Life

Memoir Missive on Friday–Gutter-Ball Girl

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THE GUTTER-BALL GIRL

[The other week I watched an episode of “King of Queens” where Doug’s wife Carrie proves to be hopeless at Ten-Pin bowling. Brought back memories for me. But while Carrie eventually gave up, I persevered.

So, below is a story of my journey of perseverance.]

A Story of Perseverance

I lugged my eight-pound ball to the line—a pound for every year of my life. With two hands I lobbed it towards the pins. I watched the ball creep in a curve toward the gutter, plonk, then crawl to the end of the lane for another uneventful end. The automatic pin-machine lifted all ten pins and then wiped my ball to the rear.

With my shoulders hunched, I shuffled back to my seat, daring not to look at the score on the overhead screen: mine, a row of dashes and a big fat zero.

‘Good try,’ Dad said.

‘It’s not fair!’ I whined. ‘Why can’t I hit the pins?’

‘Now, now, stop complaining. We won’t take you bowling ever again if you keep on being a bad sport.’

I stomped my foot. ‘Naw? But I have to come!’ How could I give up and allow the ball, the pull of the gutters, and those smug little untouched pins to win? ‘I must keep on trying. You told me, Dad, when you have a challenge, you don’t give up. I’m not giving up until I knock down at least one pin.’

‘But you knocked down three on your first go,’ my brother chimed in. ‘So better to quit while you’re ahead. Ha! Ha!’

‘Shut your mouth, Richard.’

I lifted my foot to kick my brother.

‘Lee-Anne! Right!’ Dad snapped.

I lowered my foot. ‘It’s just that since that first roll, I’ve never knocked down any more pins. It’s the same every Saturday. I get gutter after gutter. It’s like the gutters are a magnet for my ball.’

‘Now, now, a bad workman blames his tools.’

More of Dad’s condescending remarks. I puffed up my cheeks, and, hugging my chest, I slouched down on the cold plastic seat.

My turn again, and again the ball resorted to the gutter. Again Dad trotted out his less-than-helpful comments: “Good try. You almost got the pins.”

Then his “helpful” hands joined the “advice”. Standing behind me, Dad held my arm and said, ‘Swing the ball. Follow through. Keep your wrist straight.’ He then took over my roll of the ball and, with my arm attached, swung the ball, following through, and with the wrist straight. With Dad breathing over my shoulder, we watched the ball seek solace in the gutter once again.

‘Ah, well, you’re getting better,’ Dad said.

Preventing any utterance that may be misconstrued as “bad sportsmanship” warranting excommunication from Glenelg’s Bayside Bowling alley, I bit my lip. In silence, I slipped through the gap in the seats, then filed through the shelves of balls to find one less inclined to heed the pull of the gutter. In the back of my mind, I acknowledged this was a futile endeavour, as I’d been through all the eight-pound hire balls in the centre, and all of them failed to stay on the lane long enough to hit the pins.

The weeks dragged by with each Saturday morning, the same routine, gutter-balls, untouched pins and my Dad’s platitudes. I was sure that my brother’s teammates had nicknamed me “The Gutter-ball Girl”.

No one wanted me on their team. What point was that? No point. I never made any points to be of value on a team. And as the number of gutter-balls mounted up to Guinness Book of Records level, I began to think my existence in the realm of ten-pin bowling was pointless. No one ever said it to my face, not even my brother, but I sensed the bowling community’s attitude; I was hopeless, no talent. I should just pack away the hire ball, return the rental shoes, walk out the centre and never come back.

But for me, it wasn’t about talent. I’d keep on going until I hit one pin rolling the ball down the lane. Just one pin, I ask you. That’s all I wanted.

I refused to give up. More weeks. More gutters. Must’ve reached the quota for some world record. I rolled the gutter-balls without complaint, most of the time. Dad allowed me to keep on coming. Probably gave Mum a break.

Then one Saturday…

The morning began like all the others, except Dad had another appointment that day. Richard and I rode our bikes to Glenelg to Bayside Bowling Centre.

Richard’s team had been allocated the ninth and tenth lanes, right down the end of the centre. As the added extra junior of no consequence, the manager took my dollar for the two games and allowed me to join my brother’s team. They permitted me to throw my gutter-balls after the competitors had done their turns each frame. My pointless punts at the pins gave the teams a breather, and the pins a rest, I guess.

The first frame my ball did its usual thing, patronising the gutters on both sides. None of my brother’s mates said a word. I assumed they were used to Richard’s little sister throwing gutter-balls and the occasional tantrum.

Then the second frame rolled around. As usual, I plugged my fingers in the holes, tottered up to the line, swung the ball a couple of times, and then threw it down the aisle. I turned and sauntered back to my seat. No use watching the ball. I heard some slow clinking sounds but assumed the machine was doing its thing.

My brother cheered and clapped. ‘Well done, Lee-Anne!’

