history

Family History Come Travel Friday–Amsterdam

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Postcards — Amsterdam

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.

[Photo 1: Another mode of transport more common in Amsterdam—bikes, lots of them © L.M. Kling 2014]

‘Yay!’ I called out.

‘I was looking for a red suitcase,’ the guy said.

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.

[Photo 2: Bikes abandoned over canal © L.M. Kling 2014]

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”.

[Photo 3: Rabbits in the car park near our hotel accommodation © A.N. Kling 2014]

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.

[Photo 4: Motorbike racing down rich Amsterdam road © L.M. Kling 2014]

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.

[Photo 5: Canals of Amsterdam © L.M. Kling 2014]

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.

[Photo 6 & 7: Canal cruising © L.M. Kling 2014]

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.

[Photo 8: Crowded Streets of Amsterdam © L.M. Kling 2014]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2014; updated 2020; 2024

Feature Photo: Postcard of Amsterdam, Kalverstraat © Weenenk & Snel, den Haag circa 1920.

***

And now, for something different…from Europe…

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Family History Friday–Family Mythology

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The Deep Fake of Family “Myth-ory”

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.


Have you ever had the experience where someone reckons you said a certain thing, but you’re sure you didn’t? I have had friends “quote me”, attributing wise words to me, and I have no idea I’d ever said that. Wish I had. Maybe I had; I just can’t remember. Either way, our respective worldviews have filtered facts in and screened information out.

*[Photo 1: Sculpture in courtyard of Basel Kunst Museum © L.M. Kling 2014]

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 had achieved his purpose using them, he then turned against them and discarded the Teutonic Order.

*[Photo 3: Reminders of war, Dinkelsbuhl © L.M. Kling 2014]


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?

*[Photo 4: Unbroken Wall of Nördlingen © L.M. Kling 2014]

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.

[Photo 5: Red rooves of Nördlingen made famous by the movie “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” © L.M. Kling 2014]

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.

*[Photo 6: Our experience dining at Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne, Nördlingen © A.N. Kling 2014]


When we visited my second cousin in Germany, she told me this story and mentioned that by the end of the 1960s 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.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024: updated 2026
*Feature photo: Kaiser Hof Hotel Sonne, Nördlingen © L.M. Kling 2014

References
Teutonic Order – Wikipedia
Nördlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war

***

Want more, but different?

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

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Family History Friday–Grandma’s Letter Part 2

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Grandma’s circular letter

CIRCULAR WRITTEN by ELSA GROSS from HERMANNSBURG,

OCTOBER 1939

From Riverland to Desert (part 2)

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.

*[Photo 1: Greetings on arrival in Hermannsburg © S.O. Gross 1939]

        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.

*[Photo 2: The not-so-new home—even older in 2021!!! © L.M. Kling 2021]

        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.

*[Photo 3: The arduous journey of belongings to Hermannsburg © S.O. Gross 1939]

        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.

*[Photo 4: Garden view to Mt. Hermannsburg—yes, the palms still exist in 2021 © L.M. Kling 2021]

        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.

*[Photo 5: Hermannsburg back in the day © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

        And now we have been here nearly 4 weeks and haven’t been able to do any real work yet, but we hope it won’t be much longer before we can start.

        And so begins our life on the Hermannsburg Mission Station.  May God make us a blessing to many.

© Elsa Gross 1939

*Feature Photo: My grandma, Elsa looking out from her Hermannsburg home © S.O. Gross circa 1940

***

Want more, but different?

Check out my Central Australian adventures.

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Flash Back Friday–100-Word Challenge

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Character Study

I have spent a few hours of this good Friday reading the diary of my Great Aunt Dora. The story begins all full of the hopes of a young 18-year-old first-generation Australian girl whose parents had migrated from Germany to South Australia around 1877. I know her story, I knew and loved my great Aunt Dora. She will never marry. One of many women of her time, when, after World War 1, there were not enough men to go around. I imagine this is what life in the 1920’s was like for her, a maiden aunt caring for her parents.

