Feature Photo: Reflections, Ellery Creek © L.M. Kling 2021
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2026
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.
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.
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.
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?
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:
Nördlingen, 1580-1700: society, government and impact of war
***
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.’
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.’
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.’
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:
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:
And escape in time and space to Central Australia nearly 50-years ago …
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 lived in Saxony, which is now part of East Germany or Poland today. Rubber borders, you see. His crime was trivial by our 21st Century standards 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 19th 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, Friedrich August Schammer, was living his life in Silesia around the same time, in the early nineteenth century.)
Friedrich August spent less than three months in prison for a crime he did not commit, but I admire the way he managed 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 Friedrich August Schammer studied as a medical student in the 1820s, 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. Painted by artist, Adolf Gottlob Zimmermann.]
Anyway, in this university town of Jena, the students protested against their restrictions on their liberty by reacting against the ridiculous laws the military had brought to the town. Some of these laws were that there be no singing in the streets, no wearing of caps, and no 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 tend to become. They threw rocks at windows, an action that got the authorities’ attention.
The military swooped in 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.
It seems by his account and letters, a certain beadle in town had it in for Friedrich August.
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.
The authorities noticed great-great-grandfather Friedrich’s quiet conduct and enrichment of the prison community, and they released him less than three months into his term.
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 Charité 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.
Friedrich August Schammer 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
***
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, 2011 and again in 2016. I highly recommend this cruise—a bucket list for travellers—history, wilderness, rare beauty of unspoilt rivers and rainforest and…excellent food.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; updated 2020; 2023; 2026
***
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.’
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.’
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.
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.’
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
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
***
Or
My dad’s midlife crisis took a turn … for the worse. The Mazda. Not sure what type this less-than-trustworthy steed was; suffice it to say, he purchased it for a bargain, as it had a damaged rear end. So, the Mazda became the butt of many car jokes from my friends.
Not to be confused with our current Mazda, whom we call Antoinette; a most wonderful car to drive. She even reminds me when I’m speeding, with a stern, “You are going over the speed limit.” She chimes with teeny-weeny orange cars on the rearview mirrors when I attempt to change lanes, and, lo and behold, there’s a car I haven’t seen. She chirps when I’m about to back out, and a car is passing. And the dear Nanny car virtually screams if I get anywhere near another car. Oh, and every morning she reminds me with beeping and a red dot on the image of my car in the rear cam that I’m too close to the garage door. She’s doing a good job of keeping my hubby out of his task of backseat-driving and making sure she doesn’t end up like my dad’s old Mazda.
The plight of our old Mazda must have become legend in the world of Mazdas, passed down from generation to generation along the Mazda factory assembly line. And so we come to 2018, when Antoinette was born, with her abundant safety features, hopefully never to experience the shame of Dad’s old metal “bargain” with the battered rear bumper from 50-years ago.
Hence, here’s the poem …
A reblog, in memory of my dad’s much-maligned Mazda.
Now every time the battle-axe we release,
We pray:
Keep our Mazda running from police
Particularly today.
Grant us all green lights, for our brakes may fail,
And may thy Mazda’s effervescent light shine forth
At both head and tail.
Forgive us our blinkers, our wipers, the lot,
As we forgive those who are enemies and gripers
Of the Mazda we’ve got.
© L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1982; updated 2020; 2022; 2026
Feature Photo: Behind Rick’s green machine (Cleo), the Mazda lurks © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) 1978
***
Or
Tomorrow, August 1, is Swiss National Day. The K-Team who hail from Switzerland are coming to our place to celebrate a fondue dinner.
I’m so glad I have discovered I have some Swiss ancestry too, although, mine’s not the German part, but the French part–from Lausanne.
Anyway, in the spirit of celebrating Switzerland, here’s a re-visit of the K-Team’s adventures in Switzerland, 2014.
In the cool, crisp morning, the sun shone 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 had once been a lively town in the 1950s and 60s, 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 were imminent. I was reminded of older friends telling me of a time when they practised drills hiding under their school desk in the event of enemy attack.
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.
Now, Hermannsburg was a mission set up by German missionaries in 1877. Although by the 1940s the mission was fair dinkum Australian, having existed in Australia for all that time, the name, being German, raised suspicions among the Allies with the advent of World War II and the conflict with Germany. Hence, Mum remembers British officers flying 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.
After investigating any mitigating threats, the British Officers flew away in their propeller plane, satisfied that Hermannsburg was no threat. Nevertheless, they confiscated the 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.
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 half.
‘I bet the T-Team (my brother’s family) are home by now,’ I said. ‘No hanging around 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 10:30 am.
“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.”
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 up the conversation 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 are 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.
Eleven years hence as I write this final chapter, I wonder what paintings they were?
Oh, and the other casualty, Hubby, who proudly boasted 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.
© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2024
Feature Painting: Ormiston Memories, the reason for the journey © L.M. Kling 2018
***
