Travelling Thursday–Blessed be the Fried Ice-Cream

June 29, 2023June 29, 2023 / lmkling / Leave a comment

[The last few weeks has been one of reminiscing. Over the King’s (how odd that sounds) birthday weekend, Mum and I met up with my auntie in Tanunda to check out the model of the renovated historic precinct of Hermannsburg. Lots of memories for us all, but more for mum and auntie who grew up in the mission village. A couple of weeks later, we caught up with the T-Team and the next generation where we had opportunity to retell our adventures in the Centre on Safari. My dad’s amazing meals were remembered and I recalled forty-two years ago experiencing the delights of fried ice-cream…ice-cream I almost missed out on…]

[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981—free on Amazon Kindle from today (29-6-23) until next Tuesday (3-7-23).]

T-Team series–Blessed be the Fr—Fried Ice-cream in Hermannsburg

Back at in Hermannsburg, Mrs. R presided over the kitchen bench.

‘How did the ice-cream-making go?’ I asked.

She flitted to the fridge and opened the freezer section. ‘Your cousin and that nice girl, J have both gone, but not together.’ She sounded far-away in the land of the fairies.

As if I wanted to know what my older cousin, C1 was up to. ‘Did it work out,’ I asked.

‘Hmm, maybe.’ She remained distant, still in fantasy land. ‘Possibly, give it time.’

‘I mean, the ice-cream, are we going to have fried ice-cream for dessert?’ I rose, walked over to the fridge and peered over her shoulder. ‘Is there fried ice-cream in there?’

‘Oh, no,’ she spoke with a dead-pan expression. ‘We ate all that. Just ice-cream for you folks, I’m afraid.’

*[1. Photo: All eaten too in Paris by my two boys © L.M. Kling 1998]*

I believed her and assumed we’d have plain old ice-cream for dessert. J returned unannounced. ‘Oh!’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Just stay there, don’t go away.’ She vanished out the door.

Lamenting the loss of the fried ice-cream experience, I comforted myself with a cup of tea. Dad buzzed around the kitchen, chopping vegetables, boiling rice, deep frying shrimp crackers and splattering oil all over the walls. I knew I should help but I just sat, sipping tea and wishing I had stayed behind. Now I’ll never have fried ice-cream. Anyway, Indonesian fried rice is Dad’s domain, his glory, and heaven help anyone who offers to help. Our job was to taste its wonders and compliment him. I could do that.

J reappeared with a small postcard-sized paper in hand. ‘It’s a photo of you.’ She handed me the image of me looking shocked by the camera flash at the sing-sing. ‘I think it’s a rather nice one of you. Don’t you think?’

*[2. Photo: Camera shock at sing-sing. Where’s my beau? Courtesy of L.M. Kling 1981]*

Not particularly. I accepted the picture of me appearing ghost-like on a bad-hair day. Never did like pictures of me. The camera picks out all my faults. ‘Yes, thank you.’ I rose and then headed for the room holding my luggage. ‘I’ll put it in my diary straight away.’

While Mrs. R departed for business with J, and Dad slaved over a hot stove of many fry pans and saucepans creating his Indonesian meal, I wrote my diary and then retreated into the world of Wuthering Heights.

‘Dinner’s ready!’ Dad rang the brass hand-held bell. ‘Come and get it.’

I left my Heathcliff to brood on the moors, and drifted into the kitchen-dining area for the auspicious Indonesian meal. Seven o’clock and three young ladies, two pretty blondes and a stunning brunette, accompanied C1 and C2 to the round white table decorated with knives, forks and plates. The atmosphere bubbled with excited chatter and introductions. In one corner, the fellers, my brother (MB), and two cousins fidgeted and grinned, and the girls giggled and squealed as they stood in the other corner and checked out the talent. I sat in the middle like the referee at the table. I clutched my knife and fork upright in each hand and glared at Dad bustling at the sink.

*[3. Photo: Not a tradition to take photos of meals for the T-Team, so here’s a spread for the Hermannsburg male choir © courtesy C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

‘Okay, I’m here.’ I glanced from one corner to the other. ‘Where’s the dinner?’