Dora

She had one once. Before the war.

He came from Hamburg. A distant relative from the family.

But the Great War intruded. He was the enemy.

Interned. Never to return.

She perched on the bench in the Royal Botanical Gardens. Watching. Men promenading in pale pinstriped suits, on their arms women in their frilly-white Sunday best, giggling.

Easy for the men, she thought. Pick and choose. Pick and choose. Even the damaged men, the cripples, have a chance.

She sniffed.

What about me? Is that my future? Caring for my aging parents? No choice but to be an old maid?

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2020; updated 2024

Feature Photo: A lone date palm, Botanical Gardens © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1986

***

Want more memoir? Some travel?

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

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Or

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The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

The Lost World of the Wends

Final Trek Friday–T-Team Next Gen

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Woomera, Then Home (part 2)

[I never actually finished the story of the T-Team, Next Generation’s adventures in Central Australia in 2013. So, here is the final chapter in the series. Next month, I will commence the journey at the beginning, as I revisit our journey to scatter my dad’s ashes in Central Australia eleven years ago.]

Woomera II and the Final Leg of our Journey

In the cool crisp morning, sun shining lemon yellow rays but not much warmth, we strolled around the Woomera Rocket Museum. Rockets of all shapes and configurations stood in the open-air, testimony of what once was. This RAAF Base and village was once a lively town in the 1950’s and 60’s, as an Anglo-Australian Cold War defence project. On this day Saturday July 20, 2013, the place seemed a mere shell of its former self, a cemetery of what once was, rockets rising like giant tombstones to the sky.

We meandered around the rockets, reading signs, eulogies from the past when threats from enemy nations was imminent. I was reminded of older friends telling me of a time when they practised drills of hiding under their school desk in the event of enemy attack.

*[Photo 1: Monument, A Rocket at Woomera © L.M. Kling 2013]

My mother recalled when on February 19, 1942, Darwin was bombed. She was a girl in Hermannsburg at the time and whenever a plane flew over, the Aranda women would wail, fearing disaster.

*[Photo 2: Twists and turns © L.M. Kling 2013]

Now, Hermannsburg was a mission set up by German missionaries in 1877. Although, by the 1940’s the mission was fair dinkum Australian having existed in Australia for all that time, with the advent of World War II and the conflict with Germany, the name, being German, raised the suspicions of the Allies. Hence, Mum remembers British Officers* drove into Hermannsburg to check the place out. They had to make sure there were no German spies. My grandpa, Pastor Sam Gross and his wife (my grandma) hosted these officers and put on a lovely spread of lunch for them.

[Photo 3: The Hermannsburg welcome Spread © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]

After investigating any mitigating threats, the British Officers* drove away in their propeller plane satisfied that Hermannsburg was no threat. Never-the-less, they confiscated the one and only link to civilisation, the community pedal radio. Just in case they really were spies, I guess. Further, to make sure that no threat to the allies arose from this humble mission, they sent Rex Batterbee, a world War I veteran, to oversee the mission in the role of “protector of the aborigines”. As he had visited and then lived in Central Australia since the mid-1930’s, Rex taught Albert Namatjira to paint watercolours and helped him launch his career as a renowned artist.

*[Photo 4: Albert Namatjira at work © S.O. Gross circa 1950]

Homeward Bound

Needless to say, in 2013, such threats of foreign enemies seemed in the distant past. But, being only 446 km from our home town, Adelaide, we were reluctant to linger amongst the rockets. Having packed, and checked out of our overnight accommodation, we were eager to start our journey home.

At a steady 90 km/h, we made progress down the highway that split the gibber plains in halves.

‘I bet the T-Team (my brother’s family) are home by now,’ I said. ‘No hanging around of taking time to look at any more places for them.’

‘Why don’t you ring them just to see where they’re at,’ my hubby said.

I texted my niece. The time was 10:30am.

“We are in Port Augusta,” she replied by text.

‘There’s no way we’ll catch up to them,’ I said, and then texted back, “Have a safe trip home.”