‘What?’ Now my brother’s started with the patronising comments.

‘Look!’ Richard said and pointed.

I turned.

Three pins stood to attention.

‘You hit seven pins!’

One of Richard’s teammates patted me on the back. ‘Well done, Lee-Anne!’

I stood still, savouring the reality. I’d hit the pins. I’d hit the pins! Then I jumped up and down and squealed, ‘I hit the pins!’

‘Pity Dad wasn’t here to see you do that,’ Richard said.

I kept on with ten-pin bowling. Each week the pin-tally increased, and the gutters lost control over my ball as I mastered the skill of rolling the ball straight down the middle to hit the pins. The junior league management found me a team, and I persuaded Dad to take me down the Bayside Bowl once or twice during the week to practise. I bowled in competition and, in my mid-teens with a respectable average in the 140s, I joined my brother’s team. At sixteen, the pressures of study caused me to give up bowling in competition.

For a number of years, old Mr. Monk, a ten-pin bowling expert, volunteered his time to coach us after junior league competitions had finished for the morning. He gave us tips to improve our technique and game. But the best advice he gave, which confirmed what I’d already learnt, was that it’s not talent that makes a good ten-pin bowler, but practise, practise, practise …

And perseverance.

I have carried this advice in whatever I need to learn: teaching, art, writing, learning a language and so on. Practise, not talent, makes perfect. And never give up.

In the Bible, James 1:2-4 says: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.”

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2026

Feature Photo: Ye, old Bowling Ball, my own © L.M. King 2016

***

Want more of my stories?

Why not take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981…

And escape in time and space to Central Australia 1981…

Or

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Science Fiction?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the oversized alien cockroach gets up to …

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And how it continues with Mission of the Unwilling

Plus, how a nice bunch of Wends turn nasty in Diamonds in the Cave

Family History Friday–AI: What’s For Dinner?

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Off the Top of My Head

Random Thoughts about Family History

Friday has rolled around, and once again, the well-researched, edited, and polished article on a nascent family history topic has failed to materialize. Too busy researching and chasing promising leads down rabbit holes. Plus, while helping a couple of other aspiring authors with their manuscripts, I’ve been writing a new book with a travelling-through-history theme.

Hence, I am blatantly and unashamedly going to ramble and keeping to the theme of rabbits, rabbit on.

A fellow writer has a penchant for inviting the reader to get comfortable in their favourite armchair with a cuppa and a cake, and then travel along with her in her latest story. So, I’m doing something similar today. Imagine we are in your café of choice; I’m having my decaf cappuccino with almond milk, and you’re having your beverage of choice, and we are having a chat about family history. Admittedly, I’m the one doing all the talking—for a start. You can have your say at the end in the comment section.

[Photo 1: Coffee anyone? © L.M. Kling 2023]

Anyway, as I sip on my drink, I tell you …

I’ll start with the food. Early on in My Heritage forays, the computer offered some guidance with AI (artificial intelligence) in finding those relatives who would prefer to remain hidden in the distant past. Usually, they are the hard-working peasant sort. Or the Eastern European sort whose churches were abandoned with the communist regime, leaving the records to rot away with neglect.

Anyway, I took the AI up on the offer, to my regret.

After many questions that became more ridiculous as time went on, the robot, which I prefer to call a “bubble-headed booby”, asked the ultimate in absurdity. ‘What did your ancestor like to eat for breakfast?’

You need to understand that AI was asking about an ancestor who lived three hundred years in the past. If I knew the answer to the breakfast question, I wouldn’t be asking AI, would I?

I decided then to avoid researching with AI after that interaction.

It got me thinking, though. What did my ancestors eat for breakfast? Too late for most of them to tell me. Even the famous ones don’t include a breakfast menu. I can only google an guess.

So, for future generations, here’s my offering for the few in my immediate family of whom I know their breakfast preferences.

*[Photo 2: Sunday Spread © C.D. Trudinger circa 1955]

My dad, Clement David Trudinger, grew up during the depression and Second World War times. He loved bread with dripping. I’m not sure if this was a breakfast go-to, but he did say. Just saying.

My mum has to have her cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Coffee gets her going.

A few nuts and a cup of Caro does me for breakfast.

I’m not sure what my maternal grandma, Elsa Gross, liked for breakfast, but she didn’t eat meat. I remember her having toast with butter and jam.

As for my maternal grandpa, Sam Gross, and my paternal grandma and grandpa, Ron and Lina Trudinger, I have no idea. And that’s only going back two generations.

All I can say for AI is good luck with that one going back three hundred years.

Digging back further, I discovered that one of my ancestors and an ancestor of my friend and Indie Scriptorium teammate, Mary McDee, were shipmates travelling over to England from Normandy way back when England was invaded by William the Conqueror. I wondered whether they were friends and what their conversation was like. Mary was adamant that her ancestor probably wouldn’t have had much to do with mine, as they were likely different ranks. But hey, ships back then weren’t that big, so I wonder … One thing for sure, they probably weren’t discussing their latest books and giving feedback to each other on how to improve their manuscripts.