‘Don’t be so impatient.’ Mrs. R hurried past me carrying a tray of glasses. ‘Go and talk to the girls.’

I pointed from the boy group to the girl group. ‘You couldn’t find a partner for me, could you?’

‘Lee-Anne!’ Mrs. R said. ‘This is Hermannsburg, not Alice Springs!’

‘No stockman or lonely explorer, then?’

‘No, this is as good as it gets.’ She placed the glasses on the table. Besides, the blokes up here, I don’t think they’d be your type.’

Then I’m destined to be an old maid then. I sighed.

*[4. Photo: Maids waiting on the Hermannsburg Mission Truck © S.O. Gross circa 1950]*

The young people gathered and selected seats at the table. Dad presented his massive bowl of Indonesian fried rice to a chorus of ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’. The girls’ eyes widened at the sheer enormity of the rice project. The boys licked their lips and breathed in the aroma of cumin, cardamom, turmeric and chilli. Dad had excelled himself. He puffed up his chest and strutted around the kitchen.

C1 charmed the ladies with his dry humour and subtle flirting. Stuck in their own shyness, MB and C2 remained spectators, while C1 did all the entertaining with the girls. I sat back in my chair observing the interactions, piling my plate full of rice, and shovelling the stuff down like I hadn’t eaten in weeks. The ladies opposite me, picked at miniscule portions of the fair. So what! I can make a pig of myself! No one for me to impress. Not like I had to diet. Someone’s got to show Dad his food is good, not just tell him with platitudes. Besides, got to make the most of it, only boring old ice-cream for dessert. The young lassies each passed up offerings of seconds while I was on my thirds. I bet they were full from eating all the fried ice-cream. Well, serves them right. Polishing off the plate, I felt full and bloated. There was a lull in the conversation. C1 had run out of things to joke about.

*[5. Photo: Plain old boring ice cream, but for some, a special treat. Especially, South Australia’s own Golden North ice cream. © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

Mrs. R moved to the fridge. ‘Dessert, anyone?’

All at the table put up their hands except me.

‘Lee-Anne?’ Mrs. R pulled the ice-cream container from the freezer. ‘Sure you don’t want any?’

‘Nup, I’m full.’ Boy, they are a sad lot wanting plain boring vanilla ice-cream.

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Yep.’ Why is she making such a big deal about it?

Mrs. R opened the lid and spooned out frittered balls of ice-cream into bowls.

Hey, just wait a minute. I raised my hand. I’ve changed my mind.

‘Changing your mind is verboten,’ Mrs. R announced.

‘Oh, but—she, Mrs. R lied.’

‘Now, Lee-Anne, stop grizzling,’ Dad hammered his index finger at me, ‘you said you didn’t want dessert; those are the rules.’

Everyone at the table looked at me. Heat, burning more than curry rose to my face. ‘Mrs. R said there was none.’

*[6. Photo: Walls of Glen Helen, and probably a much younger Dad in the window © courtesy C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]*

The boys joined Dad in dumping brick-tonnes of scalding and jesting at my expense. C1 played the condescending parent and elicited a laugh from the girls. ‘Now, there’s no need to make a drama out of it.’

‘You should see her when she plays games like ‘Chook-Chook’, almost breaks down the house with door-slamming,’ MB chuckled, followed by more roars of laughter.

‘She did nothing the whole trip, just eats all the food in the camp,’ C2 snorted. More roars of mirth. As if on a roll, he added, ‘And she’s always changing her mind.’

‘A woman’s prerogative,’ I muttered.

‘Not in this household,’ Mrs. R pointed at me. ‘My three-year-old behaves better than her.’

*[7. Photo: Escape to Salzburg, Austria © L.M. Kling 2014]*

As they all scored points at my expense, I went off in my mind to Austria and The Sound of Music and the trouble with Maria. Perhaps one day I’ll go off into the Alps with my Count von Trapp. For the moment I was trapped, demonised by the perpetuation of false perception of my image. I felt like no one knew who I really was. Glad there weren’t any eligible males for me to witness my humiliation. I held my tongue and my position at the table. Anything I said would be held and used against me.

Mrs. R served up the fried ice-cream. A bowl appeared before me.

‘Thank you,’ I whispered. I kept my head down and eyes fixed on the ball of fritter. I waited for further remarks and comments about how undeserving I was of this peace-offering, but they had moved on.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2017; updated 2021; 2023

*Feature Photo: Mount Hermannsburg © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2013*

[PS. tomorrow the Choice Bits series will continue in Freaky Friday fiction.]

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

Free on Amazon Kindle: today Thursday, June 29 until Monday July 3, 2023.

Click on the link and download your kindle copy of my travel memoir,

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (United States)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (UK)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (India)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Friday Fiction–From the Backyard

May 26, 2023 / lmkling / 1 Comment

[This account is based on a true story, but the names of the people have been changed, to protect the not-so-innocent…yada, yada, yada…so truth be told, it’s fiction to entertain.]

Neighbours to Entertain

Gliding home in her Toyota, Mum waved at the children gathered in the street around the corner from her place. Karl, her younger teenage son scowled, ‘Why did you do that?’

‘Just being friendly, love.’

‘Stop being friendly. It’s embarrassing!’

‘Just changing the culture, you know, trying to make this community more friendly.’

‘We should just keep to ourselves,’ Karl muttered. He slouched in the passenger’s seat and pulled his hoody over his eyes.

‘Now, remember to let your brother, Phillip in, if he comes home before me,’ Mum said.

Karl mumbled a reply that Mum hoped resembled the affirmative in “Karl-ish”.

The mother dropped her sulking son home and tootled off to her hair appointment in a nearby shopping centre. The hairdresser was very chatty filling Mum in on all the latest gossip and then emptying her purse of cash. Mum didn’t trust credit cards; she always paid in cash. After shopping at the local supermarket, she loaded her environmentally-friendly cloth bags filled with groceries into the trunk of her car and sailed back home.

She pulled up the driveway, and observed Ned, who lived across the road, leaning against his fence and peering over at his neighbours. “Never trust a man in brown trousers,” her friend used to say when she spotted the man lurking in his garden. Ned was wearing the said trousers and a dirty white singlet, that day.

*[Photo 1: Suburban Street scene of looming dust storm © L.M. Kling 2021]*

‘I wonder what he’s up to?’ Mum murmured as she dragged the groceries out of the trunk.

Shouting echoed across the road.

Mum placed her loads down, and then ducked behind the acacia bush. She watched through the lattice of leaves and listened. JP, the father of the young family next door to Ned, raged at a pot-bellied man.

Mum frowned. ‘Poor JP, still in his pyjamas. Hmm, he doesn’t look happy. Wonder what Potbelly did to wake him up?’

JP jabbed his finger at Potbelly. ‘Get out of my home!’ he yelled. ‘I’m a shift-worker! You’re disturbing my sleep!’

Potbelly edged backwards up the drive as JP drove him up there with his finger-jabbing.

JP’s daughter darted around Potbelly. She waved her arms around and pleaded, ‘Please! Listen Mister…’

‘Get inside!’ her father snapped. Then back to Potbelly. ‘What gives you the right to come knocking on my door—waking me up. Did I mention that? How dare you accuse…Rah! Rah! Rah!’

Three more children emerged from the shadows and joined the dance around Potbelly, squeaking their protests. The grown men, as if bulls, launched at each other, locked horns with words, and flailed arms on the edge of blows.

Mum darted to her carport door where she watched, willing their fists to cuff. She breathed out. ‘More exciting than television.’

One boy, maybe a friend of JP’s son, lifted a mobile phone to his ear. The men, angry eyes only for each other, ranted.

JP bellowed at his kids, pushing the children before him as he steered them into the house.

Mum sighed, and then crept around the back of her home, entering through the rear door. Pushing aside the living room curtain, she observed the continuing drama.

*[Photo 2: Through the curtains © L.M. Kling 2020]

Mobile-boy’s mum rolled up in her little red Honda sedan. Voices now muted by the intervening glass, Potbelly, his face the colour of beetroot, railed at her. He pointed at the boy. Clutching his mobile, the boy ran the back of his hand over his eyes, and his shoulders shuddered. His mother raked her fingers through her dark curls. JP’s boy and girl stepped out of their home. They stood each side of “Mobile-boy”, placing their arms around him.

‘Mmm, this looks interesting,’ Mum said, and on the pretext of taking out the clothes-washing, slid out the back door. Instead of heading for the clothesline, she wandered down to the side gate and poked her head over it. ‘They can’t see me, but I can hear them,’ she whispered while catching glimpses of the action through the shifting apple tree branches in the breeze.

‘But we can’t find it!’ JP’s boy bawled.

‘We’re sorry, we didn’t mean it,’ JP’s daughter bowed before Potbelly whose elbows jutted out as he bore down on his victim.

Mum moved her head left and right. ‘Trust the bush to be in the way.’ She then scuttled around the backyard and out to the carport again. ‘Darn! What happened?’

*[Photo 3: Bushes in the way © L.M. Kling 2022]*

Potbelly and Mobile-boy’s mum were shaking hands. Then he shook the hands of another parent, a man.

‘Must’ve turned up when I wasn’t looking’ Mum murmured before returning to the backyard. She disappeared into her home to continue on with her life and dinner.

Pot-belly’s voice boomed. Mum dashed back outside to her stake-out position behind carport door.

‘You see,’ Potbelly said to Ned who still leaned up against his neighbour’s fence, ‘I saw them by my car. Fiddling with the wheel. By the time I got there, to them, they had run off and my hubcap was gone. It’s a Porsche, ya know. I chased them and caught up with them here. I want my hubcap back!’

Mrs Mobile-boy-mum spoke but the wind caught her words and blew them away. She pointed at JP’s carport door. Then the children and Mrs Mobile-boy-mum rolled it up, revealing the way to JP’s backyard.

Ned eased himself off the fence and followed the procession into the backyard of interest.

‘I wonder if they found the hubcaps?’ Mum said.

‘Wha?’

Mum turned. Karl towered over her, his arms folded across his chest of black windcheater.

‘What’re you doing, Mum?’

‘Er, um…just looking for the…I thought I heard…there was a disturbance…just checking it out…’

Karl tossed his head and flicked the dark fringe from his face. ‘You’ve been spying again, haven’t you.’

Mum glanced across the road. Ned and Potbelly had resumed their station leaning against the fence and mumbling in low tones.

Karl’s brother, Phil, backpack loaded with university books, strolled up the driveway. He threw a look behind him. ‘What’s up with those two? What’s with the glares?’

‘Mum’s been spying again,’ Karl replied.

***

A few days later…

All was calm, all was quiet for Karl who slept contentedly while his mum, dad and brother ventured down to some local hills spring festival. Karl smiled, pleased that his demand for his family to stay in their own little box, out of neighbours’ way, had been obeyed…And that he didn’t have to take any more drastic action.

‘Thank goodness nothing came of Mum’s spying,’ he said, smacking his lips. He patted the shiny hubcap under his bed, sighed and then drifted into dreamy entertainment of his childhood lost.

He was glad he’d been friendly to the neighbourhood kids the other day.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018

Feature Photo: Sunset Gumtree © L.M. Kling 2017

***

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,

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari. (Australia)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (United States)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (UK)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (Germany]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [France]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari (India)

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Canada]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Mexico]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Italy]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Brazil]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Spain]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Japan]

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari [Netherlands]

Friday Frolics–Road Trip in the Charger (5)

May 5, 2023June 15, 2023 / 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

***

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Catch a Ride for Free–The Hitch-hiker

January 13, 2023 / lmkling / Leave a comment

The Hitch-hiker, Free…

[An excerpt…]

More silence as the Kombi trundled along Main North Road. Was this the trend for the road trip? Long awkward silences. Two brothers sitting side by side, itching to punch each other. Liesel itched to lay hands on Fox who squashed himself against the car door. And Minna opposite Günter, tried not to make too many calf-eyes at him, as well as trying her best to not nibble her nails. Was this what grown-up young people do for fun? Where was the excitement? The pillow fights? The Coca-Cola? Things go better with Coke, so the commercials say. And things in this mobile can did require better going.

A man dressed in brown walked on the roadside. He hunched over and stuck out his thumb.

Fox slowed down the van. ‘Oh, a hitch-hiker. Why don’t we pick him up?’

‘Are you crazy? No way!’ Liesel batted his arm.

Fox eased the Kombi to a stop. ‘He looks like he needs a lift. What the heck.’

‘What’re you doing?’ Liesel raised her tone.

But Fox continued to pull over to the side of the road.

***

Read the whole story.

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Free until Sunday, January 15 2023

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2015; post updated 2023

Tis the Season–Hurry Last Few Hours

December 28, 2022December 28, 2022 / lmkling / 1 Comment

Christmas, Thumm-style Down Under

[A Christmas special as a spin-off from my novels The Hitch-hiker and

Mission of the Unwilling.]

Christmas was encumbered with a monumental family gathering. Every family member imaginable plus a few ring-ins congregated at Grandma Thumm’s for the occasion. What was a logistical nightmare for Minna’s parents, aunts and uncles, was joy for Minna as her favourite cousin Holly visited from Switzerland. But she cringed on spotting Wally. (Grandma had felt sorry for his mum and her older teen charges Wally and Monica). That sense of pity didn’t extend to Minna as that dreaded ring-in, and one time school bully, scowled at Minna. Monica had escaped the Thumm Christmas. Home with a migraine. So, without Monica to protect her, Minna avoided Wally, and concentrated her attention on Holly.

Aunt Sophie, Holly’s mother, rounded the Thumm troops for the traditional family photo in the back garden in front of the grapevine.

The camera got Minna thinking. I wonder…She became quiet and gazed up at the cobalt cloudless sky.

‘Is something wrong?’ Holly snapped her out of sky-gazing, then chuckled. ‘Oh, I know! You’re thinking of some boy.’

‘No!’ Minna shouted. ‘Not boys!’

‘Dinner time!’ Mum called. She rang the bell.

Like lemmings the Thumm clan trooped into Grandma’s kitchen.

As the elders settled around the antique 100-year-old oak table, with a spread of roast turkey, silver and the best china on white linen, Aunt Sophie beckoned to John, Minna’s older brother, ‘You can sit with us, dear, I want to hear all about that telescope you are making.’

Minna sighed, and followed the kids to the “kindertisch” on the back verandah. ‘My luck I’ll end up next to Wally’, she muttered to Holly as they heaped their plates full of the crispiest baked potatoes in the southern hemisphere.

Minna’s words came a reality as she perched on a foldable deck chair at the “kindertisch”. The only seat available for Wally, was next the hers. When he approached the table, paper plate laden into a V-shape from piles of poultry and potato, all the other kids had closed the ranks with their chairs, ensuring no Wally-sized gap existed. Minna, who had been busy discussing the method of making crunchy potato with Holly, had failed to register the Wally-approach. Too late, Wally squeezed his frame between her and Holly. Minna cringed. She would have preferred two Grandmas with wings on either side of her than to be seated next to him.

Wally spoiled what would have been a most pleasant Christmas dinner. As he hoed into his potato salad and smacked his lips together, Minna remarked, ‘You know, you remind me of Gomer Pyle! Where’re you from? Cornball Mississippi South?’

‘Shut up buck tooth Loch Ness Monster!’ Wally replied spraying a mouthful of spud over her plate.

‘Oh! Yuk! Creep germs!’ Minna cried. With that, she tipped the tainted contents over his lap.

‘I’ll get Boris onto you. Or better still, his cockroaches. Ha-ha.’

‘Whoever Boris is. Anyway, you’re one big cockroach.’

‘You dog!’ Wally scraped up a wad of potato and flicked it in her face.

‘How dare you contaminate me!’ She knocked her cola over his trousers. ‘Oops! Looks like someone’s had an accident. Ha! Ha! Wally’s peed himself!’

All the cousins laughed.

‘You cow!’ Wally squealed. His voice cracked and squeaked as if he were a pig.

‘Come, come! What’s going on?’ Grandma poked her head out the back door.

Wally pointed at Minna. ‘The dog did it!’

‘Now, now, that’s not a nice thing to say about your cousin.’ Grandma chided. ‘Dear me, what happened to your pants, Wally?’

‘It was an accident.’ Minna chortled. ‘Wasn’t it, Holly?’

Holly nodded and giggled into her napkin. She had no time for the loathsome Wally either. ‘Yeah, Gran, he had an accident, he peed himself.’ She guffawed.

‘What? Minna threw the drink on me!’ Wally yelped. He brushed the stain with his holly decorated napkin.

‘Now, now, Wally, calm down!’ Grandma reasoned. She waddled her wide-girth body to the table and put an arm around Wally’s shoulder. ‘You must treat girls with respect. You don’t go calling them names like that. Now you say, “Sorry”.’

Wally scowled and muttered, ‘Sorry!’

Satisfied, Grandma went back to her job of hosting the adults who were by this time popping bon-bons and laughing out loud at the lame jokes discovered inside them.

Holly and Minna tittered as they observed Wally move away and seat his slimy self all alone at an extra tiny card table. The paper hat sat crookedly on his greasy scalp.

Minna giggled and said, ‘Hey, Holly, with that salad bowl hair cut and pasty complexion, he looks like the dork from Oz.’

‘Shut up!’ Wally menaced as the girls continued to snigger. He hurled the bone at them. The girls dodged the missile and it landed with a plop in dried up plant pot.

‘Oooh!’ Holly jibed. ‘Respect the ladies, didn’t you hear what Grandma said?’

‘You’re no ladies,’ Wally mumbled.

His mother poked her nose out the window. ‘Wally?’

‘Nothing,’ her son muttered, and with head down, he played with a chicken wing on his plate.

[…to be continued]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2018

Feature Photo: Christmas Table © L.M. Kling 2006

***

Treat Yourself to a space adventure this Holiday season

Want more? More than before? Don’t just listen to the rumours of the war on Boris, read it for yourself. Find out how and why this war began.

Check out my novels on Amazon and in Kindle. Click on the links below:

Mission of the Unwilling—Free for the next few hours.

***

Or check out Holly’s adventures in

The Hitch-hiker

T-Team Series–Standley Chasm (Angkerle Atwatye)

August 28, 2022 / lmkling / 1 Comment

[While painting this scene of a group of older men gathering to admire the glowing walls of Standley Chasm, I was reminded of the T-Team’s trek in 1977 with Mr. B. This wealthy man used to comfort and luxury, took on the challenges of roughing it camping with the T-Team. This stunning chasm is about 50km west of Alice Springs and is one of the first of many beautiful sites to visit in the MacDonnell Ranges.]

The T-Team With Mr B (26)

Mr. B slowed the Rover and eased it into a park joining the line of cars, land rovers, and buses awaiting their owners’ return. The T-Team piled out of the Rover and in single-file, followed Dad along the narrow track heading towards Standley Chasm. In the twists and turns of the trail that hugged the dry creek bed, I spotted ferns in the shadow of rock mounds the colour of yellow ochre, and ghost gums sprouting out of russet walls of stone. Hikers marched past us returning to the car park.

*[1. Photo: Path to Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling © L.M. Kling 2013]

‘G’day,’ they said. ‘Well worth it.’

Dad checked his watch and quickened his pace.

I ran to catch Dad. ‘Have we missed out?’

‘We better hurry,’ Dad snapped.

A leisurely short stroll became a race to the finish as we struggled to keep up with Dad; scrambling over boulders on the track, squeezing past more tourists going to and from the chasm, Dad snapping and cracking the verbal whip, and Mr. B moaning and groaning that “it’s not for a sheep station”.

*[2. Photo: Ghost gum and ferns on way to Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]

The crowd thickened, stranding us in a jam of people, fat bottoms wobbling, parents hauling their whinging kids, and men clutching cameras to their eyes for the perfect shot. Dad checked his watch and then shifted the weight from one foot to the other.

‘Are we there yet?’ I asked.

Wrong question. Especially when asking a grumpy Dad.

‘Not yet!’ Dad barked.

‘I reckon we’re not far away,’ I said. ‘All the tourists have stopped. Must be some reason.’

Dad screwed up his nose. ‘I dunno, it doesn’t look right.’

‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’ Mr. B, one arm stretched out before him, parted the sea of people and strode through.

We followed in Mr. B’s wake and within twenty paces, there it glowed. Standley Chasm. Both walls in hues of gold to ochre. Dozens of people milled around its base.

*[3. Photo: No quite the right time but still awesome: Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]

Dad gazed at the chasm, and then squinted at the position of the sun. ‘It’s not there yet.’

‘How long?’ I wanted to know.

‘Not long, just wait.’ Dad paced towards a white gum that bowed before the grand wonder of the chasm.

‘Wait! I’ll take a photo of you,’ I said.

‘Do you have to?’

‘Why not?’

‘We might miss the walls turning red.’

‘They turn red that quickly?’

Dad leaned up against the tree. ‘I s’pose not.’

I dug out my instamatic camera and photographed my grumpy Dad.

*[4. Photo: While we wait, a grumpy Dad before the chasm © L.M. Kling *(nee Trudinger) 1977]*

Then we waited. The tourists snapped their shots and then filtered away.

‘When’s it going to turn red?’ I asked for the fourth time.

‘Be patient,’ Dad said.

‘This is boring,’ Matt mumbled.

‘Let’s see what’s the other side.’ Richard tapped Matt on the arm. The two lads scrambled over the rocks and I watched them hop from one boulder to the next over a small waterhole.

*[5. Photo: The rocks’ reflection, Standley Chasm © L.M. Kling 2013]

Dad paced from one wall to the next while Mr. B photographed Standley Chasm from every angle.

*[6. Photo: The ideal image; Standley Chasm © S.O. Gross *circa 1950]*

I watched mesmerized by the sunlight playing on the walls. They turned from a russet-brown on one side, gold on the other, to both glowing a bright orange. But by then, most of the tourists had left, thinking the Chasm had finished its performance for the day.

*[7. Photo: Well worth the wait; Standley Chasm, just perfect © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

*[ 8. Painting: Dad’s Standley Chasm in watercolour © C.D. Trudinger circa 1959]

As the other wall turned in hue to sienna, Mr. B packed his camera in his leather case and stood back admiring the view.

‘Get some good shots?’ Dad asked.

‘I reckon I did.’ Mr. B patted his camera bag. ‘You know, once the crowds thinned out, I reckon I got some good ones.’

‘Ah, well, I’ve seen Standley Chasm put on a better show in the past.’ I think Dad was trying to justify not having a functional camera.

‘Well, I enjoyed it,’ I said. ‘This place is amazing!’

*[9. Photo: Standley Chasm mid-afternoon; still the same perfect light 36 years later © L.M. Kling 2013]*

Dad patted me on the back. ‘Ah! Lee-Anne, you haven’t seen anything yet. Wait till you see Ormiston Gorge.’

‘By the way, where are tha boys?’ Mr. B asked.

‘Looks like we have to be patient and wait for them now.’

‘I hope your son doesn’t get ma boy lost.’

Dad laughed. ‘No worries. There they are, just the other side of the chasm.’ He waved at the boys.

Richard and Matt scrambled through the chasm to join the T-Team on the hike back to the Rover.

*[10. Photo: Actual photo of men admiring StandleyChasm © L.M. Kling 2013]*

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

***

Want more? More than before?

Binge on True Aussie Adventure with the T-Team in my book available on Amazon and in Kindle.

Click on the link below:

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Choice Bites–Minna

August 12, 2022August 13, 2022 / lmkling / 1 Comment

As I developed my characters from the War against Boris series, stories began to emerge. Here’s one of them.

THE CHOICE: MINNA

One of those summer days doused in grey…I ride my bike to the beach to collect shells. As I comb the surf-soaked sands, a man’s voice snaps me out of the zone.

‘Found anyone interesting?’

‘Nup, no bodies,’ I murmur.

‘That’s a shame, a nice looking lady like you.’’

I fix my sight on shards of shell and ignore him. Hate those pickup lines.

‘Oh, what’s your problem? I’m not going to bite.’

I glance at him—had to see what creep I’m dealing with. Pale, pock-marked face, thirties and just a little taller than me at 165cm. In a grubby white t-shirt and brown trousers. “Never trust a man who wears brown trousers,” my school friend Liesel always said.

‘Come on, dear, just a little conversation. Tell me, what do you want more than anything in the world.’

I shrug. ‘To leave me alone.’

‘Tell you what, you tell me and I’ll leave you alone. Deal?’

I push my bike faster trying to escape this man, but he follows me.

‘I promise, I’ll leave you alone—just tell me.’

Hopping on my bike I announce, ‘I don’t talk to strangers.’

‘I’m not going to hurt you. I bet, I bet you’re one of those girls who wants to get married, have a family. That’s what you want more than anything.’

‘If you say so, now leave me alone,’ I say and then speed from the creepy little man with his creepy questions.

‘Your desire will be arranged,’ he says as I splash my wheels through the water. He then shouts, ‘But, I might add, there will be a price.’

‘Sure, sour grapes,’ I mumble. Then pumping the pedals, I sail along the damp-packed sand where the waves meet the shore.

Then, near the ramp and having to cross sand too soft for bike wheels, I glance behind before alighting.

The man in brown trousers is gone…

A short story from another project relating to that alien cockroach, Boris, “Choice Bites”© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016, updated 2022

***

Want More?

More than before?

Click on the links below:

The Lost World of the Wends

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

100-Word Challenge–Bathsheba

May 19, 2022May 20, 2022 / lmkling / Leave a comment

[Driving around Adelaide these days, I see many classic cars. Brings back memories of our family cars from my childhood…]

Bathsheba

After 50 years, I have discovered the significance of our Holden FC’s name.

My dad was called David. In the Bible, there’s a King David who has an illicit affair with a woman he spies in a bath on a roof top. Her name, Bathsheba. Bath-she-ba; an apt name considering
the circumstances of their meeting.

Did Mum think that when Dad bought this car, this silver-pointed beauty was his “mistress’?

Similarities: Both Davids were master of their realms. Both Bathshebas, not new, used, yet beautiful. And both Bathshebas became parked in their David’s palace, in a harem, their love
shared.

***

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

Discover how it all started…

The Hitch-hiker

And how it continued in…

Mission of the Unwilling

Tuesdays with Carol–Tulips

May 3, 2022 / lmkling / Leave a comment

Of Impressionists and Tulips

With Covid still hanging around Carol’s place and wearing out its welcome, I have drawn on a past Tuesday with Carol.

A few weeks ago, I revisited the tulip field muse. Carol and I like the Impressionists style. We had lots of fun playing with the blend of colours and keeping our paintings loose.

My past efforts painting these tulips at the Canberra Floriade, in watercolour and acrylic, have been less than impressive. Those paintings have ended up filed away in the drawer of no return or cut up and pieces used for cards.

But I’m happy with this piece. The difference, a bit of artistic license by putting a windmill in the picture and less tulips. It’s all to do with composition.

On a different note, but related, a couple of friends and I have been working on a community project—a publishing collective. We have called this endeavour, Indie Scriptorium. If you would like to find out more, check out our newly formed website and our first post by clicking here.

*Feature Painting: Tulip field, Canberra Floriade © L.M. 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?