*[Photo 5: Off we go over the gibber plains © L.M. Kling 2013]

Clouds and rain descended on the land the further we drove south. By the time we reached Port Wakefield, the cold had seeped into the car. I put my parka on my legs to keep warm. Yet, for lunch Hubby insisted we eat alfresco in the rotunda at Port Wakefield. After all, despite his aversion to the cold, he needed to stretch his legs. Plus, it seemed no café existed in the town.

The rain and cold became more intense as we approached Adelaide. After driving through the grey, sodden streets, we arrived home, just as darkness fell at 5:30pm.

What disaster awaited us?

Hubby opened the door and we trod inside. Son 1 played a computer game on the PC in the dining/living annex. He ignored us. We tiptoed through the family room. Not too much mess and the carpet remained visible, and clean.

We found Son 2 all rugged up and cosy in his room playing World of Warcraft. He said, “Hello” and then asked for a coffee, then followed the conversation up with, “I’m hungry, what’s for tea?”

In the kitchen, as I prepared a drink, I noticed the dishes had been done and the cats fed. I thanked Son 1 for the effort. He took all the glory and remarked that his brother had done nothing.

The Aftermath

There’s always casualties that follow every holiday. And this one was no different. Two paintings which I had planned to exhibit in the upcoming Marion Art Group exhibition had gone AWOL. I’d like to think they were stolen…but I reckon they would be found in some odd place sometime in the future.

*[Painting: Dad’s resting place, Ormiston Gorge © L.M. Kling 2018]

Eleven years hence as I write this final chapter, I wonder what paintings they were.

Oh, and the other casualty, Hubby, who proudly exalted that he had taken thousands of photos of the Central Australian trip on his mobile phone, can no longer find where those photos went. It would seem those photos went AWOL too.

As for the T-Team, they actually arrived home after us, having spent a night at Port Germaine. They decided to treat themselves after roughing it for the past two weeks.

*[Photo 6: Port Germaine Jetty © L.M. Kling 2024]

***

Note: *My mum, Mrs. T checked this and questioned whether they were British. She thinks they were more likely to be Australian. However, I have read a letter written by these officers and the words they used made them sound British. When I find the letter, I will investigate the background of the visiting officers and plan to write a more detailed account of my grandparent’s experience.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Photo: Woomera Open-air Museum in the morning © L.M. Kling 2013

***

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And escape in time and space to the Centre of Australia.

Family History Friday–Detective Work

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In the steps of Sherlock Holmes

This last week, Hubby and I have received our DNA results. Dear Hubby received his last Friday, but mine only arrived today.

So, the last week I have been familiarising myself with the process and slowly building our family trees. Early on, I discovered a truth, you could say a “skeleton” in one of our ancestral lines. I added the details to see if anything further came up. My Heritage, call 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. Noone 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 crossmatch 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, 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 serious. For example, his car engine making too much noise at night in town. Or even one time, merely driving his car late at night. Another time he was charged for making a scene at a function.

Despite these misdemeanours, as I see them (glad my brother and I didn’t live in those times—my brother loved doing “donuts” and “burnouts” in his car like in Top Gear at night with his mates in his youth), 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 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.

[Photo 1: Dr. Malcolm Trudinger © photo courtesy of L.M. Kling circa 1930]

Dr. Malcolm Trudinger was such a vital part of the West coast community, they established a rose garden was in his honour after he died in the early 1960’s. 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 goodness they bring or have 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, which is a reasonable thing to do.

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 Kingsugu (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.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024

Feature Photo: Hubby as Sherlock Holmes, Reichenbach Falls © L.M. Kling 2014

***

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Trekking Thursday–Franklin-Gordon River Cruise

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[Last week, Hubby and I were talking to someone who had recently visited Tasmania. They went to Strahan, but for some reason didn’t do the Franklin-Gordon river cruise. We recommended that next time they go to Tassie, they revisit Strahan and do the cruise. Hence, to encourage prospective travellers to Tasmania, a re-visit in my blogs to Strahan on the West Coast of Tasmania. Ah, memories of travels with my husband, his brother (P1), and cousin from Switzerland (P2), to Tasmania; a brilliant and beautiful destination.]