*[Photo 3: Ship in Amsterdam © L.M. Kling 2014]

Continuing on my research voyage, Mary did ask me, “What’s a good Christian girl like you writing such content of bloodshed and gore? How did you come up with such an evil character like Boris?’

As I’m exploring those murky depths of my ancestral past, I’m beginning to understand. A relative of mine once read The Hitchhiker and was so shocked she gave it a poor rating. “This is not the person I knew,” she wrote as a comment. Little did she know that my ancestors and her husband’s were not the “Sarah Janes”, “Pollyannas” or “Saint Whoever” of the past. Quite the opposite. Think of Game of Thrones, which is based on the Wars of the Roses, and you get the picture. One was a bishop, the bishop of Laon, though, and possibly the father of my direct ancestor. And his father, one Louis de Luxembourg, Count of Saint-Pol, of Brienne, de Ligny, and Conversano, was beheaded for treason. I might add Louis Luxembourg’s nephews were the famous missing, presumed murdered, Princes in the Tower. Missing/stolen children—another theme that runs through my War on Boris series. Could this be something passed down to me through the generations?

[Photo 3: The Hitch-hiker © L.M. Kling 2015]

And no, the dreams that formulated my Sci-Fi novels were seemingly not from ancestral memories of the mercenary soldier, Balthas Trudinger, that the family was so ashamed of.

I looked into that and discovered that Balthas, who lived at Lierheim, which is a castle near Nördlingen, Bavaria, most probably belonged to the Teutonic Order. The Teutonic Order at the time of Balthas’ coming of age, had bought the castle there and was renovating it. Hitler gave the Teutonic Order a reputation as the exemplar of the all-German, all-Aryan fighting force. But once he won power, he ditched the Teutonic order­—banned them. Actually, the order, from what I can glean, did much good over the centuries. They started around the end of the 12th Century as guards protecting pilgrims to Jerusalem. I bet Hitler kept that fact quiet. Although it was an army that did fighting and stuff in the past, these days it’s a charitable organisation.

I could go on rabbiting, but I think that’s enough random thoughts for one day. Time for our dinner.

Happy Friday and hope you enjoyed your cuppa and bikkie.

If you have a Family History comment or story, I’d love you to drop a line in the comment section below.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024; updated 2026

*Feature Photo: Goats on mountain near Saas Fee, Switzerland © L.M. Kling 2014

References:

Teutonic Order – Wikipedia

Nördlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war

***


Curious about what this War on Boris series is all about?

Check out my books, click on the links:

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

Click on the link to my latest 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

Plus, how a nice bunch of Wends turn nasty in Diamonds in the Cave

Or

Virtual Travel Opportunity

For the price of a cup of coffee (takeaway, these days),

Click on the links and download your kindle copy of one of my travel memoirs,

Experience Historic Australian outback adventure with Mr. B

in

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

Or come on a trek with the T-Team in

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981.

Memoir Missive on Friday — Pearl

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PEARL IN THE SAND

[A story based on my work experience in the 1980s.]

I slumped in my chair and slammed the report on the desk.

‘What’s wrong?’ my colleague, Gerry, asked.

‘The boss’s not happy with the report, and I have to do the formatting all over again.’

‘Glad it’s you and not me.’

‘Hmmm.’ I fished out the exercise book of computer commands from my pile of books on the desk and leafed through my handwritten notes on formatting a document.

My colleague leaned back in his chair and slurped his fourth coffee for the day. ‘I don’t know how you do it. I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of these computers.’

‘It’s the eighties; they’re not going away,’ I muttered.

‘They’re not user-friendly, you know.’ Another slurp.

‘I know! And the boss thinks I can wave my word-processing wand and poof! Formatting all done.’ I pressed the button on the tower, and then stood up. ‘Third time this week! Third time this week I’ve handed in the report, and he throws it back at me. More work to do. I’m getting a coffee.’

Gerry held out his cup. ‘You wouldn’t mind getting me another one, would you?’

I sighed. ‘Yeah, okay.’

*[Photo 1: Ye ol’ computer way back not quite the ‘80s © L.M. Kling 2006]

By the time I returned, the computer was just about to start. Gerry blathered on the phone, and the tech guy crouched over another computer, parts scattered over the floor of our office come passage.

Our manager opened the door and poked his head through. ‘How are you going with those changes?’ he asked me.

‘Getting onto it,’ I said and glanced at the screen still blank in contemplation.

My manager raised an eyebrow.

‘It’s starting up.’

‘We have a deadline, you realise. I want that report on my desk tonight.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I turned to the computer. It had decided to have a day off; its blank screen smugly stared at me.

