[Heading up to Christmas, reminds me we all have them: the proverbial “black sheep” in our families. Or it might be the skeletons we want remain hidden.
As it was, in the past week, I didn’t intend to, but it happened. I made another discovery which I can’t wait to tell my mum. I tell my mum everything.
It all began when I did some research on backyard burning and the iconic Besser block incinerator from the 1960s. A fellow writer in our writers’ group was adamant that burning was banned during the summer months back then. However, I remember things differently, and so does Hubby. Anyway, as I was researching, I came across a map of Adelaide CBD during the 1920s. Don’t I just love incidental detective work! After a little more “digging,” I think I’ve found my great-uncle’s clothing shop location. Amazing!
Then, as I delved into the relatives from that branch, My Heritage offered some fascinating information which kept me burrowing down another rabbit hole. I will not bore you with the details, but I will be telling my mum.
So, on another note, here’s a refined re-blog from not so long ago.]
In the Steps of Sherlock Holmes
Some time ago, Hubby and I received our DNA results. Dear Hubby received his a few days before me.
So, over the last year, I have been familiarising myself with the process and slowly building our family trees. Early on, I discovered a truth, which could be said to be a “skeleton” in one of our ancestral lines. I added the details to see if anything further came up. My Heritage calls this a “smart match”. Nothing did, but I left it there.
For certain family members, this truth appeared absurd and too difficult to comprehend. Surely, that ancestor wouldn’t. Didn’t. No one told us that. You have it all wrong, Lee-Anne.
Hence, Lee-Anne (me), being a good person, only wanting the best for the family, deleted the suspect members from that branch of the family.
Then, curiosity set in. Who was that ancestor’s mother? Father? My husband suggested we go down the line to the descendants and put in a particular name.
This I did.
You wouldn’t believe it, but the same results, only this time verified by the official birth and marriage records. My original hunch had been correct. Moreover, in the spirit of Sherlock Holmes, I managed to cross-match the added, yet odd, family members with DNA, and behold, a match.
Now, the reason I’m being so vague about the whole ancestral situation, which I might add, is responsible for our existence, is because out of respect for some people, the details of such conceptions are to remain private/personal; too personal to be published.
Isn’t it interesting that for people who want to protect their reputation, the unacceptable behaviour of other members of their family, ancestors, or close relatives must remain hidden, buried, and plainly, not discussed. Such individuals may even be ostracised from the family.
Yet, such flawed individuals can still be in other circles and be a valued and much-loved member of the community.
My dad’s cousin, Dr. Malcolm Trudinger, for instance. The story goes that he had a problem with alcohol. Legend has it that he couldn’t do surgery without a nip or two before the operation.
Malcolm’s alcohol addiction was too much for his immediate family, who, it would seem, distanced themselves from him. Maybe it was the other way around, and he felt not good enough for them. Whatever…
According to articles about Malcolm on Trove, he was regularly in trouble with the law. Infractions that in the 21st century, we’d consider a nuisance, or minor, but in the 1940’s and 50’s were important. For example, his car making too much noise at night in town. Or even one time, merely driving his car late at night. Another time, he was charged with causing a scene at a function.
Despite these misdemeanours, as I see them (glad my brother and I didn’t live in those times—in his youth, my brother loved doing “donuts” and “burnouts” in his car like in Top Gear at night with his mates), the folk on the West Coast of South Australia loved Dr. Malcolm Trudinger. He was their hero. He once helped rescue people from a shipwreck off the coast during a storm. He cared and was always there for the sick and injured.
I remember my mother telling me the story of how a person, upon meeting my father, and learning his name was Trudinger, sang high praises for his cousin Malcolm. The sad thing was that although he was still alive when Mum and Dad were first married, Mum never got to meet Malcolm.
Dr. Malcolm Trudinger was such a vital part of the West Coast community that they established a rose garden in his honour after he passed away in the early 1960s. We have heard that rose cultivation was his passion, and his roses were prize-winning. My niece discovered the garden when she and her partner were on a road trip passing through Elliston. She couldn’t have been more chuffed having found a Trudinger with a rose garden to his name. It showed Malcolm was a loved member of the community despite his demons.
This is what, I believe, grace is all about—valuing and loving people as they are. We are all flawed. Rather than hide the imperfections, celebrate the person, their life, and the goodness they brought to the community. It’s our pride and wanting to look good to others that makes us cover up our sins or those of our kin. But also, we may be protecting their reputation too.
The reality is, we are all fallen, and we all struggle. No one is perfect. We are all cracked pots. Yet, like in the Japanese art of Kintsugi (the repairing of broken pots), there is beauty that shines out through the cracks.
And so, it is with our imperfect ancestors. When you think about it, it’s the ones whose stories are different and colourful that we find most interesting.
In the previous tale, I mentioned a certain friend attached pride to the superiority of the Aussie farmer—a pragmatic soul, jack-of-all-trades and survivor of harsh outback conditions. So, with pride, I wrote about my maternal grandfather, Sam Gross.
My paternal grandfather was none of that. He was a “city slicker” as the “cockies” called them, born and bred in the city and not the farm.
