. The Mazda. Not sure what type this less-than trusty steed was, suffice to say, he purchased it for a bargain as it had a damaged rear-end. So, the Mazda became the butt of many car-jokes with my friends.

A reblog, in memory of our much maligned Mazda.

An Ode to the Mazda

Now every time the battle-axe we release,
We pray:
Keep our Mazda running from police
Particularly today.

Grant us all green lights, for our brakes may fail,
And may thy Mazda’s effervescent light shine forth
At both head and tail.

Forgives us our blinkers, our wipers, the lot,
As we forgive those who are enemies and gripers
Of the Mazda we’ve got.

© L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1982; updated 2020; 2022

Feature Photo: Behind Rick’s green machine (Cleo), the Mazda lurks © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1978

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For my Northern hemisphere readers, it’s Summer Holiday time. Time to read more on the war against the fiend you love to hate; an overgrown alien cockroach, Boris.

Click on the links below:

The Lost World of the Wends

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

Or

Longing for more travel adventures? Dreaming of exploring Australia?

Read the T-Team’s Aussie adventures, click on the link below:

Trekking the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

100-Word Challenge–The Holden

The Dream Car—Holden Premier EH, Serena

[Another fond memory from my childhood…and Dad’s catchcry, “for the time being” took a breather when, after being promoted to Deputy Principal (Primary School), he bought the Holden Premier.]

Serena, our dream family car ferried the T-Team to Canberra. In 1975, hardly a maiden for this voyage, she drove us to our destination; a comfortable, safe ride over the Hay Plains. No breakdowns. No stranded waiting for road service on the hot dusty side of the road. A smooth ride that rocked me to sleep; the vinyl with scent fresh from the caryard to us.

She mounted the snow shovelled roads to Thredbo. From her window, my first sight of snow on a brilliant sunny day, snow shining on twisted eucalypt branches.

Memories.

When Dad sold her, mum cried.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2022

Feature Photo: Not the Holden Premier, but one of my brother’s first car-building projects, a 1970 Holden Monaro HG. Salvaged from the wreckers, he lovingly spent hours panel-beating, arch-welding and engine-fixing this model back to life. © Lee-Anne Marie Kling circa 1982

Note: in the back of the photo, you’ll see the lurking the unfortunate successor to the Holden Premier and focus of the next week’s blog featuring my childhood family’s cars.

***

Catch up on the exploits of Boris the over-grown alien cockroach, and the mischief and mayhem he generates.

Click on the links below…

The Lost World of the Wends

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

Story Time–Sowing and Reaping

Revenge is best served with a side-salad of Schadenfreude

I have been doing some “housekeeping”, on the computer, that is, searching for files, and sorting them. I came across this tale from my high school days. Wish it were true, but more likely it’s wishful thinking from an over-active imagination.

However, as is the case with so many authors’ works, the following is based on real events, but the names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

Sowing and Reaping

She perched on the kerb waiting. The minutes stretched, ticking into what seemed to her, an eternity. Cars whizzed past. With each car that emerged around the corner, the hope—her mum’s car. That battered blue FJ Holden, had suffered many knocks in its fifteen years of life. Like me, same age and having suffered hard knocks, she thought. But cars with anonymous drivers passed by and so did her hope…until she just sat…waiting…expectations drained…waiting.

A mixture of gloom and uneasiness had shadowed her all day. Ever since the first period, home class, when Dee, yes, that’s right, Dee, her arch enemy, had sidled up to her and hissed, ‘He’s mine, Lillie. He’s mine. He never liked you. He likes me.’

Dee slithered into her seat; pink lips pursed in a smile. She flicked her brown mane, and then glancing at Lillie, she smirked and then rubbed her hands together. ‘Mine!’ she mimed. ‘All mine.’

Lillie imagined Dee at that moment morphing from the budding model she was, into a female form of Gollum, bent on possessing the ring offered by her latest conquest—Danny. Why else was Dee gloating?

Lillie’s heart plummeted to the pit of her stomach. A drop of rain plopped on the pavement and sizzled. Lillie sighed. She’d seen him—Danny—that morning. Lofty, blonde hair tousled, framing his high cheek-bones, strong jaw and his face all tanned. But Danny hadn’t seen her. He never saw her.

On the way back from chapel, Danny had been walking behind her and she’d worried about her uniform. Was her dress hitched up in her regulation stockings? Autumn and the school demanded girls wear the winter uniform with the awful scratchy woollen skirt. The month of May in Australia, that day, hot and all steamed up, clouds billowing with purple bellies, threatening a storm, but not before all the students at College were fried having to wear their blazers as well as their uniforms woven in wool. The principal threatened suspension if they shed any part of their school attire.

Plop! Another drop. A rumble of thunder.

During the day, her usual foes added to her discomfort. She was already hot, sweaty, and itchy, and then they had to weigh in. On the way to English class, Dee and her clutch of fiends attacked from behind. They threw verbal abuse; the usual “stones” of “loser”, “dog” and “no one wants you, Lil”.