Late spring, not so warm, but beads of perspiration gathered on my forehead. I glanced around the small office area. Another workmate, Paul, tapped away on a live computer.

I approached him. ‘Would I be able to borrow your computer sometime today? I have to fix up my report and have it delivered to the boss.’

Paul shook his head. ‘I have a document that must be done asap.’ He turned to me. ‘Isn’t there another computer?’

I surveyed the scene of devastation behind me; the tech guy’s handiwork of a dismembered computer lay scattered on the rug. ‘No,’ then with desperation in my tone, ‘I have to finish my report today, but … The launch is in two weeks.’

‘I too have a deadline. Tomorrow.’ Paul turned back to his computer and resumed tapping away on the keyboard.

Tech guy entered the office holding his cup of tea in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He stepped over the computer bits.

I looked at Tech guy. ‘I need a computer. Mine’s not working.’

‘The boss’ll just have to wait,’ Tech guy said.

I shuffled out of the office and to the café for lunch. Gerry lounged on a couch having an extended lunch.

‘Have to wait my turn for a computer,’ I grumbled to him.

He laughed. ‘Glad it’s you and not me.’

*[Photo 2: Computer building teamwork © L.M. Kling 2020]

Back at the office, Tech Guy had my computer running. What is it with Tech Guys? They have this way with computers. I settled down to work when I heard sniffling from the PA’s office next door. I glanced at her. She wiped her eyes and hid her face from me.

I opened my mouth to ask her what’s wrong.

Tech Guy zoomed up to me and whispered, ‘The boss has decided he doesn’t trust computers and he’s asked her to type out your report on her electric typewriter.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, just after I spent the whole morning fixing up computers. I got yours going.’

The PA fed the paper into the typewriter. She then covered her face, stood up, and raced out of the office.

‘No,’ Tech Guy scratched the bald spot at the back of his head, ‘I’m going to talk to the boss. She can’t do all the work for you. It’s just not right.’

He strode into the manager’s office.

A few minutes later, Tech Guy emerged, thumbs up, and a smile spread across his face. ‘I made him see sense. The job is yours again.’

‘Thanks.’

Comforted by the fact that the PA had the load of my report lifted from her, but troubled that I must battle with the office computer, I gritted my teeth and spent the afternoon and into the evening tackling the formatting of my report.

When I handed my manager the report, he flicked through the pages and nodded. ‘Much better, well done,’ he said.

A week later I met with my Pastoral Care Worker. I’d been off work a week after succumbing to a virus.

‘Why did I have to go through all that? Why can’t things go smoothly?’ I asked him.

‘It’s the troubles,’ he said, ‘that refine and grow us. Like a pearl, the sand irritates it, and eventually you get a beautiful pearl.’

*[Photo 3: Pearl necklace © L.M. Kling 2026]

Over the years, I’ve remembered those words of wisdom—the bosses that demand perfection, the prickly pears, the obnoxious computers that resist being user-friendly—all that irritates has grown me, my faith, and made me more the person God has created me to be.

And the “pearl”, one of my best memories after all those troubles in our office—the following week, a day before the launch of my report, unhampered by printers not able to print and collate the report for us, the team worked in unity and joy around the long table, collating and binding the report.

I recalled the passage from the book of James in the Bible.

“Consider it pure joy, my brothers, when you face trials of many kinds, because you know that testing your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and not lacking in anything.” James 1:2-4

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2022; 2026

*Feature Photo: Screen saver for Cats © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2025

***

Lose yourself in a tale where the nineteenth century meets the twenty-first…

Click on the link …

To download my War Against Boris novel series:

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

And how a nice bunch of Wends can turn so witch-hunting nasty in Diamonds in the Cave

Or … Or …Or …

For some real stories of refining through roughing it in the Australian Outback …

Take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia!

Click here on:

 Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

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

And escape in time and space to Central Australia nearly 50-years ago …

100-Word Challenge–When You Gotta Go

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Toilets, bathrooms, latrines, or “dunnies” as they’re called in Australia, have surfaced as topics of conversation from time to time. How they have changed over the centuries. How they vary from place to place, country to country. But one thing remains constant to being human. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

And since the school year is in the midst of the Spring holidays in Australia, what better way to “go”.    

         

When You Gotta Go

He stood up and wandered to the door.

‘Get back to your seat!’ I snapped.

‘Gotta go to the toilet, Miss.’

‘No, you don’t.’ I pointed at his desk. ‘Sit down!’

This version of Denis the Menace crossed his legs and grinned. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘You can wait.’

‘Please, Miss,’ his voice mocking, ‘I have to go.’

Sniggers rippled throughout the classroom.

I stood, pointing like a fool at his chair. Afternoon sun streamed through the dusty windows, ripening adolescent body odour.

He walked past me.

I growled, ‘Get back here!’