K-Team Adventures—Strahan and Gordon River Cruises

An early start, just what the K-Team love. We were to board the Wilderness Cruise Boat by 8.45am. Not as early as the last time I took the cruise. Then, in 2011, I journeyed with my mother (Mrs T), for whatever reason, the ship departed much earlier than 8.45am. Fearing we’d miss the boat, Mum and I rose at the crack of dawn and ate our breakfast at a hotel opposite the wharf while watching the sun rise on the calm waters of Macquarie Harbour; an oil painting in hues of gold and pink with ducks on the jetty. Mum’s breakfast of Eggs Benedict was less than perfect; uncooked, runny and the “whites” not white. She’s never had Eggs Benedict again. I guess there had to be some compensation for the ideal weather we had that August day in 2011.

[Photo 1: Calm on Macquarie Harbour before Eggs Benedict © L.M. Kling 2011]

Not so for the K-Team in 2016. A perfect mix of personalities, no conflicts—apart from some initial altercation between my husband’s phone GPS navigator and the Kluger’s Pandora navigational system. Now that was something out of the box, so we packed away any semblance of pairing our phones with the car’s computer system and relied on the navigational system God had given us—our brains…and some forward planning with Google Maps. So, instead we had the weather as our thorn-in-the-side member of the K-Team. At least someone up there, I mean God, had been looking after us.

[Photo 2: Sign of weather come. A hiking trail in Hogarth Falls near Strahan © L.M. Kling 2016]

When we booked our cruise, the lady asked us, ‘Do you want to go on the ABT Railway up to Queenstown?’

‘How much?’ I asked.

The lady showed the prices.

‘What time does it get back?’

‘Oh, 5pm.’

‘Nah, we’re meeting my cousin at 4.30pm. So, we’ll take the cruise.’

A narrow escape. We heard that night while dining with my cousin, Kiah who at the time ran the Strahan Visitors Centre, that fallen trees on the railway track had stranded the tourists on the train for several hours. They arrived back in Strahan at 8.30pm. The next day, on the cruise, Kiah overheard some girls who had been on the train trip say they were going to write a reality TV show about bored kids.

[Photo 3: Thankfully, not stranded at Queenstown; ABT Railway Station with K-Team, the younger way back when…Looks like my kids can get bored at Railway Stations too. © L.M. Kling 2001]

The cruise, definitely not boring. First a ride out through the narrow heads and into the full force of the roaring 40’s and rough seas; P2’s highlight of the Tassie Trip. Hubby was surprised I didn’t get seasick. I’d remembered to take my ginger tablets.

[Photo 4: High seas past the heads, but the birds hang on. © L.M. Kling 2016]
[Photo 5: The safety of the lighthouse © L.M. Kling 2016]
[Photo 6: The lighthouse keepers’ cottage? © L.M. Kling 2016]

Then, after returning back into the safety of the harbour, a tour of the salmon farms; big, netted rings full of fish.

[Photo 7: Salmon Farms © L.M. Kling 2016]

Kiah and her team would be our guides on Sarah Island, the worst penal colony in the whole British Empire in the early nineteenth century. We spent an hour or so on the island touring around the various sites, the tour guides giving lively and entertaining accounts of Sarah Island’s history.

[Photo 8: Sarah Island approach © L.M. Kling 2016]

Walking up the gangway, I studied the wilderness mountains jutting above the forest lining the harbour and detected the vague outline of Frenchman’s Cap, clouds shrouding it from a clear view.

[Photo 9: So different with Mrs T; Frenchman’s Cap perfect through swamped trees of Sarah Island. © M.E. Trudinger 2011]

As we raced up the river, the Captain rabbited on about Sarah Island’s convict history and then he said, ‘While we travel up the river, think about what it would’ve been like living in those times on Sarah Island as a convict.’

[Photo 9: The Lookout © L.M. Kling 2011]
[Photo 10: Mrs T contemplates while crowd listens to tour guide © L.M. Kling 2011]

I recalled the play we’d seen the night before, The Ship that Never Was; the political climate and social conditions of nineteenth century Britain that created the huge gap between the rich and the poor, unemployment and homelessness, and the solution to send shiploads of social rejects (the convicts) to Australia—the worst offenders to the most remote place on earth, Sarah Island. Yet, in all of that condemnation and hopelessness, redemption. Some of these convicts, when they received their ticket of leave (freedom), became leaders in the colony; their skills not going to waste. Treat people like they matter, give them a chance. This is how I understood David Hoy, Master Shipwright treated the convicts. I could go on, but best if you ever go to Tasmania, go to Strahan, do the cruise and see the play.

[Photo 11: Scene from the Ship that Never Was © L.M. Kling 2001]

And while we were there, clutching the mini hot water bottles loaned to us for the duration of the performance, and waiting for the play to start, the tour group we encountered the previous day, joined the audience. Some of them ended up participating in the play. So did P2 helping the ship (just a pile of wood, really) sail to close to the coast of Chile…before it…well, you’ll have to see the play to find out what happened.

[Photo 12: Perfect reflections on a perfect day up the Gordon River © L.M. Kling 2011]

After a tasty buffet lunch of smoked salmon, cheese, bread and salad, we had a half-hour walk in the rainforest. Amazed at the variety and abundance of plant-life and how plants grow out of tree trunks and stumps. The old Huon pine stump that had been struck down by lightning a decade or so ago, was now a garden of seedlings, native laurel, moss, lichen, and ferns.

[Photo 13: New Life springs from That old Huon Pine © L.M. Kling 2016]
[Photo 14: A taste of a temperate rainforest © L.M. Kling 2011]

Then the race back to Strahan. In all we had travelled 140km on tour of the Macquarie Harbour, some way up the Gordon River and then back to Strahan.

P1 disappointed with the cloudy weather said, ‘How can I get good photos when there’s no sun?’

[Photo 15: And so, the sun sets on Strahan © L.M. Kling 2011]

‘They’re mood photos,’ I replied. Cheeky, I know, since in 2011, the sun shone on Mum and me, and I had dozens of chocolate-box photos of the Gordon River like glass reflecting perfectly vivid green forest trees. Oh, well. We were blessed that day in 2011. The western wilderness of Tasmania gets on average around 4000mm of rain a year. So more likely to get cloudy rainy days on a cruise than sunny, I guess.

Besides, did P1 have an Eggs Benedict like my mum had eaten that morning in 2011?

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2019; 2021; 2024

Feature Photo: Chocolate Box Reflections on the Gordon-Franklin River © L.M. Kling 2011

***

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Family History Friday–My Rogue Ancestry

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[As a child, I frequently had dreams where I was locked up in a prison cell and couldn’t get out. When, through family history research, I discovered the plight of my young (at the time) great-great Grandfather, I realised the origins, genetic or spiritual, of those dreams.]

My “Convict” History

I admire a former convict, an ancestor of mine. Okay, you may think, yeah, of course, she’s an Australian—these days they wear their convict heritage like a badge of honour.

No, actually, my great-great grandfather Friedrich Schammer lived in Silesia which is now part of East Germany or Poland today. Rubber borders, you see. His crime was trivial by our standards today in the West. But then, so were the crimes of shiploads of convicts who were transported from Britain and Ireland to Australia in the early nineteenth century. (For this reason, I have included photos from my visits to convict settlements, Port Arthur and Sarah Island, Tasmania, as my two-times great grandfather, was living his life in Silesia around the same time, in the early nineteenth century.)

[Photo 1: Port Arthur was a recipient of many convicts from Britain and Ireland © L.M. Kling 2009]

My great-great grandfather Friedrich spent less than three months in prison for this crime he did not commit, but I admire the way he handled his dire situation.

How did he get into this trouble?