Lillie fixed her eyes ahead even as the heat rose to her cheeks. She trod up the stairs to Dee chanting, ‘Poor Lil, poor Lil, what a dill.’

As Lillie turned the corner of the stairs, she glanced down. Danny leaned against the rail. Dee slid up to him and pointed. ‘Hey look! She’s got a hole in her stocking. Poor Lil, poor Lil. Too poor to buy new stockings, Lil.’

Dee laughed and her gang joined in.

Lillie turned and continued plodding up the stairs.

‘Charge!’ Dee yelled.

At her command, Lillie quickened her pace. She knew what was coming. The thudding, the cries and the horde as her foes surged upon her. They crowded in and jostled her. Big beefy Twisty jammed her into the lockers and then bumbled down the corridor.

As Lillie straightened herself, Dee strode up to her and poked her. ‘He’s mine, understand?’ She then waved her hand in front of her nose. ‘Phew! You stink! B.O.!’

Danny lingered behind Dee. She minced into English class, then turned and blew him a kiss. Lillie’s stomach churned, and with her gaze riveted to the floor, she followed Dee into class. Her scalp prickled with the sense that the eyes of every class member had set upon her. Her orthodontic braces took on astronomical proportions and her pigtails drooped like greasy strips of seaweed.

Then Scripture class. Just her luck! Lillie picked Dee’s name out of the Encouragement Box. So she had to find a verse from the Bible to encourage Dee. Dee? What sort of blessing could Lillie bestow on her worst enemy? The girl who had everything—popularity, beauty and a boyfriend.

Lillie opened up her Bible and picked out the first verse that caught her attention. She wrote down the verse from Galatians 6:7: “…for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” She plopped the note for Dee back into the box. From what she could tell, Dee seemed happy with her note, if not mildly miffed by the message.

After school, as she sat on the kerb waiting, Lillie reflected on the verse she received. Matthew 5:3: “Blessed are the poor in spirit…” She nodded and mused, That’d be right, Dee had me. Still, it does say I’m blessed.

A flash of lightning. A crack of thunder. Fat dollops of rain splatted on the footpath. Lillie sighed and muttered, ‘I’ll just have to risk getting laughed at. My mum’s car. What a relic! How embarrassing!’

She shrugged her bag full of books over her shoulder and sauntered to the shelter of the chapel. Rain pelted down on her and she sought refuge in an alcove hidden behind a diosma bush. There, she drew her knees up to her chin and sniffed. The rain and then the tears had melted her mascara. Her vision blurred. She drew a soggy tissue from her blazer pocket and wiped her eyes.

The downpour stopped. Fellow students emerged from shelter and straggled along the road to the carpark where their cars or parents in their shining white Commodores awaited them.

Lillie examined her calloused knees that had broken through the holes in her stockings. When would mum be able to afford new stockings? Dad and mum barely scraped together the school fees. ‘We go without for your education,’ Mum says. Lillie had begun to understand how that worked in a posh school like this one. No friends, no choice but to study and get good grades.

A car screeched. Lillie looked up. She saw them. Dee and Danny. They held hands. Dee nestled into Danny’s side as he held an umbrella over her, even though the sun now shone casting an eerie golden glow over the gum trees and oval. Lillie winced.

The couple perched on the chain fence where they swung back and forth and whispered into each other’s ears. Lillie parted the diosma bush. She watched and cursed them as wrapped in each other’s arms they consumed each other’s lips.

‘Ugh! How could they? In public!’ Lillie muttered. ‘I hope the principal catches them and puts them on detention.’

Lillie heard a familiar roar. She stepped from the bush and strode towards the carpark.

The FJ Holden raced up the driveway, it’s wheels crushing the carpark’s gravel in its rush to meet Lillie. Dee and Danny remained oblivious in their passion on the chain fence.

Mum’s car cut through a large puddle. Water flew high in the air and then dumped on the couple.

Dee shrieked. They stood like two drenched rats, their legs and arms spread in their sodden clothes.

Now Dee really does look like Gollum, Lillie thought. Her nemesis’ mascara streamed down her face and made her eyes look like a panda’s and her hair was pasted on her head.

The couple glared at the FJ Holden as it screeched to a stop in front of Lillie. She smirked as she jerked open the white door of the mostly blue car and then scrambled in.

‘How was your day, dear?’ Mum asked.

‘You’re late,’ Lillie snapped.

As the FJ Holden with Lillie and her mum merged with the crowd of cars on the main road, Lillie glanced back and smiled. Revenge is best served cold…and wet.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2022

Painting: Vine Light Before Strom © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2022

***

In the mid-nineteenth century, a village of Wends, on their way to Australia, mysteriously disappeared…

Who was responsible? How did they vanish?

Want to know more about the trials and tribulations of these missing people from Nineteenth Century Eastern Europe?

Click on the link below:

The Lost World of the Wends