‘When you gotta go, you gotta go,’ he replied.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2026

Feature Photo: Memories recreated for my Mum when she lived in Hermannsburg. Waiting for the toilet. © L.M. Kling 2013

***

Here are some more “dunnies” upon which to contemplate:

[Dun Photo 1: Bordertown Dunny © L.M. Kling 2023]

[Dun Photo 2: Ocean Beach Dunny (note the position of the washbasin) © L.M. Kling 2016]
[Dun Photo 3: Backyard Repurposed Dunnies © L.M. Kling 2018]

***

Longing for more travel adventures?

Dreaming of exploring Australia?

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

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

Trekking the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or if you’d rather “go” on an adventure into space on a mission in a war against that nemesis you will love to hate …

Click on my War Against Boris series on the links below …

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

Click on the link to my most popular 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

And how a nice bunch of Wends turned nasty in the latest in the War Against Boris series …

Diamonds in the Cave

Backyard Tales–Molly’s Misadventure

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FURRY FELINE TALES

[It’s time for my newest fur-baby to have her yearly vet check and vaccination. That will be a challenge. Just a sniff of such an adventure and Lily hides. My parents had a cat like Lily—Molly.]

[Photo 1: Where’s Lily © L.M. Kling 2024]

 But long before Lily, my parents had Molly …

Molly

Dad sipped his cappuccino, and then, licking his lips, he leaned over. ‘I have a mystery concerning Molly.’

A tram rattled past. How the three ladies in their designer clothes and ability to talk through their noses could hear their own conversation, I’ll never know. Maybe the nasal accent was just the right pitch to override the rumbling of trams, and then, added to the tram noise, the screaming of toddlers begging for their babycinos.

I waited for the tram to pass. Dad, in his mid-70s, didn’t have such a strong voice. And my hearing’s never been good. ‘What do you mean, Molly? What mystery?’

‘Er, um, I think she’s missing Mum.’

I gasped. ‘Oh, no! You haven’t lost her. Like Zorro. The last time, when Mum went to Sydney, New Year’s Eve 2000 with all the fireworks, Zorro got spooked. He was outside when the booms began, and he was off. He’s never been seen since. You don’t have a good record when it comes to cats and Mum being away.’

‘Oh, no, no, no!’ Dad said. ‘I mean, she’s been sleeping in funny places. Just the other day I found her in my underwear drawer. She was sleeping so peacefully, I left her there.’

‘How cute.’ I paused as another tram rumbled past. The ladies by the window exploded into laughter. When they quietened, I continued, ‘But you said she was missing.’

‘Oh, no, I mean, she’s …’ Dad coughed. Always does when he’s only telling the truth in part. ‘She’s … somewhere.’

‘How can you be sure? Maybe you left her out, and she’s run away.’

‘Oh, no, no, no! I put food out for her at night. Inside. And in the morning, it’s gone. She’s eating it. She’s just hiding.’

‘I see.’

‘I mean, I think she’s just found a nice little place to sleep. Where I can’t find her.’

‘I guess.’ I scraped out the last frothy bits of my cappuccino. ‘I’ll have a look for her when I come tomorrow.’

[Photo 2: There’s Lily and Feature © L.M. Kling 2025]

The next day, after school, the boys and I rolled up the driveway, piled out and then entered through the back door of my parents’ old housing-trust home. While Mum’s away, I liked to visit Dad to make sure he’s okay.

My sons raced off to the computer room, but I lingered in the kitchen where I cleared away a day’s worth of coffee cups from the dining table and stacked them on the sink.

‘Have you found Molly?’ I asked Dad.

‘No, but the food’s eaten. I think she’s hiding under the bed in the spare room, so I put the cat’s meat there, and in the morning, again it was all gone.’

I followed Dad to the spare room to witness the evidence of an empty bowl with a few morsels of dried fish flakes remaining at the bottom.

I sniffed.

A nasty, festering sort of smell lingered in the air.

Calling my eldest, I decided we should start our Molly-search in the spare room. ‘Would you help me lift the bed-base?’

My son joined me in the small room. Two single beds, a dressing table and a large wardrobe crowded the room. We manoeuvred ourselves around one bed and lifted one end. No Molly.

‘What’s the stink?’ my son asked.

‘Not sure, but it doesn’t bode well.’ I remembered the dead mouse I’d found in that very same room when I moved to Melbourne. ‘Come on, I reckon Molly might be under the other bed.’

My son and I edged around the bed and, taking hold of each side, we hoisted up one side of the base.

Molly crouched in the corner and snarled. Dried blood had matted her fur.

‘Mum! I can’t hold up the bed much longer.’

[Photo 3: Molly enjoying her new home © L.M. Kling 2006]

Reaching, I gently lifted the tortoiseshell tabby from the furthest corner under the raised bed base. Around her neck and in the pit of her front leg, the fur had been rubbed away, exposing a raw wound. Sticky ooze stained my sleeve.