Ronald Trudinger was the first in his family to be born in Australia in August 1886.
His father, Karl August Trudinger, was born in Nördlingen, Bavaria, while his mother, Clara Theresa, was born in Kleinwalka, Saxony. His parents first emigrated to Bradford, Yorkshire, where they lived for about twenty years and became British citizens. They didn’t like Bismarck and his ideas of unifying Germany. The first twelve of Karl’s and Clara’s children were born in England.
Karl August was a textile merchant; hence, living in towns or cities worked best for him. Ronald’s mother, Clara Theresa, grew up in the Moravian Brethren community in Saxony. Faith in God and education were her values. She had yearned to be a missionary, but that door was closed to her at the time. As a result, she prayed for her children that they would become missionaries. Eight out of her thirteen offspring did.
One of them was my grandpa, Ronald, who became a missionary in Sudan.
So, although he wasn’t the venerated Aussie icon of tough “cocky” farmer, his calling was different but just as valuable. He became an intrepid missionary in Sudan, based in Melut on the White Nile. He spent decades translating the New Testament into Dinka and other African languages.
How thankful I am to My Heritage and the links to news articles matching Dr. Ronald Trudinger—100 at least. In the early 1900s until the late 1950s, he appeared as a local celebrity, especially in church circles. His deputation talks on the “Soudan” and the Muslims, and the risks and challenges the family faced in Africa, particularly during the War in the 1940s, were a source of fascination, if not entertainment, for the public of that time.
Ronald Trudinger grew up in Norwood, a suburb of Adelaide, South Australia. From what I can gather, again from various news articles about the family, he may have lived in Kapunda and Broken Hill. His father, new to Australia and a merchant, had to go to where the work was. When they first arrived in Australia, according to Ronald’s birth certificate, his father was a greengrocer. Humble beginnings after being a wool merchant in Yorkshire.
A few years later, news reports have Karl August working in a jewellery store in Kapunda. Then, as I mentioned, there was a time the family was in Broken Hill, where Ronald’s eleven-year-old older sister died of typhus.
Eventually, so the family narrative goes, they settled in Marryatville, a subdivision/estate in Norwood, and father, Karl August, teamed up with a Mr. Zimmermann to manage a textile store in Adelaide city. While his father supported the family as a merchant, and some of his older siblings set off for China as missionaries with China Inland Mission, Ronald became highly educated, attending Adelaide University and becoming a Doctor of Medicine.
As a child, Ronald was exceptionally gifted, and by the age of four he was reading the Bible, and at five, Homer’s Odyssey, so my father says. Apart from these fragments of information passed down the generations by word of mouth, Ronald’s childhood remains a mystery.
News reports at the time have helped fill in some of the gaps in Ronald’s interests as he grew up. One of these was tennis competition reports. Although Ronald was born with one arm shorter than the other, he still enjoyed a hit of tennis and played in competition. He was described as a fierce competitor.
Ronald grew up in a God-fearing family, and from all the Sunday School prizes he won (recorded in the local newspapers), I imagine he came to faith in his Lord Jesus as a young child. His family attended Maylands Presbyterian Church. Although they were from a Moravian Brethren background, there was no such church in Adelaide. There was one in Bethany in the Barossa—too far to travel from Norwood. Anyway, the family probably chose a church and congregation that would support missionaries. When Ronald began his missionary work, he and Lina joined the Burnside Christian Church, which faithfully supported their work in Sudan.
Meanwhile, back at the family home base in Norwood, youthful Ronald Trudinger enjoyed evenings with the family playing games—a tradition passed down to the current generation of the T-Team. This never included playing cards, as such cards were deemed “sinful” and associated with gambling. Games my father taught us were taught to him by his maiden aunts, who had learnt them from their parents. A parlour card game called “Chook Chook” was certainly one game the Trudinger family had and loved playing. “Chook Chook” is all about egg farming, teaching the player the different breeds of chickens, trading and negotiating, and accounting. Other games that Ronald would’ve been familiar with were word games and story games, which his mother created for the education of her children.
My father remembers his dad’s fondness for chess. Even in my grandpa’s old age, my father never could beat his dad at chess. Another relative recalled Ronald taught her mother to play the piano. So, I gather another of Ronald’s interests was music, a love which he passed down to his children.
After completing his Bachelor of Science degree from 1908 to 1912, Ronald studied to become a Doctor of Medicine at the University of Adelaide. The University student magazine has him attending the Evangelical Union Christian group there, which would become EU, the Christian group I joined eighty years later.
While at university, Ronald won awards and scholarships for his outstanding results. He even won a scholarship to study tropical infectious diseases in Queensland.
During this time, around 1908, he met a young nurse called Lina Hoopmann. They fell in love and privately became engaged. However, they had to wait many years before they were able to marry. She was Lutheran, and he was not. Her father, a staunch Lutheran minister, refused to give his blessing for the union; he called Ronald a heretic as he wasn’t Lutheran and had come from a Moravian Brethren heritage.
So, they had to wait until Lina was 30. She would’ve been legally able to marry without her father’s consent at this time. I doubt, though, being God-fearing folk, they would’ve shown such dishonour and break the third commandment to honour thy parents. I imagine that her father finally gave his blessing, and the marriage went ahead on December 11, 1917. That being said, the family photo of the wedding doesn’t have Lina’s father present. I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt that he took the photo.
Others of Lina’s family, such as her sister Dora, had no problem with the Trudinger family. In her diary, she enjoyed many visits to the Trudinger’s in Norwood. Plus, she was overjoyed when Ronald and Lina became engaged and then were able to marry.
From 1912, Ronald commenced his calling to be a missionary doctor in Sudan. He returned on furlough in 1917 to marry Lina. Ronald worked as a doctor at the Royal Adelaide Hospital during this time. By 1918, Ronald, together with his wife, had returned to Sudan. His first two children, Ronald Martin and Agnes Dora, were born in Africa.
In 1927, Ronald and Lina, with Ron junior (9) and Agnes (7), returned to Australia on furlough. They came back for their children to start their education in Australia.
This time, Ron accepted work as a physician and locum in Macclesfield, taking on the challenging task of coronial duties, including being a witness for a high-profile murder case.
My dad, Clement David Trudinger, was born on January 13, 1928, in Norwood. By May 1929, Ronald and Lina, with their young baby son, were on the ship steaming back to Sudan. Dad’s younger brother Leonhard Paul was born in Melut, Sudan.
As with their first two children, the younger sons must return to live with their maiden aunts in Adelaide for their education. Ronald and Lina returned to Adelaide, South Australia, in 1935. The plan was to stay a year, and then off to Sudan once again. However, it didn’t go as planned. Agnes, their daughter, became gravely ill with meningitis early in 1936. She survived but had to learn to walk and talk again.
Consequently, later in 1936, Ronald set off for Sudan alone after Agnes had recovered.
In Agnes’s memoir, their mum took the boys to live with her family in Yorktown for a year in 1938 while their dad was away on mission in Sudan.
In 1939, Lina joined her husband in Sudan while my dad and Paul stayed with the maiden aunts. During the war years, from 1939 to 1944, Ronald and Lina were on mission in Sudan.
The values of this era were self-sacrifice and obeying God’s calling before family. Plus they considered their children’s educational needs would be better served in Adelaide, South Australia rather than Sudan. Hence, Ronald’s and Lina’s decision to once more venture back to Sudan without their children—a decision the future wives of David and Paul (the dear aunts preferred David to Clement, and Paul to Leonhard), had an issue with. David, Clement by nature, and just that little bit older, took the separation from his mother with a stiff upper lip and in his stride. Dad had fond memories of staying with his maiden aunts. But Paul, being younger, was more of a feisty character and suffered from a sense of abandonment as a child.
Ronald then took two more mission trips to Sudan; 1946 to 1950, then 1951 to 1954. During his time on furlough in 1950, he visited Ernabella where his eldest son Ron was teaching the Pitjantjatjara people, and also Hermannsburg where my Grandpa Sam Gross was pastor at the time. This was before my dad and mum had met each other. It shows the connections in Christian circles and across denominations.
Lina stayed in Adelaide for the 1946 —1950 stint to Sudan but joined Ronald for his final 1951—1954 visit.
In 1954, Ronald had “retired” from the mission field and had taken up a position as a doctor at Hillcrest Psychiatric Hospital. He made an indelible impression there, remembered fondly by former patients.
Even in his golden years of real retirement, furthering the cause of Christ remained the driving force of his life. He never stopped witnessing and sharing the gospel whenever the Lord provided opportunities. In the last years of his life, after his dear wife died, he moved up to Alice Springs to manage a Christian bookshop.
However, this venture didn’t last as he became ill with leukemia. He returned to Adelaide and moved into a flat in the Lutheran Homes Retirement village in Payneham.
Illness didn’t stop him from being a missionary on home soil. In the months before he died, he bought an Italian dictionary so that he could share God’s love and the good news of salvation with his Italian gardener.
I remember my grandpa as a kind man who had a smile with his one remaining tooth in his mouth. He would make a joke about the Trudinger trait (pronounced tray) of twiddling thumbs. He taught my brother Richard to make bird calls with a leaf.
By the time I was born, Ronald and Lina were living in Walsall Street, Kensington Park, in the Norwood area. At three, I remember getting bored with all the people around for a big T-Team family gathering. I went off exploring, and mum found me sleeping under the bed on a pair of shoes.
I know where I was when Grandpa died. I was five. We were in the FJ Holden driving up to “see” Grandpa. Well, I thought we were. Then Dad announced that Grandpa had died. I was confused why we’d been going to see Grandpa if he had died. Hadn’t he gone to Heaven? After all, he was one of the most God-loving people I knew. Upon reflection, perhaps Dad needed to visit Grandpa’s flat to sort out some paperwork with the Lutheran Homes.
Ronald Trudinger died December 21, 1968. He had lived a full and productive life and with his missionary heart had spread the good news of Jesus Christ, his Lord and Saviour.
Oh, dear! I must’ve been deep in the rabbit-hole of painting yesterday. See what I painted in one sunny mid-winter’s afternoon, yesterday. Anyway, being what was intended to be Family History Friday for Tru-Kling Creations, went down a rabbit-hole and ended up somewhere else.
Check out the re-blog of the story of my great-great grandfather from Silesia.
Recently I shared how my dad relied on the Readers Digest “How to Fix” book to tackle DIY jobs. Having a double mortgage, and money being tight, Dad didn’t have much cash to splash on the “experts” in such fields as plumbing, electricity and general home maintenance.
The response met with a hint of dismissal from my older friends who prided themselves on their pedigree of farmer fathers. These, they boasted were real men, Aussie men, who fixed all things by pragmatic problem solving without the help of a book. The wisdom of their farming forebears imparted to them by osmosis, apparently.
In contrast, my father was a lesser being, a city dweller who had to refer to a book, of all things. My dad was a much-loved teacher, gifted in music, art and sport. He coached a winning football team of Indigenous players from Hermannsburg, Northern Territory in his youth, led a choir of Indigenous singers, and later school student Anklung bands for the South Australian Festival of Music. No flies on my dad. But I must admit, when it came to DIY, his forays into such exploits would rival the character Frank Spencer in the British sit-com, “Some Mothers do ’ave ‘em”. Still, I’m proud of my dad and love him. But then I realised that these superior beings who were my friend’s fathers, were from my grandparents’ era.
So, I cast my mind and research back to my two grandpas: Reverend Sam Gross (my mother’s father) and Dr. Ron Trudinger (my father’s father).
Now these friends held up their ties to the land as superior. Although both my grandfathers are highly educated with Reverend and doctor between them, I can claim a link to the land too, through my maternal grandfather, Sam. His family were farmers with I imagine generations of farmers before them from Horsham Victoria in the 1850’s and extending back to Prussia.
Sam was born in 1905 and grew up with all that practical knowhow bred into his being. I never met Sam, he died before I was born, but I remember my mum saying he was good at fixing things like cars. He could’ve been an engineer, but he became a Lutheran pastor. I reckon my brother inherited some of Sam’s traits—he’s a jack of all trades—the ideal DIY man.
As a child, Sam suffered rheumatic fever which affected his heart. Consequently, he got the education with the view of becoming a minister and wasn’t expected to continue with the farm like his brothers. The doctors told Sam he wouldn’t live past the age of thirty. But being extremely fit and maintaining his health, Sam defied those expectations.
After ordination to become a minister, and then a few years posted to Berri, in the Riverland of South Australia, Sam with his wife, Elsa (my grandma) and three young daughters (one my mother), ventured to Hermannsburg, Northern Territory. There God had called them to be missionaries to the Arrernte people.
Sam’s pragmatic skills, bred and imparted to him from generations who had lived and struggled on the land as poor subsistence farmers in Germany, then as pioneer farmers in the Victorian Western districts in Australia, came to the fore in the harsh isolated conditions in Central Australia.
Sam had to venture to even more remote places in the desert west of the MacDonnell Ranges—Haast Bluff for instance. One trip in 1942, the truck broke down. Despite putting his mechanic hat on and trying to fix the car, an essential part of the engine was kaput and the much-needed part not available. Sam’s problem-solving prowess kicked in, donkeys were found and the car towed by donkey-power back to “civilisation”—Hermannsburg.
A year or so after their arrival in Hermannsburg, the supervising pastor, F.W. Albrecht was stuck in Adelaide as a result of the war. Hermannsburg came under suspicion, as it was a mission set up by German missionaries back in the 1880’s, and as such with ties to the Lutheran church, had a German name and tradition. The British Army being paranoid of anything that hinted of German, was suspicious of Hermannsburg. They feared German spies were hiding out there. So, they sent officers to check out Hermannsburg.
On one of these visits, without their chief, Pastor Albrecht, Sam and Elsa had to entertain these one-eyed wary characters. How did Sam survive their investigation? My mum says her father had the gift of the gab. My grandma had the gift of hospitality. In “A Straight-Out man” by F.W. Albrecht, I remember reading the Arrernte said that Sam would be alright, he’s so Aussie they won’t suspect him. Besides, the name Gross is found in England too. Also, Sam’s first language was English and when at school, he had trouble learning German. Although German was spoken at Hermannsburg and in the family, Mum can’t remember what they did when these British Intelligence Officers came, but thinks the children were kept out the way. Maybe someone took the kinder (children) on a picnic…
Sam and his family survived the officer’s interrogation. However, the pedal two-way radio was confiscated, and later Rex Batterbee was appointed to keep an eye on the mission. This Rex did and taught Albert Namatjira to paint.
There’s much more to Sam’s story. I think this post gives a glimpse into his generation and German farming ancestry, migrants making good, living in isolation, making do, thinking on one’s feet and problem-solving.
Did I mention Sam still found time to indulge (as the Mission Board put it—another saga) his passion for photography? He used these photos of Central Australia for deputations to garner support for the mission. Many of his photos are now stored in the Strehlow Centre in Alice Springs.
Tomorrow is March. March, a time to remember my Grandma who was born in March and also died in March. Below is a tribute and celebration of the life and legacy of Elsa Anna Gross (nee Basedow).
[Have you ever been to a place and had an immediate affinity with it? Well, that’s how it was for me when the T-K Team on their Swiss adventures visited Murten. Loved the place. I’m sure, now, that it wasn’t just the perfect weather, the picture postcard views of the lake and the charming medieval architecture so perfectly preserved. There was something more, which I was to discover recently.
Of course, my younger son would insist on putting a dampener on my dreams—’How can you be related? You’ve got no Western German in your ethnicity,’ he harps on and on about that point. Anyway, we will put that matter aside and I’ll take it up with My Heritage.
All I can say, is that there must be something in the connection I felt with the place. While doing my family history, I came across some ancestors, the De Bons, who lived in Murten, my five times great-grandfather was a protestant pastor in Murten. There were Huguenot connections in the family. And note the museum, where I mention that the Celts lived in Murten. According to my DNA results from My Heritage, my ethnicity is 25% Celt.]
Murten/Morat
Thursday, August 21, 2014, even earlier up as we planned to drive across the country to Bern and beyond, near the French part of Switzerland. Granny excused herself as the last two days had exhausted her and besides, she really needed to catch up with her uncle and auntie.
I might add here that Granny and her family, being Swiss German, were not fans of the French part of Switzerland. The feeling, I’ve heard, is mutual. (Thanks to Nepoleon, the French part of Switzerland only became thus in the early 1800’s. So, when my ancestors were living there in the 1700’s, they would’ve identified as French.)
In Murten, the people speak French. So, when P1 spoke Swiss German to the Museum attendant, she was not amused. We almost didn’t get a Museum pass.
Back to the timeline, and some photos.
Despite Tomina’s (Tom Tom) and my under par navigational performance (early morning—yawn), we arrived at 11.30am in Morat/Murten and relished a day of summer, eating lunch by the lake, exploring the Old town and its buildings garnished with flowers, the museum of Stone Age, Celtic, Roman and Medieval relics spanning 10,000 years of human settlement around Murten. Followed by a visit to the Roman ruins in Avenches, the ancient capital of the Roman province of Helvitica.
On our return, we suffered the frustration stuck in peak hour traffic, and Granny suffered stress worrying about our late arrival “home”.
Last night, August 1, my husband’s maternal family hailing from Switzerland, we celebrated Swiss National Day. My husband’s mother was born in Basel and then grew up in Zurich. Her mother came from Wattwil, St. Gallen.
So, the family gathered at our home and enjoyed a firepit fire in the backyard.
When I asked my husband where fondue was “invented”, he said that fondue comes from the French part of Switzerland. In winter, the poor farmers used their cheese and bread to make a meal—fondue.
So, in memory of all things Swiss, here’s a revisit of an earlier post when the T-K Team travelled to Switzerland in 2014.
K-Team in Switzerland—2014
Welcome with Alphorns
Sunday, August 17, the real fun began—and so did the early starts.
Up by 6am to race to Zurich Airport to meet the rest of the K-Team, Hubby’s family: his mother (Mum K) brother (P1), niece (Miss K), our son (Son 1) and his fiancé. Drove into the airport car park where Hubby became confused and drove out again and then in again. After finding a park we made our way to arrivals where an English man chatted to Hubby.
‘We’re from Australia,’ Hubby said.
The English man nodded. ‘I can tell.’
A young woman accompanied by a man dressed in Swiss costume who’d been standing next to us spoke to us. We soon established that we had been standing next to Hubby’s second cousins.
We then waited together for the K-Team fresh from Australia to roll through the arrival gate. Tired of waiting, Hubby wandered down the hallway and there near an alcove of shops, he found our weary travellers.
Must be the atmosphere in Zurich, or just jetlag as after greeting us, they stood around for at least an hour discussing what to do. Hubby and I took custody of their luggage and had a coffee while they lingered in the hall in suspended animation apparently organising the lease car and then debating how to change Australian dollars into Swiss Francs.
Just as I pulled my diary out to write, movement, and then we were on our way to the farm near Wattwil of Toggenburg in the Canton of St. Gallen.
There Alphorns, and cow bell ringers, and the stunning green hills and blue mountains of the Santis greeted us. Mum K shrieked and cried and hugged her relatives. Our niece exclaimed, ‘It’s all so beautiful!’
Willing members of the K-Team tested their muscles swinging the huge cowbells, or their lungs playing the Alphorn. Some had more success than others. I escaped the test by recording the event with my camera.
After the insecticide incident, our hosts showed us our rooms and one of our cousins gave us instructions about the bathroom and how to place the flywire in our windows to keep out the “fleas”. She meant flies.
Mum K went missing. Found her in the dairy—yes, we were on a dairy farm that is still owned by the family. I was amazed that Swiss farmers have as few as ten cows and yet they make a living! Wouldn’t happen in Australia. And our hostess promised us fresh milk, dare I say it, raw milk, straight from the cow the next morning. Ah, the advantages of living on a dairy farm in Switzerland!
‘Actually,’ Hubby stated, ‘the Swiss Brown milk is known for its high fat content, so the milk is used for making cheese.’
As the T-Team talked to their dairy-farmer cousins, in this barn for the cows, I held my nose and edged towards the door. The up-and-personal experience with the cows and their calves in their enclosures, proved too much for my senses, and I suggested, ‘Let’s go for a walk to the forest.’ I moved out of the barn, sure that my bovine-close-encounter would be used in what was at that time in 2014, a future story—TheLost World of the Wends.
From the barn, the K-Team took a ramble to Mum K’s beloved forest—a smaller forest than one she remembered from her youth, but one she recalled vividly in a novel she wrote, A Teenager Long Time Ago.
Remember the humble postcard? My maternal grandfather used to collect them…100 years ago. This week, I’m embarking a journey into K-Team history as well as glimpsing life in the past from a postcard taken 100-years ago.
I am amazed at what one can glean from a simple card. Imagine, a postcard in 1921 cost 1-cent to post from the Netherlands! On the flip side, a tiny little script in the middle reads “nadruk verboden”(copying is forbidden). I’m hoping from my understanding of copyright laws, that this restriction has long since expired. That being said, I acknowledge the publishers “Weekenk and Snell, den Haag” and have shared this postcard for historical and educational purposes.
So, we travel forward in time, when my husband and I visited Amsterdam at the start of our European adventures in 2014.
We arrived in Amsterdam and after breezing through customs, Hubby rang up Renault to get someone to pick us up and drive us to the Renault office to pick up the leasing car, the Duster. ‘You’ll recognise us,’ the Renault guy promised. We waited half an hour. No guy, no van. Dragging my big red suitcase, Hubby paced back and forth along the front entrance and I trailed behind him, his smaller suitcase bumping over the pavement. After 45 minutes of no joy, no guy, and no Renault van, Hubby rang Renault again. Apparently, the pickup guy had made several laps of the Airport pick up area searching for us. Hubby suggested we rendezvous by a well-known hotel near the overpass. We waited there for a couple of minutes before Hubby got itchy feet and off he went a-wandering. I began to follow and then looked back. The Renault van rolled around the corner. I ran, and with my free hand I waved at the driver getting out of the van.
I apologised for my husband’s impatience and then we waved at him as he approached.
After picking up the Duster from the office, Hubby embarked on the challenge of driving in Amsterdam on the right side of the road. He took a little while to adjust to not over-compensating and bumping into the kerb on the right. Which he did a few times.
We gingerly drove the short way to the service station and after parking and hunting through the French instructions, found how to open the fuel cap. Hubby had learned French at school, so was able to decipher the information without spending too many hours trawling through the tome of a manual. So, we filled up with fuel and began our journey to our apartment. Our navigation system, a Tom-Tom which we named “Tomina” since it had a pleasant, if not slightly passive-aggressive female voice, lead us to the highway and then off the beaten track, then told us to turn around. Back where we started, Tomina said, ‘Turn right.’
‘Turn right,’ I said.
Hubby obliged by tuning left and into the highway. Cars coming from our right tooted us as we entered the highway. We had to go ‘round the block to get back on track. Then we saw that where Hubby turned was a sign that read, “No Left Turn”.
We found the apartments and since check-in was only from three o’clock, we had the staff hold our luggage while we explored the local station. We admired the rainbow-coloured flags that decorated the apartment block and surrounds, thinking they looked so pretty and decorative. Hungry by this time, we ate lunch, then bought a card, wine and flowers for his aunt Ada who had her birthday on the 30th July. A highlight of the trip for Hubby was visiting his aunts and cousins that afternoon. Had a lovely time meeting and getting to know his father’s relatives over coffee and cake. Some of his aunts Hubby hadn’t seen for 40 years.
The next three days in Amsterdam we spent walking. Hubby had taken it upon himself to become my personal trainer. We must get fit. We walked the roads of Amsterdam absorbing the summertime atmosphere, admiring the canals, the graceful architecture, the boats and hundreds of bikes—everywhere people riding bikes. The town was packed with people, tourists, and revellers, eating, drinking and shopping. As it turned out, we had chosen unwittingly, I might add, to spend the weekend when Amsterdam was celebrating the Rainbow Festival. We did see some unusual sights as well as the usual antics common to drunken behaviour. My foot suffered blisters as it adapted to new hiking sandals. Good thing we had a first aid kit and some blister pads from Rogaining a couple of years ago.
We did the usual tourist stuff, one day five hours in the Reich Museum, next day lining up and herding through the Van Gough museum-art gallery, and then an hour cruise through the canals. We had a 24-hour pass so we could hop on and off certain trams around the city. One tram though, decided to close its doors on me as I tried to get off leaving Hubby abandoned on the footpath. I alighted at the next tram stop around the corner and walked back. What joy to see my husband walking towards me.
Although we mostly ate at our apartment, the last day in Amsterdam we enjoyed pancake with apple and honey for lunch, and for dinner Argentinian steak—tender juicy steak. I’m not sure what it is about Argentinian steak houses, but in Amsterdam, they’re everywhere.
Gaslighting—it’s something we believe is a modern practice, AI generated. But, in truth, fudging the truth is as old as history itself.
You could say that creating one’s own reality is a global pastime and no one is immune to it. As humans, we interpret, or mis-interpret the world around us through our experiences, what we see, hear, taste and touch. We use our worldviews to form our identity and place in the world and to serve as a personal force-field to protect our beliefs. Our personal paradigm helps us navigate our way through life, predicting the challenges life may throw at us.
It is fair to say that our worldviews are limited, and often skewed as we encounter the worlds of others. Naturally, we believe our truth is the one and only way. To feel secure, we impose our version of reality on others. We are right. They are wrong.
People I know repeat their version of truth and make it their mission to convince others. One relative is convinced that I had the worst time while travelling in Europe in 2014. Every opportunity they will preach their story of my perceived misery to all glory and sundry, including my mother. They are of the belief that if you repeat a lie often enough, people will believe it. Don’t believe them. I had a wonderful time in Europe, beautiful memories, and one day we hope to travel there again. Or have I been deluded by my own interpretation of reality? Hmmm. I did miss the Matterhorn…and the Basel Kunst Museum…No, I will have to agree to disagree with that relative, I did enjoy Europe.
Anyway, the same can be said for our own personal family history. I remember reading an article in a Genealogy magazine about family myths and to be wary of them. It’s not enough to believe a story, a narrative. Good research requires facts, preferably primary resources.
With this in mind, I have been researching on the internet, the history of Nördlingen and the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sönne. Did my Trüdinger ancestors own it for two hundred years, as my relatives have been led to believe? It wasn’t our branch as my great-grandfather Karl August Trüdinger and family emigrated from Bavaria to England in the 1860’s, and then from England to Australia in 1886. He was a textile merchant trading in wool in Yorkshire England and then in Australia he set up a business selling textiles in Adelaide city. Now, here again, the details get a bit murky, and I need to do some more research into the actual work history of Karl August in Adelaide. Suffice to say, from my gleaning of Trove, Karl August was a fine Christian family man who together with his wife Clara Theresa, raised eight of his twelve surviving children to enter the mission field. Vastly different from the family origins in Nördlingen who were apparently rich and influential enough to own the hotel that entertained royalty.
[Photo 2: Trudinger Family in Adelaide, South Australia courtesy L.M. Kling circa 1890]
Yet, as I delved deeper into the rabbit-hole of internet searches, I discovered that my four-times great grandfather, Balthas Trüdinger was a soldier in the Teutonic order. Why else was he living in Lierheim (a castle near Nördlingen) which at the time was owned by the Teutonic order. Oh, the shame that this brought on the family, having a mercenary soldier in their ranks! Another myth. Sure, Balthas was a soldier. Sure, as a soldier in the Teutonic Order he was paid. But was the Teutonic Order so bad? When I first mentioned the fact of Balthas belonging to the Teutonic Order, my son and husband joked that he was most certainly a neo-Nazi of his time. I began to imagine Balthas all buff, shaved head and going around on crusades killing anyone who wasn’t Christian. According to my research, Wikipedia, mainly, Hitler portrayed the Teutonic Order as the exemplar of the Aryan race and cause. Again, this was a myth. As soon as Hitler’s achieved his purpose using them, he then turned against them and discarded the Teutonic Order.
According to my limited research, although the Teutonic Order went on Crusades to Christianise Europe, and paid mercenaries to fight, they also did a great deal of good. Way back when they formed in 1191, they protected travellers making their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. They organised and built hospitals, initially for wounded soldiers and these days the order is primarily a charitable organisation. Anyway, it would seem from the records compiled from my uncle Ron Trudinger, that Balthas didn’t stay in Lierheim, but, after the birth of his son Georg, he moved to Nördlingen. Here, no mention of Georg being an innkeeper, but instead a linen weaver and Burgermeister of the town.
From a research paper on Nördlingen in the 17th Century called Early Capitalism and its Enemies: The Wörner Family and the Weavers of Nördlingen* (Published online by Cambridge University Press: 11 June 2012) which I accessed online through Jastor, I was able to surmise that for Georg to become the Mayor of Nördlingen, he would’ve needed to be seriously cashed up. I mean rich, one of the wealthiest in the town, if not, the wealthiest. It would seem he landed on his feet so to speak as a linen weaver or had come into a sizable inheritance. Or, had he or his father married into money in the town? The owner of the hotel, perhaps?
Nowhere in my gleanings on the town do I see that he was the innkeeper or owner of Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne. The above-mentioned article had a breakdown of income, which I presume was yearly, of people in the town. According to a study accessed online called “Nordlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war”, in 1700, the owner of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne had the highest income of all, a salary of 41 Florin. A teacher at the time received one to four Florin per year. And a soldier, which is what Georg’s father, Balthas was, received eleven Florin per year.
Again, as far as the Trüdinger family is concerned, it’s all conjecture and where myths start to grow and take a life of their own.
One thing for certain, though, is that in family history, experiences that family members have had hold weight for evidence. After all, they are the life-experience of that person and from their point of view. My second cousin, who married a German, and lived in Bavaria, decided to visit the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne in the 1960s. Family there living in Germany, informed her that a Trüdinger relative owned the hotel. Upon seeing the hotel, my second cousin was impressed by how high-class it was with fancy décor and loads of antique furniture. The food offered was out of her budget, but my second cousin tried to talk to her hotel-owning relative.
The encounter didn’t progress the way my cousin had hoped. Although my second cousin could speak fluent German, the hotel owner seemed distant and appeared reluctant to engage with her. Maybe, the lady was having a difficult day…Or hadn’t been given enough warning that a cousin was going to visit the hotel unannounced.
My second cousin left the establishment and decided to eat elsewhere.
When we visited my second cousin in Germany, she told me this story and mentioned that by the end of the 1960’s the Trüdinger relatives had sold the hotel. She believed that the hotel had been in the family for 200 years.
I am still trying to figure out if this a fact, or if it is a myth.
Do you or someone you know have information on the history of the Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne Nördlingen? Are you related to the Trüdinger family? You are most welcome to leave a comment. Or you may contact me through the My Heritage Trudinger-Kling website.
About quarter to 7 we arrived at the station and there was the whole station out to meet us, black and white, big and little, and such a noise too, it sounded just like a whole lot of parrots or galahs. Then the truck came to a standstill and Sam got out and had to shake hands all around. I had to stay in the truck on account of the measles. I could only talk to them from a distance. It was just like a dream and to see all the natives running to and fro, reminded me of the movie films which Lou Borgelt had taken in New Guinea.
Well, after all the greetings were over we were taken across to our new home, which by the way isn’t very new, it’s one of the oldest houses on the station. Mrs Albrecht was going to have us over there for the first few days for meals, but through this measles business we decided it was best if we stayed isolated for a while so as not to infect the natives. Mrs Albrecht sent us over our tea, then, and such a huge tea, too, and we did full justice to it, too.
And now began our life on the station. But so far we haven’t seen very much of it, I haven’t been out of the place at all, Sam has gone to the other places more, but we keep away as much as possible. And now, last weekend, Ruth gets the German Measles, she was fairly miserable, but is alright again now, except for a cough. Now it means we have to stay isolated for another 10 days or so, in case Marie gets them. It is a real nuisance, because we can’t get to anything properly. The only advantage it has is that we can get things a bit straight around the place.
Such a lot wants doing, the doors don’t fit, and the floors need doing, and the garden has to be made. These last two days Sam has had 2 natives helping him with all sorts of odd jobs, yesterday and today they dug the front garden and this morning we planted the lawn and tomorrow I want to put in some flowers.
The first 2 days we were here were terribly windy and dusty and hot. The dust came in everywhere, it was just like a real dusty day in the mallee. Our box of goods was supposed to come out the same day that we got out here, but it didn’t come Wednesday, we waited Thursday, and still didn’t come. By this time Missionary Albrecht was getting worried, he thought the thing might have tipped over. Friday morning we got a wire to say they couldn’t get it off the truck in Alice Springs. They had been trying to get the wire through since Tuesday but the weather had been too bad, they couldn’t get it through. So Sam had to pack up an go into Alice Springs and there saw to the unloading. Eventually on Sunday afternoon the lorry arrived and was duly unpacked, of course the natives were very interested in everything, especially the piano.
So far I haven’t any house girls yet, as soon as we are out of quarantine I will get two. Mrs Albrecht has been baking my bread for me until I get the girls. Milk I have brought over every morning, also cream and from that I make my own butter, but unfortunately I am not a good hand at it yet. There are some nice vegetables in our garden, which is quite a big one, we have over 20 date palms in it, 4 orange trees and 3 figs and quite a number of vines. This last week we had about an inch of rain which was quite nice for the gardens and settled the dust.
I am afraid it will take me quite a while to get to know all the natives and all their names too. I know Albert, the artist, by sight, of course, he always wears an overcoat and is quite proud of his appearance. I also know,
Manasse the leather worker, also Herbert and Ferdinand the two Sam had helping him. Of the women, I think the only one I know by name is,
Cecelia, an older woman who always wears a red dress. Some of the children are lifted up so that they look over the fence to watch the children play and when we come out they scoot. Some of their attire is pretty weird too. One little chap wears his father’s shirt, it reaches nearly to the ground and has to have the sleeves rolled up. Another little girl has her big sister’s dress on, and every time she runs she has to hold it up or she would fall over it. Another little chap has a “has been” shirt on, his father’s, it’s only strips now. Most of the men wear hats, some felt, some harvester hats. The boys that Sam has have straw hats on but they look as though the mice have been at them. Yesterday morning the one came along with feathers sticking out of the holes, I don’t know if he had visited the fowl-house or not.
Tru-Kling Creations 