According to the family history book of this particular branch of the family, in the town in which my great-great grandfather studied as a medical student in the 1820’s, the military came to power and enforced strict and arbitrary rules. I might add here that my ancestor had already endured hardship, having been orphaned as a child, suffered poverty and then, his older brother who was his guardian, died from typhus. I imagine, these events spurred him on to be a doctor.

[Copy of Portrait painting: Two-times Great Grandfather, Friedrich August Schammer courtesy of Schammer Family History © 1922. Painting circa 1850]

Anyway, in this university town of Jena, the students protested against their restrictions to their liberty by reacting against the ridiculous laws the military had brought on the town. Some of these laws were that there be no singing in the streets, no wearing of caps and waving of flags. The students protested by marching in the streets to the town square, singing and waving flags. All went smoothly and peacefully with no trouble from the authorities.

Then some of the young men, probably after drinking a few beers, became bolder as young men do tend to become. They threw rocks at windows; action that got the authorities’ attention.

[Photo 2: View from window of former café in Port Arthur © L.M. Kling 2009]

The military swooped and arrested many of the protestors. My great-great grandfather was walking past the action and was in the proverbial wrong place at the wrong time.

Arrested and tried, though otherwise of exemplary character as a good Christian belonging to the Moravian Brethren, Friedrich was convicted and sentenced to prison for six months. I might add here that I have learnt recently that in Europe, the judge or judges determine the fate of the defendant. Whereas in the United Kingdom, United States and in Australia a jury (twelve randomly selected citizens) under the decide the fate of the accused.

It seems by his account and letters, a certain beadle in town had it in for my great-great grandfather Friedrich.

[Photo 3: Captain’s Quarters up on the hill, Port Arthur © L.M. Kling 2009]

Yet Friedrich accepted his time in prison and made the best of the situation both for himself and others. He studied, enjoyed the view of the valley from his prison room (I think he was in a low security prison) and used his medical knowledge and skills to help those around him.

Great-great grandfather Friedrich’s quiet conduct and enrichment of the prison community was noticed by the authorities, and they released him less than three months into his term.

[Photo 4: A view of convicts on the other side of Friedrich’s world may or may not have enjoyed in Port Arthur © L.M. Kling 1995]

Released, Friedrich’s ordeal was not over. The university where he’d been studying banned him from returning to study there. His reputation tarnished, the villagers shunned Friedrich.

However, Friedrich did not give up. He moved to Berlin and keeping a low profile, completed his studies at The Charite University Hospital and graduated as a Doctor of Medicine. He had a heart for the poor, having been poor himself, and would treat those in need without demanding payment.

My great-great grandfather demonstrated those godly qualities I admire—justice, mercy and compassion. And perseverance, even in the face of adversity.

Philippians 2:14-15—Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe…

Feature Photo: The Cry of the Convicts, Sarah Island Ruins © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2011

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Note: Port Arthur housed what British authorities considered the worst of the convicts transported to Australia in the early to mid-nineteenth century. I visited this convict settlement in 1981, 1995 and 2009. A place well-worth visiting to learn from the mistakes made from the past (how not to treat fellow human beings). Although the place appears serene, the presence of the tortured ghosts of the convict past can still be felt.

Sarah Island situated in the Macquarie Harbour on the west coast of Tasmania, imprisoned the worst of the worst convicts transported to Australia in the early nineteenth century.

I have visited Sarah Island as part of the Gordon-Franklin River Cruise, both in 2001, and 2011. I highly recommend this cruise—a bucket list for travellers—history, wilderness, rare beauty of unspoilt rivers and rainforest and…excellent food. And not to mention entertainment. After your cruise I highly recommend that you see the historic play, The Ship that Never Was. It’s about convicts who build a ship to escape their prison island to make their way to South America. In January in 2024, this play celebrated 30 years of performances in Strahan.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2020; 2023; 2025

Resource: History of the Schammer Family, Based on the work of Dr. A.H. Francke and J. Gemuseus, Written by Reinhold Becker, Herrnhut, 1922, Printed Gustav Winter, Herrnhut in Saxony and Translated from German by Rebecca Gnüchtel 2009

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