My son put down the bed and dashed to the linen cupboard in the passageway, where he grabbed a towel. We wrapped Molly up in the towel and stood in the passageway.

My younger son had extracted himself from his computer game and met us in the passage with Dad. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ he asked.

‘She’s been injured; that’s why she was hiding,’ I said.

Molly narrowed her eyes at Dad and growled.

‘Wasn’t me,’ Dad said. ‘The last time I saw her, she was fine.’

‘We have to take her to the vet,’ I said.

So swaddled in the towel like a newborn, and weak from her injury, Molly rode in my arms in the car without resistance.

[Photo 4: Swaddled Storm—they really are fur-babies © L.M. Kling 2010]

At the vet, the nurse ushered us in to see the veterinary doctor without the obligatory wait. The vet-doctor, a fresh-faced man in his 30’s, unwrapped the towel from Molly.

‘Oh,’ he said with a grimace, ‘it looks like she got her collar stuck under her front leg. Must’ve been like that for a while.’

Dad blushed and coughed.

‘You didn’t notice?’ the vet-doctor said, looking straight at Dad.

‘Yeah, well,’ Dad said as he shifted around the table, ‘my wife’s gone …’

The vet’s eyes widened with that look of pity. ‘Oh, I’m sorry—’

‘No, I mean, she’s gone to Sydney—on holiday.’

‘Oh.’

We all laughed.

‘Molly is my wife’s cat. And she took to hiding when my wife went away.’

*[Photo 5:  Schroedinger’s cat. Fur-baby Spike attempting to hide © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1984]

We’d found Molly just in time. The veterinary doctor treated her with antibiotics and a stay in the animal hospital. She made a full recovery.

Not sure that Dad ever fully recovered from the wrath of Mum when she returned from Sydney to discover he’d almost lost another cat in his care.

***

In Memory of Molly who lived to the respectable old (cat) age of 18.

As the Good Book, the Bible, says in Matthew 6:26-27

“Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2026

Want more, but too impossible to travel down under? Why not take a virtual journey with the T-Team Adventures in Australia?

Click here on:

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

 Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

And escape in time and space to Central Australia …

100-Word Challenge–Worked

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… Into a Corner

All afternoon, our backyard echoed with the hum of the cement-mixer, and intermittent scraping. Dad, armed with a trowel, smoothed the cement over an area pegged to become the back patio. Metre by metre, he pasted his way back.

Mum stood on the porch, and with hands on her hips, remarked, ‘And how are you going to get out of this one?’

In an ocean of soft cement, Dad looked around him, lost. ‘Er … um … I’ll work it out.’

Tracks back to the lawn-edge smoothed, Dad stood and admired his DIY job.

Next morning, paw-prints made their way to the rainwater tank.

© L.M. Kling 2019; updated 2026

Feature Photo: Dad Concreting back Patio © M.E. Trudinger circa 1978

***

It’s the Weekend.

 Time to read more on the adventures of the war against the fiend you love to hate, an overgrown alien cockroach, Boris.

Click on the links below:

The Lost World of the Wends

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

Diamonds in the Cave

 Or

Longing for more travel adventures? Dreaming of exploring Australia?

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

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

Trekking the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

100-Word Challenge–The Austin

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Dad’s Mid-Life Crisis Cars (2)

[My dad’s catchcry, “for the time being” dogged the choice of cars he brought home. The Austin was no exception … ]

The Austin appeared one winter’s afternoon in our backyard; Dad’s solution to the worthless Wolseley, and of course, just for the time being.

Only cost $100. What a bargain!

Next morning, his breath steaming with excitement, Dad marched up to the green lump of a car. I sat sulking in this woe-begone wreck, the vinyl seat threatening frostbite on my delicate buns.

Dad hopped in and turned the ignition key. Nothing. Not even a squeak on this icy morning.

‘Ah, well, we have to crank it,’ Dad said.

Crank it? Yep, we had to crank this ancient Austin to life.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019

Feature Photo: Not actually the Austin, obviously…but was it the same end? © L.M. Kling 2010

***

For good holiday reading, click on the links below…

And catch up on the exploits of Boris the over-grown alien cockroach, and the mischief and mayhem he generates. Click on the links for my War against Boris novel series below …

The Lost World of the Wends

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

Diamonds in the Cave

Arty Adventure Friday–Lost on Liebig

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[Whilst preparing my painting of the far-flung western MacDonalds (Mt. Liebig) painting for Marion Art Group’s SALA exhibition, in August, I was reminded of our near-death experience when the T-Team became lost descending Mt. Liebig. Below is the story …]

Lost on Liebig (2)

[While Mr. B and his son, Matt stayed back at camp …

Three of the T-Team faced the challenge of climbing Mt. Liebig. And finding their way down. After a successful climb (except for the lost quart can) to summit Mt. Liebig (Read Part 1 of this adventure in my travel memoir The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977 ), the T-Team lost their way … ]

Extract from The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977, a prequel to Trekking With the T-Team Central Australian Safari 1981. Available on Amazon.]

