He Wanted us to Know God’s Love

In Memory and celebration of my father’s life…

Remembering his passing 9 years ago this week…

DAVID BY NAME CLEMENT BY NATURE

Ron and Lina Trudinger’s third child was born in Adelaide on January 13, 1928. His parents named him Clement David Trudinger. He was a much longed for child as he arrived eight years after his older sister, Agnes.

[Photo 1: Growing family with Clement David baby no. 3 © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection circa 1928]

“Clement?” his aunts cried. “We don’t like the name Clement.”

So they called the babe by his second name, David, and David he has been ever since. Except, of course when he goes to hospital, then he’s Clement, officially.

Throughout his life, God watched over David who has shared many stories of how he showed His love towards him, protecting, and providing for him and his family. He shared how he felt he didn’t deserve God’s love; he wasn’t perfect, yet God loved him. It is this love that David would want all of you to know.

[Photo 2: David, the boy © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection circa 1930]

He began to write down his life-story, and in the last few weeks began to tell all, especially his grandchildren, how God worked in his life and how his Heavenly Father protected him.

When he was two years old, his missionary parents took David and his younger brother Paul to Sudan, in Africa. Not the kind of place to take small children. But God protected David and his brother from a hippopotamus, cobras, car accidents, and mad men. (He’s written in more detail about these incidents and I will share these in the future.)

[Photo 3: David and his brother on the Nile © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection 1932]

God also blessed him with a loving and God-fearing family. Some may say, too God-fearing, for his parents continued their mission work in Sudan while David from the age of seven, and Paul from five, commenced their schooling in Adelaide. As a student, David only saw his parents every five years when they returned home on furlough. He shared how despite missing his parents, he enjoyed his childhood, with so many aunts doting on him, and the game afternoons they had. I think his love of games started there in the Northumberland Street parlour. He’d even created a few games in his latter years.

[Photo 4: With siblings in Adelaide © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection 1940]

His other great love was sport, especially football. God blessed David with fitness, agility, and a few trophies along the way. In retirement, he played golf, and when his legs couldn’t keep up trekking the 18 holes, he took up table tennis instead. He was still playing table tennis up until a few months ago. Sport kept his body and mind young.

David also enjoyed hiking and exploring. During school holidays he’d visit his older brother Ron, a teacher at Ernabella. While there, he made friends with the Pitjantjatjara children and go into the Musgrave Ranges on hiking expeditions. One hot day, David and a friend became lost in the ranges without water, or salt. They wandered for hours parched and at the point of dehydration, before coming across a waterhole, the most welcome sight David had ever seen. I’m sure God protected and guided them back home. I’m also sure that’s when David’s love of salt began.

[Photo 5: Younger Brothers in Ernabella © courtesy C.D. Trudinger collection circa 1940]

David progressed through his schooling, and gifted in art, he trained to be an art and woodwork teacher. After a couple of years at Lameroo, he won a position at Hermannsburg Mission as headmaster.

He taught at Hermannsburg for five years. In that time, he became close to the Aranda people, especially the students he taught. They took him on expeditions into the MacDonnell Ranges, Palm Valley, and gorges and beauty spots along the Finke River. David also became close to Pastor Gross’ daughter, Marie.

[Photo 6: Teacher in Hermannsburg (David far right) © S.O. Gross circa 1955]

On January 23, 1958, he married Marie in Hermannsburg.

However, his romance with Central Australia was cut short, when, for health reasons, he and Marie had to move down to Adelaide. On October 30, his first child, Richard was born.

David continued teaching, first at Ridley Grove Primary School, and then St. Leonards P.S. The little Trudinger family moved from schoolhouse to schoolhouse.

May 3, 1963, his daughter, Lee-Anne was born. By this time, Glenelg Primary School planned to convert their little rented home into a library. As his family grew and Marie grew more unsettled with the constant shifting, David faced the challenge to buy a house. But how could he on a teacher’s wage? He looked at his lovely stamp collection of rare Sudanese stamps. Could he trade them in to help pay for a deposit?

[Photo 7: David and Marie’s first own home © L.M. KLing 2005]

They looked at a few homes. A bungalow on Cross Road appealed to him, but not Marie. His father wasn’t impressed either. Marie didn’t like that pokey little home on the main road with no back yard at all and the property was right next to the rail line. Then a trust home at Gilbert Road Somerton Park came up for sale, and the deal was done. David regretted selling his stamp collection but reasoned that this was an investment for the children. And, many years down the track, it was, especially with the two lovely court yard homes, one of which David and Marie have lived in from 2006.

[Photo 8: New and improved courtyard home © L.M. King 2021]

God blessed David’s career. He taught at Port Adelaide Primary School from the late 1960’s until he retired in 1985 at the age of 57. In that time he studied to teach Indonesian, became Deputy Principal, and won a government research grant to go to Indonesia. He became interested in the Indonesian musical instrument, the Anklung. He brought a set home and proceeded to teach pupils how to play. He had bands of students playing in the Festival of Music until 2010. He continued to visit the school now LeFever Primary and train students to play the Anklung, right up till the beginning of this year. He also tutored indigenous students.

David lived life to the full and grasped every opportunity to explore the wild and untouched land God has created, especially Central Australia. With his long service leave, and then time in his early retirement, he made regular pilgrimages to the Centre. And God protected him. I like to think that now he is with the Lord, his guardian angel is enjoying a well-deserved rest.

[Photo 9: Dad having a well-deserved Sunday afternoon rest © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1983]

One example he gave of God’s protection was on a hiking trip in the Western Wilderness of Tasmania with a friend. On one narrow path climbing around a cliff-face, he felt his heavy pack over-balance and he began to fall. “This is it,” he thought. Then he felt the pressure of someone pushing him back against the rock and he was able to step two metres further to a wider path. He knew an angel of the Lord rescued him, preserving his life, not just for his sake, but for his friend’s sake, and also because his work on earth was not complete.

[Photo 10: Cradle Mountain, Tasmania © L.M. Kling 2009]

But on August 25, 2012, David’s work on earth was done. There are probably many things he has done that will be remembered as a blessing and encouragement to all who knew him. He was a regular member of Faith Lutheran Warradale church; he took an active role, and was a vital member of the congregation for over 54 years. He was a Sunday School teacher, an elder, and a Bible Study leader.

We will miss his cheerful nature, how he grasped life, lived it to the full and shared God’s love with all he came across.

He may have been David by name, but he was Clement by nature.

[Photo 11: The original men of the T-Team, David (3rd from left) and his father and brothers © C.D. Trudinger collection 1967]

First published as a eulogy to Clement David Trudinger by Lee-Anne Marie Kling ©2012

Revised © 2016; 2021

 Feature  photo: Central Australian sunrise © C.D. Trudinger 1977

***

More of my dad’s intrepid adventures in Central Australia in my memoir,

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

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]

Out of Time (5.2)

A Computer Called Clarke

Part 2

[The continuation of the Survivor Short Story “project” in the War On Boris the Bytrode series. This time, back in time, 1967, following the adventures of middle-aged mum, Letitia…

In this episode (5.2) Fugitive Tails and his stolen charges await Tails’ partner in crime, Maggie’s promised return from Antarctica …]

Delayed

Liam preferred to forget that day. The Adelaide plains surrounding the airport were blanketed with the chill of an unseasonal sea-fog, and icy rain drops which seemed imported directly from Antarctica. After the broiling heat of summer in Alice Springs; a heat that drives even the locals to seek refuge down south, Adelaide’s weather proved to be just too cold for Liam’s liking. The city skyline hunkered down beneath the mist as if trying to keep warm. Liam vaguely remembered this sister city of his youth, the one in Mirror World, where buildings rose tall and proud and way out of the flight path of sleek-looking aircraft. In contrast, these low-lying buildings and stumpy hills were shrouded in a murky mist, gathering, full of foreboding.

Liam, Max and their father, lined up at the glass; sad pathetic ducks at a sideshow. Waiting. Hoping. Expecting the aeroplane from Melbourne to land any minute. The giant-sized screen of scheduled landings flicked and clicked promised landings and departures.

 ‘The flight should have landed five minutes ago.’ Tails paced behind his sons. ‘You said she rang and that she was coming, Liam. You told me!’

‘It’s 1967, Dad,’ Liam spat, ‘That’s what you keep telling us.’

‘Yeah, Dad,’ Max rolled his eyes and added, ‘and it’s not Mirror World. So, the planes are old-fashioned and not as efficient.’

‘You still remember, that? I mean, Mirror?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ Max sighed, ‘We’re not stupid.’

‘And it was mum what spoke to you from ‘obart?’

‘Yes, Dad,’ Liam replied.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature photo: Swans on the Torrens, Adelaide circa 1960 © S.O. Gross circa 1945

***

Want more?

More than before?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the over-sized alien cockroach gets up to…

Click on the link to my new novel, The Lost World of the Wends

Or discover how it all began in The Hitch-Hiker

And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

Tuesday Thoughts–Identity Theft

After a busy week of birthday celebrations and Mother’s Day, I found this little pond of thoughts from a post way back in my past when my blogging life first began…

Identity Theft

We’ve all heard of the unfortunate person who’s gone for a loan, only to discover their application has been rejected—not because they have a poor credit rating—no, previously, their rating has been perfect—but because some creep has stolen their identity, spent all their credit, and accrued a bad credit-rating.

Identity theft—not nice, and it can take years for the victim to clear their name and regain a good credit-rating.

However, I’ve come across a more subtle, more disturbing, more widespread form identity theft. In fact, with this sort of theft, the victim is a passive participant in the whole deal, and willingly hands over their identity to the perpetrator.

How do you convince another person of who you really are? This is a question I have heard people ask. I have asked this question and struggled with the insidious theft of my identity since…I became self-aware.

As if a character in a novel or a play, from birth, we are cast in our roles. These roles are set by another’s attitudes and world view. In reality a great many people go through life playing a role as someone else’s character in that someone else’s book of life, without ever discovering who they really are, their true identity.

And it’s fair to say, all of us, at one time or another, have scripted others into our drama without ever seeing that person for who they really are.

I must admit, as a victim of this form of identity theft, which for the most part, I cannot control as I cannot control another’s attitudes and way they see the world, I enjoy the freedom of writing. When writing fiction, I get in touch with my real self through my characters. Also in non-fiction, such as my memoirs, I redeem my true identity from those who have stolen it for their own particular narratives. Most of the time. I have to admit, though I struggle with attitudes and judging others that get in the way of seeing another person for who they really are.

So, in answer to the question, how do you reveal who you really are to another and thus change their view of you—even when you are yourself?

The key is listening to another with empathy and non-judgementally. As in most lessons of life, we need to lead by example. We also need to be aware of our own narratives and attitudes that get in the way of being open to seeing another for who they really are. We need listen and be open to entering another’s world that will be different from ours. As we do this and listen to another and engage in their world, they will feel safe and trust you enough to open themselves up to listen and see who you really are.

Being seen for who you really are, jumping off the stage and ripping up the script, even with the tool of listening is not a quick fix. Changing our culture, attitudes and habits takes time. Maybe like the recovery from a stolen credit identity, it takes time, maybe years to restore. But isn’t it preferable to be proactive in being the person we truly are, rather than passively being someone else’s perception of us? And isn’t it a good thing to listen and see another for who they really are?

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2021

Feature Photo: Actor on Stage © L.M. Kling 2007

References

Books I have found helpful in relation to the above article:

 Born to Win by Murial James & Dorothy Jongeward ©1971

The 3rd Alternative by Stephen R. Covey ©2011

***

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]

Story Behind the Art–Ormiston, the Other Side

[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]

Fishies in the Billabong

After relishing the sweet crunch of cornflakes for breakfast, the T-Team drove back to Ormiston Gorge. We hiked through the gorge admiring the red cliffs, ghost gums and mirror reflections in the waterholes, and took less than an hour to reach the end with the view of Mt. Giles, lumpy and sapphire blue.

*[Photo 1: Hike through Ormiston Gorge © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

Settling near a waterhole framed by reeds, Dad built up a fire on the coarse sand while our family friend, TR rolled up his trousers and dipped his toes in the pool. ‘Hey!’ He pointed and did a little dance. ‘A fish! I see a fish!’

*[Photo 2: The Other Side of Ormiston © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

Our cousins, C1 and C2 raced over to TR. ‘Where?’ They peered into the pond. I trailed after them, hunting for fish through the plumes of muddied water near TR’s white calves.

‘There!’ TR waved his finger at the middle of the waterhole.

C1 squinted. ‘Oh, yeah.’

C2 waded into the water and peered. ‘I don’t see anything.’

*[Photo 3: Waterhole closer © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

Richard hunted and fossicked through the cooking equipment Dad had scattered around the campfire. ‘You got a sieve? A net? Anything?’

‘What for?’ Dad asked.

‘The fish.’

‘Ah, you know, those fish can lay dormant in the dry creek bed for years and when the rain comes, they spawn.’ Dad just had to tell us.

‘Well, this little fishy is going to be our lunch.’ Richard snapped his fat fingers together like crab claws. ‘I’ll catch it with my hands if I have to.’ He strode into the pool with such force the waters parted like the Red Sea. ‘Now where’s that fish?’ he said as he sank up to his waist.

‘There it is!’ TR gestured. ‘To your right.’

*[Photo 4: Mt Giles over pound © C.D. Trudinger 1986]

Richard glanced, his smile faded. ‘Oh, is that all? It’s just a piddley little thing. Not enough for lunch.’ He was neck deep in the water and prepared to swim. He shot up. ‘Ouch! Something bit me!’

‘Better watch out, might be Jaws,’ I said.

‘You didn’t tell me there were yabbies.’ Richard bobbed up and down, then reached down to catch his feet. ‘Ouch! It bit me again!’

‘Why not yabbies?’ C1 said.

‘Now that’s an idea,’ Richard replied.

‘Ah! Shrimp!’ C2 waded towards his cousin. ‘I love the taste of shrimp.’

‘Hmm, yabbies,’ Richard said. ‘We used to catch yabbies all the time when we were young.’ With an explosive splash, he submerged in search of the yabby that had bitten him.

Dad, TR and I waited for the damper scones to cook and watched Richard and C1 turn bottoms up like ducks in the water in their quest for yabbies. C2 waded in the shallows of the pond, a roughly sharpened stick in hand ready to skewer any hapless water-creature.

*[Photo 5: Eating lunch © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

Soon we breathed in the sweet aroma of baked scones. Dad flipped the foil wrapped balls out of the coals. ‘Lunch is ready!’ He clustered the silver spheres together using a small branch as if they were balls on a snooker table. Empty-handed the lads dragged their soaked bodies from the waterhole and schlepped to the fire place to collect their consolation prize of damper scone.

Richard held his stubby index finger and thumb in the form of the letter “C”. ‘I was this close to getting a yabby.’

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; Updated 2018; 2021

*Feature Painting: The Other Side of Ormiston © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016

***

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]

Story Behind the Art–Mt. Giles

Quest to Conquer Mt. Giles

[Extract from Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981]

Dad sucked on his lemon (a proven refreshment and guard against dehydration). ‘About a-quarter-to-twelve.’ He continued to sit and suck on his lemon as if in no hurry.

‘A-quarter-to-twelve?’ I stood. ‘We’ll never get there. We can’t even see the trig.’

‘Well, um-er, we better get a move on.’ Dad rose and slung his pack over his shoulder. The T-men shuffled up a worn kangaroo track. I took a quick swig of water and bounded after them.

[Painting 1: Mt. Giles—our goal (Acrylic) © L.M. Kling 2010]

We stopped at a three-pronged fork in the trail. Three mountain points stood before us. ‘Now, which way shall we go?’ You’d think Dad would’ve worked the route out before we embarked on this project, using his compass and detailed maps. But apparently, he hadn’t.

C1 (Older Cousin) raised an eyebrow.  MB (My Brother) scratched his chin. C2 (Younger Cousin) shook his head, and I shrugged.

Dad hummed and hawed.

‘We could hike up and down the gully to see,’ MB said.

C2 sighed. ‘That would take too much time.’

‘What about the saddle?’ I asked.

The men looked at me, their eyes narrowed. ‘To which point?’ Dad spoke for them all. For the next few precious minutes, the men bantered about what option to take, cutting me out of the decision making.

‘Ah, well, time’s running out. I guess we can’t expect to reach the top,’ Dad announced with the damning tone of resignation.

I stomped off towards the saddle.

[Photo 1: Mt Giles from the Pound © C.D. Trudinger 1986]

‘Oy! Oy! What do you think you’re doing?’ Dad yelled.

I bolted on southwards and upwards to the spur. Even menacing prickle bushes didn’t stand a chance as I charged through them. Behind me I could hear the Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! as Dad hacked his way in pursuit of me. ‘Come back! You can’t go off on your own!’

Scratched and sore from the fight with the bushes, I stopped. A tight-rope path lay ahead. Not even enough width for my feet on this razor back. I turned and watched the shrubs shake.

Dad emerged brushing seeds and thorns from his arms. He shaded his eyes as he looked up. ‘You’ve taken the correct action.’

‘What?’ I scratched my eye-brows. Dad’s big words confused my exhausted mind.

Wheezing, Dad caught up to me. ‘See?’

He pointed at the nearest mound. ‘See, the trig?’

I squinted towards where the hill met the cobalt blue of the sky. At the highest point, a thin wire shimmered in the heat. ‘Oh, yeah!’

While Dad and I gulped down some water, MB, C2 and C1 galloped past us. ‘Watch your step on the spur!’ Dad warned.

We picked our way along the razor back ridge. I held my breath and resisted the urge to look down past the tight-rope path where I placed each step. Holding my arms out straight either side, I teetered and tottered to the end of my ordeal. When I reached the slope at the other end, an incline with generous girth and no cliff in sight, I collapsed to my knees, then bent over and kissed the sand stone.

[Photo 2: Razor-back Ridges of Giles © C.D. Trudinger 1981

]

However, my rejoicing was short-lived and I rose to my sore feet to push on. After plodding up and down more ridges, more rocky slopes, and more frequent rests to nurse my aching calves, our allotted time to reach the summit by 12:30pm lapsed.

We gathered around Dad.

‘What’s the verdict?’ I asked. A breeze cooled the back of my neck.

Flies gathered on C1’s back. MB slapped between C1’s shoulder blades and clapped the flattened insects from his palms. ‘Twenty.’ He flicked the last of the sticky flies from his palm.

‘Well,’ Dad took a deep breath, ‘We’ve come this far, we might as well go all the way.’

‘We have a full moon, that’ll help,’ C2 said.

C1 waved a pesky fly from his face. ‘Okay!’

‘Let’s go!’ MB slapped his hands together near Phil’s nose and killed that fly too.

‘Alright!’ I said.

Determined to reach the peak, we plunged forward, despite being famished, wrung of perspiration, weary and late. We were so close. Every so often, the trig teased us appearing as we reached a high point, and then vanishing as we dipped into a valley. MB and C1 raced each other.

I climbed over a wall of rock and saw the trig wobbling above the slope in the oily heat. I scrambled upwards. A saddle stretched and rose before me. Damn! Another false top! I struggled over the saddle to face another false top. After staggering over the fifth false top, I saw the trig and blinked. Was it real? Or was it a mirage? I limped up the jagged path, pain shooting down my calf muscles with each step. The trig disappeared behind an outcrop of rocks. We’ll never get there!

[Photo 3: One Ridge After Another © C.D. Trudinger 1992]

I skirted the rocks and saw the trig fifty meters away, bold, rusty, and high. Under the shade of an orange sheet that fluttered like a flag in the wind, MB, C1 and C2 lounged by the stone cairn, packs off their backs, stirring Salvital into their cups of water and then sipping with delight the reward of their labour. The time was one o’clock.

Ten minutes later, Dad dragged himself over the last ridge and limped to the summit. There, he sat on a rock and rubbed his knee. ‘O-o-oh!’ He inspected the damage, red and swollen. ‘I tripped and fell on my knee. I hope I can get down alright.’

‘You better,’ C1 laughed. ‘You can’t exactly camp up here.’

‘You’ll have to get down,’ MB said.

‘Yeah!’ I gazed at the view entranced by the once-ancient ocean bed surrounded by islands of mountain ranges that snaked like the backbone of a prehistoric creature into the haze on the horizon.

[Photo 4: View from the summit—Foreground, the Pound, Ormiston Gorge behind, and in far distance, Mt. Sonder (left) and Mt. Ziel (right) © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1981]

‘Hey, look at these!’ C1 excavated some calling cards from a tin can wedged in the monument to the summit. Our predecessors had conquered the mountain one year earlier to the day. The scribe wrote: “The climb was well worth the effort”. They described ascending to the peak by the southern ridge starting from Giles Spring. This tip gave us the idea to descend by the south ridge and traverse west through the pound to the camp.

We celebrated with lunch of scroggin and copious amounts of Milo and strawberry flavoured Quick mixed with powdered milk and water. We took photos of the stunning scenery and each other as evidence of our triumph over adversity.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2017; updated 2021

Feature Painting: Trekking towards Mt Giles challenge (Pastel) © Lee-Anne Marie King 2021

***

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]

T-Team Next Generation–Return to Hermannsburg

[In 2013, the T-Team, next generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.

Over the next few weeks, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.

This time, the T-Team go their separate ways…]

Monday Morning

After a fitful sleep and then early rise, I looked forward to coffee with mum and the boys. With the sun peeping over the horizon, shining in the watery blue winter sky and reflecting golden on the gum trees surrounding the campground, the frigid desert air slowly began to thaw.

[Photo 1: Sunrise in the Centre © L.M. Kling 2013]

First, though, after a warming shower and filling breakfast, the tent had to be packed up. Anthony needed my help with that. Then, he spent an eternity repacking the station wagon. While waiting, I jogged on the spot and puffed out steam of my breath into the below ten-degrees air.

[Photo 2: Packing up Tent, Mambray Creek, Flinders Ranges © L.M. Kling 2018]

As if a surgeon performing a delicate operation, Anthony punctuated his packing with commands. ‘Bags!’ So, I passed over the bags which he grabbed and pushed into the boot of the car. Then, ‘Tent!’ I hauled over the packed tent to him. Then, ‘Esky!’ I lugged the cool box (esky) to him. Then, waving his hand while head stuck in the boot of the car, ‘Box!’

‘What box?’ I asked.

‘Kitchen box!’

‘Huh?’ I glanced at the piles of stuff still waiting a home in the Ford. Finding the green crate with breakfast cereals, bread and cans of beans, I passed that one to him.

‘No! No! No!’ he snapped and pointed at the red crate, same size but with cooking utensils. ‘That box!’

Apparently, the green crate must go under the back seat with a blanket covering it.

[Photo 3: Challenges of packing are not new. Imagine having to pack a camel like in the olden Hermannsburg Days © S.O. Gross circa 1942]

Finally, with Anthony’s version of luggage-tetris complete, we drove the short distance in the caravan park to mum’s cabin.

Again, we found Mum T glued to the phone. On the small pine table, she had spread out a brochure opened to camel farms. In between phone calls she muttered, ‘Mrs. T has asked me to find a camel farm for them to visit.’ She was not having much luck finding a camel farm or someone from the camel farms advertised, to answer her calls.

[Photo 4: In search of an open Camel Farm © L.M. Kling 2013]

While Mum T remained occupied with the phone, Anthony and I popped next door to visit our boys. The first words out of their Dad’s mouth when he entered was, ‘Have you packed?’

Son 1 and 2 duly showed Dad their packed luggage waiting by the door.

Satisfied that the lads were ready to depart Alice Springs and not miss the flight, we sat down to enjoy a coffee with the boys.

[Photo 5: Flights in the Centre are not new–Air force visitors during the war years © S.O. Gross circa 1942 ]
[Photo 6: Memories of my first flight over Alice Springs 1977 © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

Mum joined us. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said over her much-needed coffee to wake up, ‘the park manager came over. They were most apologetic about the mix up yesterday. Apparently, whoever took my booking assumed the people were T’s, because when they asked them, the lady didn’t hear clearly and just nodded and said “Yes”.’

‘You mean the guy behind the counter assumed the lady was you?’ I asked to clarify.

‘Apparently, the guy asked the lady, ‘Are you Mrs. T?’ and she said, ‘Yes.’’

We shook our heads.

‘Maybe the lady who took our cabin had a hearing problem,’ I said.

‘Oh, well, it all worked out in the end,’ Mum T concluded.

[Photo 6: Years of practise “working it out”; Mum T as a girl (2nd left) having a tea party at the back of the old truck © S.O. Gross 1945]

After visiting the Strehlow Centre and its Art Gallery again, we travelled to the airport to see our sons safely, and in time, board the plane back to Adelaide. Then a brief stop at Woolworths for Anthony to buy some shorts, before commencing our return to Hermannsburg.

[to be continued…]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Mum’s Ghost Gum near Mt. Hermannsburg © courtesy M.E. Trudinger circa 1950

***

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]

T-Team Next Gen–Alice Springs (2)

All In a Sunday (5)

Must Register

[In 2013, the T-Team, Next Generation embarked on their pilgrimage to Central Australia. Purpose: to scatter Dad’s ashes in his beloved Central Australia, in Ormiston Gorge.

Over the next few weeks, I will take you on a virtual trip to the Centre and memories of that unforgettable holiday in 2013, with my brother and his family; the T-Team Next Generation.

This time, the T-Team leave camping in the desert behind and tackle the complexities of civilisation—Alice Springs…all on a Sunday.]

By the time our family and Mum drove the streets of Alice Springs in search of a hotel to eat, night had fallen, and a blanket of darkness surrounded us. As a convoy of Mum’s rental and the Ford, we wended through the few short streets to the nearby hotel which had been recommended by the caravan park.

Photo 1: Memories of Alice Springs way back when—View From Anzac Hill Memorial © courtesy M.E. Trudinger circa 1955

‘Hope we can get a table,’ Anthony grumbled as we walked from the neon-lit car park to the entrance of the hotel. ‘We haven’t booked, you know.’

‘If we can’t, I guess you’ll be cooking tea for us all,’ I joked.

‘It’ll be alright,’ Mum sang her mantra.

[Photo 2: Mr. BBQ extraordinaire © L.M. Kling 2020 (Black and White film)]

Our family of five filtered through the front entrance and into an expanse of dark green carpet and pastel green walls and fronted up to the black topped counter.

‘Do you have a table for five?’ Mum T asked.

‘You need to register,’ the man at the counter said.

Anthony and I glanced at each other. ‘Register?’

‘We need to see your identification; a drivers’ licence will be okay.’

‘That’s normal for me,’ Son 1 said, ‘They always ask for my ID. They don’t believe I’m over 18.’

Son 2 snorted, ‘And here I was getting into hotels when I was under 18, no problem.’

‘Just your luck,’ Son 1 muttered.

‘And I don’t drink,’ Son 2 sniffed.

‘Typical.’

[Photo 3: Neither does my brother, but you wouldn’t think so by the looks of this shot © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1986]

While the boys quibbled and joked, the T-K Team, good citizens that we were, unquestioningly showed our respective licences and registered to enter the hotel.

As we sat at our designated table, we observed the predominance of people of Anglo-Saxon extraction and the lack of First Nation people. There was one Indigenous family way down the other end of the dining hall, but… They seemed happy enough.

[Photo 4: Another hotel, another time, another place (Adelaide actually), same T-Team Next Gen. © L.M. Kling 2020]

Over dinner, roast meat, and smorgasbord, (your average fare for an Aussie hotel at that time), I mused, ‘What’s the deal with registering?’

Anthony waved a hand around the room. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Didn’t you read the sign at the entrance?’

‘What sign?’

Anthony rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Then again, I understood, without further explanation, what my husband meant.

[Painting 1: Memories of Ormiston Gorge © L.M. Kling 2018]

Back at the campsite, I used the communal kitchen to prepare a hot chocolate for Anthony and me. While the kettle took its time boiling, I watched a pair of German tourists and their Australian friends Skyping on a laptop to Germany.

[Photo 5: Dreams of travelling the Romantic Road; something to look forward to. Rothenburg ob der Tauber © A.N. Kling 2014]

Then, soporific from the effects of warm chocolaty milk, hubby and I snuggled into our sleeping bags and it was lights out for us…only, it wasn’t that much light out—we still had the toilet block light beaming into our tent…all night. And on our minds wondering who were the T-Team imposters?

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021

Feature Photo: Hermannsburg Sunset © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955

***

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]

In Memory of My Grandma

Elsa

Born March 16, 1906 – March 4, 1981 [40 year anniversary]

THE DOOR IS ALWAYS OPEN

Grandma rarely locked the back door; not when home or if she ran short errands. The only times she did lock the back door was when she went away on holiday. Ah! Those were the days! The 1960’s—Adelaide, the front door greeted strangers and salespeople, the back door welcomed friends and family who didn’t knock, but walked straight in.

[Photo 1: Opening the door to Grandma’s “Lace” © C.D. Trudinger 1964]

Grandma lived a ten-minute walk from my home in Somerton Park. Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I walked or rode the route down Baker Street, across “busy” Diagonal Road, and into Panton Crescent. Then I trod down her gravel drive of her Trust home to her back door; a door always unlocked and without any ceremony of knocking, I pulled open the fly-screen door, pushed open the wooden door, and walked into Grandma’s small kitchen. I still dream of Grandma’s place, “Grandma’s Lace” as I used to call it as a child, her huge backyard with fruit trees and hen house.

[Photo 2: Escape from Grandma’s “Lace” © C.D. Trudinger 1966

]

The same as her home, Grandma had an open heart with time available to be there for me. From the time I was born, she was there. She bought and moved into her Somerton Park home nearby, about the same time my mum and dad with my brother and me, bought and moved into our home.

Every Sunday all the family which included mum’s brothers and sisters and their spouses, gathered in her tiny kitchen dining area for Sunday roast. The home filled with laughter as we enjoyed Grandma’s roast beef and crunchy roast potatoes—the best ever! Dessert of jelly and ice-cream followed, topped with a devotion, then the Sunday Mail quiz. Holidays held extra treats of cousins from Cleve, all five of them and Auntie and Uncle. Grandma fitted us all in, albeit us younger ones sat at the “kinder tisch” in the passageway. Often friends from church or elsewhere joined us for Sunday lunch. The door was open for them too, and somehow Grandma made the food stretch and the table expand for unexpected guests.

[Photo 3: An example followed by her children from early on © S.O. Gross circa 1941]

One of the first times I took advantage of Grandma’s “open door policy” was at two years old. I’d dreamt my cousins were visiting and no one told me. My beloved cousins were at “Grandma’s Lace” and I was missing out.

So early that hot summer’s morning, I climbed out of my cot, dumped my nappy, and naked, I navigated my way to Grandma’s. I streaked over Diagonal Road, not so busy at dawn, and then toddled down Grandma’s driveway. I pushed open the back door and tiptoed through the kitchen and passageway. Then I peered into the bedrooms one by one. Each room was empty. Where were they? Where’s my cousins? I was sure they were here.

[Photo 4: Lined up with Country Cousins © C.D. Trudinger circa 1965]

I entered Grandma’s room. The mound of bedding rose and fell with each puff of breath Grandma made.

I tapped Grandma and asked, ‘Where’s my cousins?’

Grandma startled and her eyes sprang open. ‘Oh! Oh! What are you doing here?’

‘I come to play with my cousins,’ I said. ‘Where are they?’

‘Oh, my goodness—no dear—they’re not here.’ Grandma climbed out of bed and waddled to the bathroom. ‘Now, let’s get you decent.’

After wrapping a towel around me, she picked up the telephone. I stuck by her solid legs while she spoke to my mum. ‘Marie, just wondering, are you missing a daughter?…You might like to bring some clothes…’

As I grew older, Grandma’s open-door policy included her home-made honey biscuits. My friends and I visited Grandma on a regular basis. We’d enter through the back door and make a beeline for the biscuit tin. Then we’d meander into the lounge room. With my mouth full of biscuit, I’d ask, ‘Grandma, may I have a biscuit?’

Grandma would always smile and reply, ‘Yes, dear.’

Grandma’s open-door policy helped as a refuge when love-sick boys stalked me. Mum and I arranged that when I rode home from school, if my blind was up, I was safe from unwanted attention. But if the blind was pulled down, I would turn around and ride to Grandma’s place.

[Photo 5: Grandma with her white cat © C.D. Trudinger 1965]

Grandma was there also when I had trouble at school. I remember at fifteen, having boy-trouble of the unrequited love kind. Grandma listened. She was good at that. She sat in her chair as I talked and talked, pouring out my heart, while emptying her biscuit tin.

When I paused one time, after exhausting all my words, she said, ‘Lee-Anne, one thing that may help—you need to have Jesus as your Lord and Saviour.’

Grandma passed on from this life to meet her Lord and Saviour in early 1981, less than two weeks’ shy of her seventy-fifth birthday. Her old Trust home on the big block with the fruit trees and chook-yard were razed and redeveloped into four units—front doors locked and no easy way to their back doors.

[Photo 6: Looking beyond into the Hermannsburg compound © Courtesy M.E. Trudinger circa 1950]

The Sunday after the funeral, it seemed to me strange not to gather at Grandma’s. Then Christmas, the brothers and sisters celebrated separately with their own family or partners. I missed the whole Christmas connection with my cousins, aunts and uncles. Time had moved on and our family had evolved to the next stage of our lives.

[Photo 7: Christmas Memories (Grandma in her iconic purple dress far left) © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

In 2021, leaving one’s back door open, even during the day, seems an odd and risky thing to do. Times have changed—more dangerous, or perhaps we’re more fearful of imagined dangers outside our castles. And now in this Co-vid dystopian reality…Well, Grandma’s life and her “open door” policy in a more trusting time, has made me ponder: How open and available am I to others? How willing am I to listen and value others and their world?

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2019; updated 2021

Feature Photo: My Grandma and Grandpa courtesy of Marie Trudinger circa 1950

***

Also 40 years this year since the T-Team Trekked on their safari in Central Australia.

Check out my memoir: Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Click on the link below…

Or, if a Science Fiction mystery is more your thing, have a look at my new book. Click here on The Lost World of the Wends.