The T-Team Lost

We heard a blood-curdling scream.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘Rick, I hope he’s alright.’

We scrambled down the last of the gully and ran along the ridge in the direction of Rick’s cries.

Rick rose above the mounds of spinifex rubbing his behind.

[Photo 1: Surveying the descent © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1977]

‘Are you okay?’ I fought my way through the prickly barbs to my brother.

‘I’m fine, except I fell, bottom first in the spinifex.’

‘Oh, so it’s just a false alarm then, we thought you were really hurt,’ I said. His scream was worse than the prickly bushes’ sting.

‘Well, I’m going to avoid any more painful encounters,’ he said and with that he stomped away from me and within minutes, drifted out of view.

[Photo 2: Dangerous descent as far as Rick and spinifex is concerned © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

We also diverged. Dad was confident that all gullies lead to the big one at the base of the slope. ‘Ah, well! We will meet Rick in the gully below,’ he assured me.

But contrary to Dad’s prediction, we did not meet Rick. I could not help thinking, this was not the first time as far as Rick was concerned. We’d already lost him in the sand dunes near Uluru. Almost.

[Photo 3: Hiking down from Mt. Liebig, just before we lose Rick © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

Dad continued to search for his quart can. But that little friend Dad had cherished since the fifties, eluded him also.

We weaved our way down the main gully for about an hour. A huge spider in a web spanning the width of the gully confronted us. The spider, the size of a small bird, appeared uninviting, so we backtracked and decided to hike up and down the ridges.

[Photo 4: Another big uninviting spider (Orb Weaver); they’re everywhere in Australia © L.M. Kling 2011]

For several hours, we struggled over ridges. Up and down, we tramped, yet seemed to make little progress; the rise and dips went on forever. The sun sank low, and so did our water supplies.

[Photo 5: Late afternoon on the Liebig Range © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

The heat drained me. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. But we had to ration water.

Dad slumped on a slab of rock at the bottom of a gully. ‘Drink?’

I took the canteen from him and filled my cup. Then I spooned in some Salvital. I chugged down the water as it fizzed. So refreshing!

‘Oh, Lee-Anne!’ Dad quibbled. ‘You didn’t leave much for me!’ He poured the last drops of water from his canteen into his mouth and gazed in despair at the lengthening shadows of the mountain.

‘Oh, but Dad! It’s not fair! We will never get out of this place! We are lost forever.’ I had visions of future hikers coming upon our dried-up old bones thirty years later. ‘What are we going to do?’

[Photo 6: Dried bones; not human, kangaroo. Brachina Gorge Flinders Ranges © L.M. Kling 1999]

‘Well, um, perhaps we better pray God will help us.’ Dad bowed his head and clasped his hands. ‘Dear Lord, please help us find our way back to the truck. And forgive me for growling at Lee-Anne.’

‘Forgive me too. Help us not to run out of food and water, too.’

‘Bit late for that,’ Dad muttered. ‘Ah, well.’

We had barely finished praying, when an idea struck me. ‘Why don’t we climb up a ridge and walk along it. Surely if we go high enough, we’ll see the landmark and the land rover.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. We need to conserve our energy.’

‘Just one ridge won’t harm us.’

Dad sighed. ‘Okay, it’s worth a try.’

I raced up the hill and strode along the ridge. I climbed higher and higher. I glanced towards the east expecting, hoping, willing the Rover to appear. But with each stride, each hopeful gaze, nothing. I resolved to climb further up the slope before turning back.

[Photo 7: Ridges leading up to Liebig © C.D. Trudinger 1977]

After a few more steps, still nothing. With the heaviness of defeat, I turned to climb down. Then I saw it. The Land Rover sat at the base of the mountain, glistening in the last rays of the setting sun.

‘There it is!’ I jumped up and down over-reacting with excitement.

‘Praise the Lord!’ Dad’s shout echoed in the valley.

With renewed energy, we attacked the last mounds that lay between the vehicle and us.

‘Rick will probably be sitting there waiting for us wondering what has happened,’ Dad said puffing as we strode up to the land rover. ‘Can’t wait to have a few gallons of water.’

We rambled over to the rover. Dad circled the vehicle and returned to me shaking his head. ‘He’s not here.’

[Photo 8: Foreboding, Mt. Liebig at sunset © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

I wandered around the clearing searching for Rick. I looked behind bushes and under some neighbouring bean trees. My brother was nowhere in sight.

But worse still, when Dad tried to fill his cup, only a few drops of water trickled from the land rover’s water tank.

Dad stared at the ground and tapped his pockets. ‘This is not good. This is not good,’ he said.

The sun had set and a cold chill cut through me. He’s lost. My brother is lost in this wilderness. ‘What if he’s had an accident?’

‘We need to pray,’ Dad said.

Dad prayed, ‘Father, bring Rick home and provide us with water too.’

We waited watching the colours on the mountain fade and our hopes fade with them.

‘I guess we better get going,’ Dad said. He opened the door of the Land Rover.

Rick staggered around a nearby outcrop of rocks.

We ran to greet him.

‘Rick, you’re okay,’ Dad said hugging him.

‘What happened?’ I asked.

‘I took the long way and trekked around the base of the mountain. I thought it wouldn’t take that long, but it just went on and on.’

[Photo 9: Around the base of Mt. Liebig © S.O. Gross 1946]

As we walked to the Land Rover, Dad studied the vehicle. ‘You know, it’s on a slope, if I get it to level ground, we might have enough water.’

Dad drove the Rover to where the ground flattened out. Water never tasted so sweet.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2019; 2021; 2023

Feature: Painting acrylic on canvas: Descent from Liebig © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2026

***

Find out how the adventure with Mr. B progresses.  

Click on the link, The T-Team with Mr. B Central Australian Safari 1977 and join the journey back in time to the 70s and into the Centre of Australia.

Dreaming of more Aussie Outback Adventure?

Click the link below:

Trekking With the T-Team Central Australian Safari 1981

To download your Amazon Kindle copy of the story…

And escape in time and space to the Centre of Australia 1981…

Arty Friday–Other Side of Ormiston Gorge

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Story Behind the Painting–Ormiston Gorge

[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: View of Ormiston Gorge as we hike through © C.D. Trudinger 1981]

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 1981]

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 1981]

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; 2026

*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 memoirs,

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Travel with the T-Team–Woomera

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[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 past year, I have taken 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, with the trip ending, the T-K Team continues their return to Adelaide, heading for Woomera in the rain.]

Woomera

Part 1

Cheeky Campers

So, out of toilet parole we escaped Coober Pedy, destination Woomera. I drove.

‘We’re running late,’ Anthony grumbled.

‘Ah, we’ll only arrive after dark,’ I replied. ‘Let’s get a cabin in the caravan park if we can.’

‘And, if we can’t?’

‘I don’t fancy camping in this weather. We’ll sleep in the Ford if we can’t.’

‘Hmmm. I doubt we’ll be able to get a cabin; we haven’t booked.’

‘We’ll take our chances.’

Drops of rain splattered our windscreen.

[Photo 1: Desert in the rain © L.M. Kling 2013]
[Photo 2: Approaching rain in the Desert © L.M. Kling 2013]

A large lake loomed to the left of the highway.

‘What lake is that?’ I asked.

Anthony read the sign. ‘Lake Hart.’

We pulled into the rest area, come viewpoint to have a break and take some photos. The sun had neared the horizon, casting the salty waters of Lake Hart in hues of pink and lemon.

[Photo 3: Lake Hart © L.M. Kling 2013]

Some free campers had built fires beside their campervans. One couple had pitched their tent underneath the canopy of the Information Kiosk.

Anthony glanced at the tent and then muttered, ‘Not sure if you’re allowed to do that.’

‘Perhaps a ranger will come along and tell them off.’

‘Nah, probably not.’

‘I guess we’ll never know. We’d better get a move on to Woomera to try our luck.’ I adjusted my hold of the camera. ‘After I take a few more shots while there’s a break in the clouds.’

[Photo 4&Feature: Sunset on Lake Hart © L.M. Kling 2013]

By the time we reached Woomera, the town was shrouded in darkness, and rain fell steadily. Light still shone from the Caravan Park manager’s cabin. We entered through the unlocked sliding door and rang the bell. The manager appeared with a smile on his face.

No trouble getting a cabin. He explained that normally cabins were filled with workers from the nearby Roxby mine. But this night, there were a few vacant cabins. We were fortunate.

Ah! Luxury! After all, we needed some TLC after no sleep the night before. The simple one-room cabin with a queen-sized bed, kitchen facilities, an en suite bathroom and toilet to the side, and a television would do just fine.

I cooked pasta with canned spaghetti sauce, corn, and chopped up spam. For dessert, canned pears and custard.

Anthony was in his element as he propped himself up on the bed and watched the football.

[Photo 5: Aussie rules footy © L.M. Kling 1986]

At 10 pm, I woke with a start. Beside me, Anthony, head bowed, snored while the football commentators bantered. ‘You’re snoring!’ I mumbled. Anthony smacked his lips and sank into the bedding.

I switched off the TV and snuggled into the warmth of the quilt and Anthony. With the sound of rain pattering on the roof, once more, we fell into a deep and satisfying sleep.

[To Be Continued …]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2022; update 2026

Feature photo: Last rays of the sun on Lake Hart © L.M. Kling 2013

***

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 memoirs,

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari