relationships

Time Travelling Friday–Future Message

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[So, if you could go back and talk with your 5-year-old self, what would you say? What would your 5-year-old self say to your future self? Here’s a story where I imagine just that.]

MESSAGE FROM MY FUTURE ME

“Grandma, can I excuse the table?” I asked.

Grandma chuckled. “You mean, be excused from the table, dear.”

I nodded and then pushed my chair from the old wooden table.

“Yes, you may, but don’t go too far,” Grandma said. “Go only to the end of the road and then you must turn back.”

“I will.”

*[Photo 1: Escapee from Grandma’s © C.D. Trudinger circa 1966]

I escaped out the back door and down the gravel driveway. The street spanned before me, begging adventure. Sunday lawns green, pungent with fresh Saturday clippings piled behind an assortment of fences.

“Go away, will you,” she said in her grimy blue dress. She leaned over the stone wall and pushed me.

I brushed off her greasy prints and walked on, leaving the willow tree and that girl snarling in the shade behind me. As I strolled into the sun, I ran my hand over cracked rendered walls, rattling cyclone fences and peering through the oleander bushes for signs of life in quiet houses.

“Don’t go over the road,” Grandma’s voice warned in my head.

*[Photo 2:  Memories of Belair National Park © L.M. Kling]

No, I won’t. I rubbed my bottom in memory of the Belair Sunday school picnic adventure when my brother lost me. Promise! Careful not to step on the lines in the pavement. Bad luck. I tiptoed and danced along the pavement in my pink ballerina shoes.

A shadow wriggled over the pavers. Stobie pole to my right, plastered its stunted midday image on the asphalt. I halted. Casting my focus up, I spied this big girl. I squealed and clapped my hands over my mouth. This lady-girl was dressed all in lace and brown velvet as if in Grandma’s clothes.

“Hello, you must be Lee-lee.”

“Why did you know my name?” I pointed at her; rude, I know. “Ha, ha! Why are you wearing funny clothes?”

She blushed and rubbed her stubby fingers over the velvet. “They’re trendy where I come from.” She smiled and straightened her long dress that swept past her ankles. “Actually, where I come from, I know a lot about you.”

“Why?”

“Because I have the same name as you.”

“So? I know more than you do. You’re dumb. So there, ner!” I planted my hands on my hips and poked out my tongue.

“That’s no way to talk about yourself.”

“Huh?” I pulled at my pigtail and chewed the ends of my hair.

“Elementary girl.” She flicked her long blonde strands and smirked. “I am the future you. In fact, I know more than you do because I know what’s going to happen to you.”

“Future me?” I scratched my cheek and screwed up my nose. “What does future mean?”

“I am your grown-up self.”

[Photo 3: Six-year-old self with missing tooth © C.D. Trudinger 1969]

“Oh!” I wiggled a loose tooth. “Does that mean your teeth all fell out? Did you get grown-up teeth or did you get them all pulled out and get false teeth like Grandma’s?” I zoomed up to Future Me’s face and ogled at her mouth. “Come on, show me your false teeth.”

She bared her perfect row of pearly whites and nudged me back. “They are real. Orthodontically corrected, but real.”

“Arthur—what?”

“I had braces on my teeth.”

“Why? Were they crippled?”

“No, they were crooked.”

“Ugh! Crooked teeth.” I turned from her and poked stones with the point of my shoe. “I don’t think I like being you. Grandma clothes, crooked teeth that need Arthur’s braces. I’ll never be like you. You’re just pretending. ‘Sides, how could I be you?”

I squinted at this tall slim blonde who transferred her weight from one leg to the other. I noticed the worn back-pack groaning full of books, straps straining to pull the load from her waist. Future Me stroked her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Well, it’s hard to explain to someone as little as you. You’re in Prep, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m a big schoolgirl, now.” I thrust my chest forward and with hands each side of my tummy, swung my hips.

“Well, big schoolgirl, Lee-Lee, to put it simply, it’s called T.T.T—thought, time, transportation.”

“What then?” I watched my pink dress swish as I swayed.

“You just think and instead of thinking time as moving forward, you make it move backward for you.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, actually, it’s more complicated than that—a kind of scientific experiment that my big brother Warwick invented. He put electrodes on my head and well, something happens that I can’t fully explain.”

“Oh, did you have a brother, Warwick too? Does your Warwick snort when he laughs?” I cupped my hand over my mouth and tittered.

The lady-girl raised her lace sleeve to her mouth and giggled. “Yes, he does.”

“You must be me.” Repressing the urge to gnaw my fingernails before my future-self, I clasped my hands together and looked in her eyes. “So, me, what’s going to happen to me?”

She avoided my gaze. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.

“That’s not fair! Why can’t I?” I grabbed at her, but she slipped through my fingers and drifted from me. “Plee-ease!”

“I can’t!”

I watched her move further away and shimmer in the sunlight.

“But why not? Please! Just a little bit.” I chased her and swiped at her. “Just a tincy-wincy-little bit. I won’t tell! Promise!”

“Alright, if you insist.” She floated above the greying plaster fence. “But I must be leaving soon.”

[Photo 4: Trampoline fun © L.M.  Kling 1988]

She faded, blending in with the oleander and honeysuckle bushes. I strained to see her. I attempted to touch her, but my hand passed through her.

The wind whistled through the bushes. “Have a good time with Jilly.”

“You didn’t tell me! You lied, me!” I cried.

I hunched over and plodded back towards Grandma’s house. Shouts and squeals from a yard on my left, caught the corner of my eye. A girl my age bounced on an old double-spring bed.

“Hello, my name’s Lee, what’s yours?”

“Hello, my name’s Jilly. Do you want to play on the trampoline with me?”

© Lee-Anne Kling 2009; updated 2023; 2025

Feature Painting: Somerton Beach Dreaming © Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2011

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

***

Dreaming of being transported to another world?

Time for some weekend reading?

Take a break and journey to another world, another time to …

Diamonds in the Cave (New Release)

The Lost World of the Wends

OR

Transport Yourself into Central Australia of old with my travel memoirs with the intrepid T-Team …

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

Trekking With the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

100-words or more on Friday

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Water—Theft

Water and Theft are the prevailing themes this week. On Tuesday I was rudely awoken from my slumber by Hubby rampaging through the bedroom in search of his transport pass. With a sigh, I got up and helped in the search. After scouring the house, Hubby looked online and discovered someone had used his card the previous Sunday. Not him. The card had indeed been stolen. Hence the process of cancelling the card and transferring the funds to a new one. I’d like to see the disappointed expression on the face of whoever nicked the card when they try to use it next.

Meanwhile, Adelaide’s seawaters have been plagued by a nasty algal-bloom; the worst in the world—ever in all history, apparently. Dead sea creatures have been washing up on shore in apocalyptic proportions. Mum’s neighbour is putting in a swimming pool. No swimming in the beach waters this summer, or many to come. Mum and I lunched by the beach at Glenelg curious to see how discoloured the water would be and how many dead fish and other creatures we’d spot on the shore. We’re still alive. Didn’t notice any discolouration of the sea. Saw some birds skimming the water and diving for fish. Good luck to them, I say.

August is almost over, and Adelaide has been enjoying the SALA festival, I thought this cheeky little piece, a 100-word challenge might fit the bill, so to speak. The actual incident of imagined “water-theft” took place several years ago, but I believe the gallery involved still takes their rules very seriously.

100-word Challenge

Stolen…Almost

 ‘Where can we get some water?’ my friend asked.

I pointed at the casket of spring water languishing in the gallery. ‘There’s some just there.’ A glass wall confined the well-watered and wined gallery guests. We had been guests, but this gallery was devoid of seats. We wanted to sit. And eat.

‘Sign there bans wine not water.’

I stowed into gallery, collected cups of water and walked to the door.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ self-appointed wine-police snapped.

I placed the stolen water back on the table and left.

Transubstantiation. My first virtual miracle; turning water into wine.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2019; updated 2023; 2025

Feature Photo: Taking their Chances Fishing; Sea birds at Glenelg Beach © L.M. Kling 2025

***

Want more memoir? Some travel?

Take a journey into Central Australia with the T-Team…

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or

If Sci-fi is more your thing

Check out my War Against Boris series…

The Hitch-hiker

Mission of the Unwilling

The Lost World of the Wends

Diamonds in the Cave (New Release)

Down the Rabbit-Hole–Family History Revisited

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Oh, dear! I must’ve been deep in the rabbit-hole of painting yesterday. See what I painted in one sunny mid-winter’s afternoon, yesterday. Anyway, being what was intended to be Family History Friday for Tru-Kling Creations, went down a rabbit-hole and ended up somewhere else.

Check out the re-blog of the story of my great-great grandfather from Silesia.

Family History Friday–Admire

Friday Crime–The Culvert (32)

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Mouth Full of Berries

Wednesday, May 18, 2022

Brighton

Francis Renard

Again, a detective sat opposite Francis. This one was female and wore a smug expression. Introduced herself as Detective Dee Berry. She announced that she had further questions that must be answered into the cold case inquiry of the hit-and-run of Milo Katz.

Francis Renard watched as this woman who he vaguely remembered from his youth purse her lips as if her mouth were full of berries. He noted that his wife, Eloise had made herself scarce. Gone for a walk on the beach. A fine morning for it, so she said after hearing Dee Berry was coming to visit.

[Photo 1: Brighton Beach © L.M. Kling 2007]

“You’ll be fine,” El promised, before departing, leaving him to be fed to the “shark”. “Text me if she becomes too much of a problem. Besides, Zoe’s in the next room.”

So, this lady detective opened her strawberry-coloured lips and said sweetly, ‘I have some news for you, Mr. Renard.’

‘Really?’ he shifted his wiry body in the occasional lounge chair making it squeak. ‘I really think I told your partner, Dan Hooper everything I can remember from back then.’

*[Photo 2: Occasional Lounge Chairs for occasional sitting © L.M. Kling 2016]

‘Can you remind me who you spent the night with, and where on the night in question?’

‘Er…um…well, it’s a long time ago,’ Renard paused, and decided to change the subject. ‘You look familiar, do I know you from a past life?’

Her expression soured. ‘We used to go out, around that time, Francis.’

‘Did we? I-I don’t…’

‘Obviously not,’ Dee said, glaring at him. ‘Just to clear the air, you stood me up at my own end of school party. Then later, you said that you were there, but you weren’t. I have it in my diary and you’re in none of the photos. And…’ Dee raised her hand for emphasis, ‘this is the best part, we have witnesses, and subsequent evidence that place you and your Kombi at Sellicks Beach on that night when Milo Katz was run over. Would you like to comment, Mr. Renard?’

*[Painting 3: The Kombi © L.M. Kling 2015]

‘Er…er…’ Renard fiddled with his phone trying to surreptitiously send an S.O.S. to El. ‘Wh-what evidence?’

‘Some pretty solid evidence,’ Dee rubbed her hands together. ‘On the night in question, witnesses reported that you spent the evening with a certain young lady. Do you remember? Or have you forgotten her too?’

‘Um…probably, there were a lot of them back then.’

Dee leaned back in her chair. Looking smug, she said, ‘It would seem there was fruit from your labours, Mr. Renard. Nine months later, a girl called Zoe Thomas was born. We believe this child is yours Mr. Renard.’

Renard looked up and beyond Dee. He smiled, ‘Oh, yes, I know all about Zoe.’

The blonde standing behind Detective Berry grinned. ‘Did I hear my name in vain?’

‘Huh?’ Dee turned; her eyes widened. ‘I’m conducting an investigation here, Miss. Who are you?’

‘Zoe Thomas, Ma’am,’ she held out her hand to Dee. ‘Barrister.’

Dee refused to take her hand. ‘I see, so you’re not just a wee bit curious about your mother?’

‘I am, but at this present time, I’m more concerned with the current investigation of my father.’

‘Why?’

‘It would seem from your tone and attitude, and from what I could hear, that your history with him makes it too close and personal for you to be involved.’ Zoe narrowed her eyes at Dee. ‘You may conclude your discussion and leave now.’

*[Photo 3: Fruit—Lemons © L.M. Kling 2022]

Under Zoe’s watchful eye, Dee scrambled to gather her phone, and laptop from the coffee table and scurry out the door.

Francis clapped as they viewed Dee bumble her way to the unmarked police car. ‘Brilliant! I like having you around. You saved my bacon.’

‘Not sure being a playboy in your youth is going to help you in court, though,’ Zoe returned. ‘But you’ll keep.’

*Feature Photo: An Abundance of Oranges © L.M. Kling 2022

© Tessa Trudinger 2025

***

Sometimes characters spring from real life,

Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.

Sometimes real life is just real life.

Check out my travel memoirs,

And escape in time and space

To Central Australia.

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Or for a greater escape into another world…

Check out my Sci-fi/ dystopian novel,

And click on the link:

The Lost World of the Wends

Friday Crime–The Culvert (31)

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Communication…Or Lack Of

Friday, May 13, 2022

4.30 pm, Adelaide Police HQ

Dan

While the “cat”, namely Dee was away, Dan took the opportunity to delve into the intricacies of Mr. Percy Edwards and his presumed body that had been discovered in the Mt. Lofty National Park. He mused how the unfortunate Mr. Edwards could languish just inside the culvert, under the bridge, for so long without being discovered. After all, how could the tourist traffic, plus joggers who daily climbed Adelaide’s iconic mountain, miss the remains for so long?

Dan plotted the details and questions into the von Erikson Crime solving programme and then checked over the growing chart on screen.

An email pinged its arrival. Pathologist Penny Chambers had completed the preliminaries on the corpse.

Dan opened the file and studied the results.

As he suspected, someone, had recently moved the remains. Damage to the skull had been the consequence of repeated blunt force trauma. Penny proposed that the shape and width of the damage suggested a golf club was used, most probably a wedge which weighs around 340 grams.

Dan nodded. ‘Interesting.’

The report also indicated that the damage to the skull tended to be at the front, hitting the frontal lobe, the nose and upper jaw. Four teeth from the upper jaw were missing.

‘This was personal,’ Dan whispered. ‘Someone close did this to poor Mr. Edwards.’

His mobile vibrated on his desk. Dan picked it up. ‘Yes? Dee?’

He looked at his watch. 5pm. ‘Oh, is that the time,’ he murmured.

Dee rabbited on, bemoaning the piles of disembarked passengers and dearth of taxi drivers.

‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ he said while closing down the computer, then gathering up his keys. 

*[Photo 1: Hiking to Mt. Lofty © C.D. Trudinger circa 1968]

Tuesday, May 17, 2022

4-5pm, Adelaide Airport

Dee

Detective Dee Berry smiled as she descended the airport escalators. A smattering of family members had gathered to welcome their loved ones from their international travels. A man waggled his head and paced back and forth beneath the flight arrivals sign while arguing with his wife. Another couple, the bearded male wearing loose-fitting shirt and baggy trousers strode ten-paces ahead of his wife covered head to toe in a black burqa.

Reminded her of a certain Mr. Percy Edwards back in the day—1970’s. Not the ethnicity and the baggage that goes with that, but just the need for certain men, no matter what race or background, who needed to be dominant over their women. She’d see him at church racing to the entrance while his wife and children trailed behind him. What really got up her nose about the man was his attitude to women, like he was God’s gift, and all women must submit to him—worship the ground and the latest Ford he drove in.

*[Photo 2: One such Ford Falcon 1976 XB © A.N. Kling 1986]

That man Percy gave her the creeps, especially one night after youth group. She came out of the hall early and there he was, lounging near his latest Ford.

As she passed him, he lunged at her. ‘Jump in my car!’ he demanded, grabbing her arm.

Dee tore her arm away from his grasp. Swore at him—words usually reserved for her arch enemy Lillie. Then she ran. Round the block and back into the safety of the hall.

Never told a soul. But the memory stayed with her.

Dee shivered at the chilling flash back and recomposed herself.

She moved on and out from the concourse.

How Adelaide had changed, Dee thought. She remembered her youth and travelling by boat from Davenport to Melbourne in 1980. At the time she had seen an overseas tourist taking photos of the heads as they entered Port Phillip Bay. Back then, she had thought seeing such a foreigner a novelty.

At drive through/drop off and pick up road, she waited in line to hail a taxi. It seemed all of Adelaide was doing the same. At this rate she’d be waiting an eternity. She was tempted to call Dan to ask him to pick her up in his patrol car.

After an hour of languishing in the unmovable line, she did just that. She called Dan.

‘I was wondering when you’d call,’ Dan said with a sigh. ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

Dee watched the security harass lingering drivers and hurry them along. She watched the same cars pass by as they completed the circuit while waiting for their passengers to disembark and arrive at the designated pick-up point. She watched the rare taxi pull up and prospective passengers pile in.

Then she decided to make it easier for Dan and begin walking east up this drop-off road towards a less populated area. Some other wise people were doing the same. She followed them. Sure, there was a yellow line forbidding such action, but if drivers were quick in the pick-up routine, the guards of the drop off/pick up process wouldn’t notice. Besides, there were certain benefits being picked up in a police patrol car.

As anticipated, twenty minutes passed by in the process of being a pedestrian, and Dan’s patrol car pulled up just before the roundabout. Dee opened the back passenger door and tossed in her case, then she leapt in after it.

‘Thanks Dan,’ she said as she secured her seatbelt.

Dan breezed past the paused throngs of cars and people eager to make a quick get-away. Their hurried movements reminded Dee of bank robbers leaping into accomplices’ cars before the authorities caught up with them. One car, Dee noticed it was that couple, still arguing, and their grown up returned-from-overseas children struggling to fit all their baggage in the boot of the car. An irate security staff member gestured for them to move along. Dee looked back to see if the mother and father were arguing with security, but a hulking Toyota Hilux blocked the scene.

‘How was the Tassie trip?’ Dan asked.

‘Brilliant!’ Dee replied. ‘There’s some beautiful places there. I reckon I’ll pull up stumps and go and live there when I retire.’

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Dan asked. ‘I gather from the application and funding, that it wasn’t a holiday.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Dee rubbed her hands together and grinned, ‘the time was well spent and fruitful.’

‘Fruitful?’ Dan glanced back at her.

‘You remember Lillie? Lillie von Erikson? Now Edwards?’

‘Yes?’

Dee chuckled. ‘She had a baby down there in Tasmania, back in 1981.’

‘Did she now?’

‘You remember she was one of the witnesses back then. You know when Milo Katz was run over?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well. Fast-forward nine months, and bingo! A little girl was born.’ Dee licked her lips. ‘A girl called Zoe Thomas.’

‘And,’ Dan eyed Dee through the rear-vision mirror, ‘how’s this related to the case?’

‘You see, it proves that she was there. With Francis Renard. In his kombi van.’

‘But you said she was a witness.’

‘She will be, and so will Mr. Renard.’

‘I don’t see how you have figured this out, Dee.’

‘Do I have to spell it out, Dan?’

‘Go on.’

‘If they were there, they must’ve seen something. They would’ve been aware of Sven’s movements.’

‘Not if they were busy in the kombi, they wouldn’t have,’ Dan snorted, then laughed. ‘Anyway, I interviewed Mr. Renard, remember?’

 ‘We’ll see,’ Dee sighed, ‘Besides, I think that the adoption was all underhand and off the radar. There’s no official documentation. And I suspect there was money involved in the deal.’

‘Really? How do you come to that conclusion?’

‘I managed to track down the adoptive father of Zoe, and he confirmed that Lillie gave the child to him and his wife. They were childless and his wife was desperate for a baby.’

‘And the money?’

‘I remember Lillie returning from her Tassie work holiday flush with the stuff,’ Dee flicked a lock of hair from her face, ‘I saw her around town with a new car, new trendy clothes, and I heard her and her brother shared a flat in a swanky part of town, Burnside, as I recall.’

*[Photo 3: Flush with money © L.M. Kling 2003]

‘Right.’ Dan’s brow furrowed. ‘Evidence?’

‘So, I got hold of some bank records from the day.’

‘Really, do they still exist after forty years?’

‘If you know where to find them and have the right contacts.’

‘Which, apparently, you do.’

‘September fifteenth, 1981, ten-thousand dollars was paid by cheque into her Commonwealth Bank account.’ Dee announced in triumph. Somehow, an online crime-fighting sleuth, probably on the spectrum, had come through for her. ‘From an ANZ bank account in Hobart.’

‘I see,’ Dan sniffed, ‘so, are you going to go after Lillie Edwards on a charge of baby trafficking, now?’

‘Ooh, that’s an idea—I’ll look into it.’

© Tessa Trudinger 2025

Feature Photo: Sunrise Flight © L.M. Kling 2011

***

Sometimes characters spring from real life,

Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.

Sometimes real life is just real life.

Check out my travel memoirs,

And escape in time and space

To Central Australia.

Click on the links:

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

Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

Friday Crime–The Culvert (30)

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In Search of Mr. Thomas

Friday May 6, 5pm
Strahan, West Coast Tasmania

Dee

By five in the afternoon, Dee was driving down the windy road from Queenstown to Strahan. She heeded Mavis’ warning to take care on this narrow, steep road. She counted the number of cans strewn on the side along with the native wildlife carnage—mostly pademelons and wombats.

Local traffic frightened her. They swung around the bend, on her side, almost colliding head on before swerving to their side of the road.

Dee drove slower than the locals to avoid becoming another statistic. A conga line of cars fumed behind her. Every so often, a frustrated driver risked their lives and sped past her around a blind corner. Dee expected to witness disaster awaiting her on the other side, but this time, they’d been lucky.

*[Photo 1: Road winding to Queenstown © L.M. Kling 2016]


Finally, as the sun set over a choppy Port Macquarie, Dee pulled in at the caravan park cabin she had booked that morning.

After a quick shower and change into a fresh pair of black slacks, white shirt, and black jacket, she headed for the hotel. There being a number of eating places that lined the main street, she chose the one that appeared most popular, a bar and bistro.

Before settling at a table to sit, Dee weaved her way through the Friday night crowds to the bar. She hoped the bar staff were not too busy to have a chat. She also hoped they had an inkling who Greg Thomas was and where she could find him.

Resting one elbow on the bar, while trying her best to look casual, Dee waited. The bar staff scurried from customer to filling up large glasses called “schooners” with beer and ignored her as if she were invisible.

‘I’d make a good private detective,’ Dee sighed and muttered. She wondered if word had got out around Strahan that she was in town, on the warpath, investigating. Perhaps Mr. Thomas had gone into hiding and the locals were all protecting their own and their secrets. Or was it just that she was at that age and invisible. Probably the latter, she thought.

As a more mature bar staffer, a balding man with grey sideburns whizzed past her, Detective Dee Berry straightened up and leaned over the counter.

‘Excuse me,’ she said.

‘Hold on,’ the man glanced back, ‘just a minute.’

Dee gritted her teeth, pulled out her ID card and held it up. ‘It’ll only take a minute of your time.’

The man looked like a rabbit, or in Tasmania’s road case, a pademelon, stunned by the headlights of an oncoming car, and hurried over to her. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I’m looking for Greg Thomas,’ she said, ‘do you know him?’

The man’s eyes widened. ‘Is he in trouble?’

‘Na, not really. I’m trying to chase up his daughter, actually. You know, the lawyer?’

‘Oh, is she in trouble?’

‘I can’t say, it’s confidential.’ Dee smiled. ‘Do you know where I can find him?’

The man pointed across the street at crowds of people milling around a brown and green structure topped with sail cloth. ‘See the Visitor’s Centre, there, he’s next to that in the timber yard.’

*[Photo 2 and feature: Sunset over Port Macquarie © L.M. Kling 2011]


‘Oh, right?’ Dee lifted her hand from the counter and prepared to leave. ‘Thank you. What time does he finish work?’

The man shrugged. ‘He’ll most probably still be there. He works late on his projects most nights.’

Dee waved and said again, ‘Thank you.’

She walked over the road. The visitor centre swarmed with the latest offload of tourists from the Gordon River cruise to an open-air theatre. The timber yard and shop appeared dark and empty.

*[Photo 3: Sunset View of Strahan © L.M. Kling 2011]


‘Are you looking for someone?’ a voice called out of the dark.

Dee looked in the direction. The glitter of red ash splashed onto the pavement a few metres away. She could just discern the outline of a man in the shadows.

‘Huh? Who are you? Are you Mr. Thomas?’ she asked keeping her distance. You can never be too careful, she reasoned.

‘Nah,’ the man sucked on his cigarette making the tip glow red. ‘Why, do you want with him?’

‘I’m looking for his daughter, Zoe. Wondering if he could help me find her,’ Dee said, mindful not to reveal her identity as a police officer. ‘I’m an old friend of her mother’s.’

‘I see.’

Dee could just make out the man’s long hair, and beard that covered his face.

‘I was just wondering if you knew when Mr. Thomas would be in the workshop.’

The man coughed and with a gravelly voice replied, ‘Try tomorrow morning. He’s gone home for the night.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Good luck,’ he responded.

She left the old man on the wharf to his smoking and headed back to her cabin for the night.

© Tessa Trudinger 2025

***

Sometimes characters spring from real life,
Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.
Sometimes real life is just real life.
Check out my travel memoirs,
And escape in time and space
To Central Australia.

Click on the links:

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

(Free from May 3 to 7)


Trekking with the T-Team: Central Australian Safari 1981

And…


If you are in Adelaide, check out Marion Art Group’s exhibition at Bayside Village, Glenelg. On until Saturday, May 10.
You can buy the paintings on the spot and take them home. Just in time for Mother’s day.
My paintings are there too.
Don’t miss out, have a look and enjoy the wonderful artwork.

Marion Art Group Exhibition (c) L.M. Kling 2025

Family History Friday–Grandpa Gross

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Tale of Two Grandpas

Grandpa 1—Sam Gross

Recently I shared how my dad relied on the Readers Digest “How to Fix” book to tackle DIY jobs. Having a double mortgage, and money being tight, Dad didn’t have much cash to splash on the “experts” in such fields as plumbing, electricity and general home maintenance.

The response met with a hint of dismissal from my older friends who prided themselves on their pedigree of farmer fathers. These, they boasted were real men, Aussie men, who fixed all things by pragmatic problem solving without the help of a book. The wisdom of their farming forebears imparted to them by osmosis, apparently.


*[Photo 1: One of those Some Mothers do ‘ave ‘em moments © L.M. Kling (nee Trudinger) circa 1978]


In contrast, my father was a lesser being, a city dweller who had to refer to a book, of all things. My dad was a much-loved teacher, gifted in music, art and sport. He coached a winning football team of Indigenous players from Hermannsburg, Northern Territory in his youth, led a choir of Indigenous singers, and later school student Anklung bands for the South Australian Festival of Music. No flies on my dad. But I must admit, when it came to DIY, his forays into such exploits would rival the character Frank Spencer in the British sit-com, “Some Mothers do ’ave ‘em”. Still, I’m proud of my dad and love him.
But then I realised that these superior beings who were my friend’s fathers, were from my grandparents’ era.

So, I cast my mind and research back to my two grandpas: Reverend Sam Gross (my mother’s father) and Dr. Ron Trudinger (my father’s father).

Now these friends held up their ties to the land as superior. Although both my grandfathers are highly educated with Reverend and doctor between them, I can claim a link to the land too, through my maternal grandfather, Sam. His family were farmers with I imagine generations of farmers before them from Horsham Victoria in the 1850’s and extending back to Prussia.


*[Photo 2: The Gross Family Farmhouse, near Horsham, Victoria © L.M. Kling 1996]


Sam was born in 1905 and grew up with all that practical knowhow bred into his being. I never met Sam, he died before I was born, but I remember my mum saying he was good at fixing things like cars. He could’ve been an engineer, but he became a Lutheran pastor. I reckon my brother inherited some of Sam’s traits—he’s a jack of all trades—the ideal DIY man.

As a child, Sam suffered rheumatic fever which affected his heart. Consequently, he got the education with the view of becoming a minister and wasn’t expected to continue with the farm like his brothers.
The doctors told Sam he wouldn’t live past the age of thirty. But being extremely fit and maintaining his health, Sam defied those expectations.

After ordination to become a minister, and then a few years posted to Berri, in the Riverland of South Australia, Sam with his wife, Elsa (my grandma) and three young daughters (one my mother), ventured to Hermannsburg, Northern Territory. There God had called them to be missionaries to the Arrernte people.


*[Photo 3: Leaving Berri © S.O. Gross 1939]


Now, Hermannsburg is remote, more so in 1939 when they moved there. The settlement became even more isolated once war broke out.

*[Photo 4: Pastor Sam Gross with fellow ministers in Hermannsburg © courtesy of M.E. Trudinger circa 1940]


Sam’s pragmatic skills, bred and imparted to him from generations who had lived and struggled on the land as poor subsistence farmers in Germany, then as pioneer farmers in the Victorian Western districts in Australia, came to the fore in the harsh isolated conditions in Central Australia.

Sam had to venture to even more remote places in the desert west of the MacDonnell Ranges—Haast Bluff for instance. One trip in 1942, the truck broke down. Despite putting his mechanic hat on and trying to fix the car, an essential part of the engine was kaput and the much-needed part not available. Sam’s problem-solving prowess kicked in, donkeys were found and the car towed by donkey-power back to “civilisation”—Hermannsburg.

*[Photo 5: Donkey-power © S.O. Gross 1942]


A year or so after their arrival in Hermannsburg, the supervising pastor, F.W. Albrecht was stuck in Adelaide as a result of the war. Hermannsburg came under suspicion, as it was a mission set up by German missionaries back in the 1880’s, and as such with ties to the Lutheran church, had a German name and tradition. The British Army being paranoid of anything that hinted of German, was suspicious of Hermannsburg. They feared German spies were hiding out there. So, they sent officers to check out Hermannsburg.

*[Photo 6: A visit by the Airforce © S.O. Gross circa 1942]


On one of these visits, without their chief, Pastor Albrecht, Sam and Elsa had to entertain these one-eyed wary characters. How did Sam survive their investigation? My mum says her father had the gift of the gab. My grandma had the gift of hospitality. In “A Straight-Out man” by F.W. Albrecht, I remember reading the Arrernte said that Sam would be alright, he’s so Aussie they won’t suspect him. Besides, the name Gross is found in England too. Also, Sam’s first language was English and when at school, he had trouble learning German. Although German was spoken at Hermannsburg and in the family, Mum can’t remember what they did when these British Intelligence Officers came, but thinks the children were kept out the way. Maybe someone took the kinder (children) on a picnic…


*[Photo 7: Mum and her sisters on a picnic © S.O. Gross circa 1942]


Sam and his family survived the officer’s interrogation. However, the pedal two-way radio was confiscated, and later Rex Batterbee was appointed to keep an eye on the mission. This Rex did and taught Albert Namatjira to paint.

There’s much more to Sam’s story. I think this post gives a glimpse into his generation and German farming ancestry, migrants making good, living in isolation, making do, thinking on one’s feet and problem-solving.

Did I mention Sam still found time to indulge (as the Mission Board put it—another saga) his passion for photography? He used these photos of Central Australia for deputations to garner support for the mission. Many of his photos are now stored in the Strehlow Centre in Alice Springs.

*[Photo 8: One of my favourites of Sam’s photos, Ghost Gum © S.O. Gross circa 1942]


And finally, Sam outlived his doctor’s expectations. He lived to the age of 57.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2025
Feature Photo: Sam and Elsa Gross © courtesy M.E. Trudinger circa 1960

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My History on Friday–School Daze

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Recent events on the world stage and closer to home have reminded me of this little gem I posted way back in 2016. Still relevant today—maybe even more so, as it was back then so many years ago when I was in high school. And it seems, while many of us have matured and have an open mind when it comes to opinions and how we view others, there are some who believe that if you tell a lie often enough, it must be true. The recipients who have no backbone who believe these lies are just as guilty. Need I go into detail with examples? Not here. But I may explore this issue in some of my future novels.

NOW YOU KNOW…


Year Ten at high school, and you could say I went to school each day with a big virtual sign on my back that read, “Kick Me”.

Don’t get me wrong, I had my close friends; friends who valued me for me and who saw through the prevailing attitudes of the crowd towards me. I assumed my lack of popularity was spawned from a rocky start in Year Seven—new kid when all friendship groups had been established in a ridiculously small school. And then there were those who had made it their mission in life to persecute me. I assumed they spread the rumours about me. Or maybe it was my buck teeth, and awkward way of relating to people…When you are told by your peers over and over again that you are ugly, unloved and no one wants you and you do regularly get picked last for the team, I guess you start to believe what people say.
What kept me together, were my real friends, the ones outside of school, and my friends at school. I also belonged to a fantastic youth group that met every Friday night. A close-knit, loving family helped as well.

Most of all my faith in Jesus got me through those difficult early teenage years.

Anyway, at fifteen, my teeth had been almost straightened by orthodontics, and I’d perfected the enemy-avoiding strategy of spending lunchtimes in the library. I loved learning and my best friend, and I spurred each other on in academic excellence. My goal, a scholarship. I had heard rumours that some kids thought I was not so intelligent, a fool, in other words.

[Photo 1: Free range chickens, Gorge Wildlife Park near Lobethal © L.M. Kling 2024]


At my grandmother’s place, after Sunday lunch, I helped Grandma with the dishes. As I scraped away the chicken bones, I discovered the wishbone.

‘Can I make a wish?’ I asked Grandma.

‘Well, why not?’ she replied. Although a godly woman, some superstitions from our Wendish (eastern European) past had filtered down through the generations. So, wishing on wishbones was no big spiritual deal.

Grandma and I hooked our little fingers around each prong of the wishbone. We pulled. The bone snapped in two and I won the larger portion. I closed my eyes and made my wish, a scholarship. Dad had promised that if I studied hard and won a scholarship, he’d buy me a ten-pin bowling ball. So, in truth, my aspirations for academic achievement were less than pure.

*[Photo 2: Dreams of a bowling ball © L.M. Kling 2016]

What was it about socks? I wondered as I dutifully began to pull up my socks. For our summer uniform which we had to wear in first term, we wore blue cotton frocks down to our knees and long white socks.

Woe betide any poor soul who did not pull their socks up to their knees. The length of our uniform dresses was another issue that kept certain teachers occupied. And don’t get me started on hair. I tell you, if all the students had worn their uniforms correctly, I think the teachers would’ve quit out of boredom.

So, with my socks pulled up, I waited in line to troop into the chapel for morning assembly. A tap on my back. One of my friends smiled at me. I remember her simple bob of straight blonde hair; no fancy flicks or curls like many fashion-conscious girls in the 1970’s. Farrah Fawcet flicks were all the rage and drove the teachers to distraction.

‘Good luck,’ my friend said.

‘Why?’ I asked.

Miss Uniform-Obsessed-Teacher glared at us. She had those bulging blue eyes, mean pointy mouth that forced us to slouch into submission, and for me to check my socks again.

One of my foes snaked past and muttered at me, ‘Dumb idiot.’

I shook my head and concentrated on not getting glared at by the teacher. Really, I thought, he’s at the bottom of the class and he’s calling me dumb? What is it with that guy? In his defense, he did come out with a gem once in English class when the students were rioting and so reducing the first-year-out teacher to tears. He said to me, ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’ So true for my home town.

*[Photo 3: Like sheep they were © C.D. Trudinger circa 1995]


Once inside the hallowed halls of the chapel, we went through the ritual of the school assembly. The principal delivered the talk. There’s a lecture I recall he made, don’t know if it was that particular one—how we were a bunch of jellyfish and we must get some backbone. When he said backbone I thought of the wishbone, and then that guy who said I was dumb and his cohorts. I thought of how people believe unquestioningly what others tell them, even if it’s not true. They go along with the prevailing attitude, even if it’s wrong and harmful to others. In some ways, like at school, I was a victim of these jellyfish, and in other ways, I was a jellyfish too. I had an attitude, an aversion against those who bullied me. Did I have backbone enough to get to know them as people rather than continuing to avoid them as enemies?
The principal began to hand out the awards. Ah, yes, that’s what my friend meant. Today was the day of the awards. I watched as various students marched up the front and collected their scholarships. That won’t be me, I thought.

‘And for Year Ten,’ the principal said, ‘the scholarship for high achievement…’

I looked up. What? Me?

I walked to the front, shook the principal’s hand, collected the award, then head down and with a tug of my pig tail, I walked back to my seat.

Afterwards, my friend patted me on the shoulder. ‘Congratulations! Well done! Just like you to win an award and then pull at your pig tails.’

I nodded. The whole deal of winning a scholarship seemed unreal. ‘I’ll be able to get my own bowling ball, now.’

That guy slid past me. ‘Ooh, what a surprise—we all thought you were dumb.’

‘Well, now you know I’m not,’ I replied.

*[Photo 4 and Feature: Jellyfish © iStockphoto]


Sometimes we carry our hurt from the persecution from others like a big heavy bag on our backs and the truth is it influences the way we see the world. I realised being a victim had become my narrative, and I didn’t want it to be so. As a jellyfish, I had no backbone to stand against this view of myself and how others viewed me. I feared speaking out and going against the crowd in the cause of truth, justice, mercy and compassion. I kept my opinions to myself. Then just recently, when again the baggage of victimhood crept up on me, I read the following passage from the book of Matthew in the Bible. The words encouraged and gave me the backbone to stand out and for the sake of Jesus Christ make a positive difference in the world.

“Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me (Jesus). Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”—Matthew 5:11-12

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2016; 2023; 2025
Feature Picture: Huge School of Water Jelly © iStockphoto

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Friday Crime–The Culvert (27)

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Like a Dog with a Bone

Monday May 3, 2022
2pm
Church Hall at Seaside, Art studio session

Fifi

Feeling jangled from a stressful morning, Fifi unpacked her paints and laid them out on the table. She gave El a crooked smile. ‘So, what’s new with you?’

‘Hmm, nothing much.’ El eased into her plastic moulded seat and rested her box of paints on her knee.

Zoe’s staying with us for a while. She landed a job in Adelaide, you know. Reckons she’s on track for passing the bar and becoming a judge.’

‘Ooh, ladida!’ Fifi sniffed and then snorted. ‘What d’ya reckon ol’ Lillie’ll change her tune if she had an up-and-coming judge as a daughter.’

‘Didn’t know she had a tune.’

‘Oh, yes, she’s been dead against DNA and all that stuff since it’s become a thing.’

‘Pretty sure we know why that is, don’t we.’

‘Yeah,’ Fifi sighed and then started to paint. ‘Not like me; everyone back then when I had my Jacob, said I’d trapped Sven into marrying me. Some even went as far as to say that I wouldn’t ever get married otherwise.’

*[Photo 1: The Scarecrow Wedding © L.M. Kling 2017]

‘That’s not a nice thing to say.’

‘Yeah, I remember this one girl, Dee—Dee? I think. She said with my looks and red hair it’s a wonder anyone would marry me.’

El chuckled.

Fifi stopped painting and glared at El. ‘And, what’s that about? That laugh? Are you implying…?’

‘No!’ El locked eyes with Fifi. ‘Not at all. I think you mean, Dee Berry. I know her, she’s a police officer, actually, a detective now. As far as I know, she’s never been married, nor had any kids. I was laughing because she is the one who desperate and dateless. What’s more, pretty sure she’s got her heart set on my former partner in fighting crime, Dan.’

‘Not Detective Dan Hooper?’

‘Oh, yes, that Dan.’

‘Gawd, it’s a small world.’ Fifi placed her hand over her mouth and whispered, ‘I went to youth group with Dan. He was older, of course. All us girls swooned over him, but he went off and married some posh Swiss bird.’

‘Unfortunately, that didn’t end well.’ El lifted her paint set to the table. ‘Poor Dan just couldn’t compete with the obscene amount of money some of that set have. Last I heard his ex had taken a shine to Ivan T Rumf’s charms.’

‘Who?’

‘Just one of the richest and most powerful men in the world.’ El shrugged. ‘I mean, how can a Detective Inspector who is all about justice and not much money to show for it compete against such corruption? I ask you?’

‘Well rid of that one if she’s only interested in money.’

‘True.’

For a time, El and Fifi concentrated on their works. Fifi used a fine brush to define her bouquet of roses, while El made bold strokes blocking in a famous face for portraiture. Fifi raised her eyebrows at the choice of El’s subject. She didn’t make any comment about El’s muse, just mentally noting that El had nailed the fake tan, though.

*[Photo 2: Portrait of my muse, Leopold Lavert (original by Degas) © L.M. Kling 2024]

After this pause in conversation, Fifi said, ‘Anyway, I heard that you had an interesting conversation with my sister-in-law the other night.’

‘How?’

‘My brother, Jimmy,’ Fifi’s voice dropped, ‘the police have been in touch about the body found near Mt. Lofty. We met with them this morning. Big news. It’s our dad. Gawd! Would you believe it? After all these years.’

El took in a quick breath. ‘Oh, that’s good. Isn’t it?’

Fifi covered her mouth, then wiped a stray tear from her cheek, then nodded. ‘Guess so. Still has to be confirmed with DNA ‘n stuff.’’

‘I’m sorry,’ El placed her arm around Fifi, ‘I guess it’s still a shock. And so final.’

‘Dan,’ her friend cleared her voice and straightened her back, ‘I mean Detective Inspector Hooper gave us the results of the autopsy. Broken neck—that doesn’t just happen. Plus, he had been moved after. He’s been lying in that disused mine, under that bridge all those years.’ She trembled and then sighed, ‘Poor Dad.’

‘Oh, that’s just awful,’ El said. ‘Do they have any leads?’

Fifi shrugged and swayed her head. She knew El was just being kind and empathetic, but she also knew that if she shared any further information, she’d fall into a heap and be a blubbering mess.

*[Photo 3: Bones, but not human ones in this case. Brachina gorge © L.M. Kling 1999]

Once more steeling herself, Fifi said, ‘I hope they catch the low-life who did this. Maybe your virtual daughter, Zoe can give them a well-deserved kick up the pants and life in prison.’

‘I’m sure she’s more than capable if she ends up presiding over the case or somehow involved.’

‘Anyway, enough of that,’ Fifi forced a brave smile, ‘in answer to your question, Jimmy told me all about Lillie’s performance at the club the other night.’

‘Yeah, it was awkward,’ El replied. ‘I was glad to escape, thanks to Zoe coming to the rescue.’

‘Speaking of which—Jimmy mentioned how alike Lillie and Zoe are. More confirmation.’ Fifi had a vague recollection of the night of Milo’s demise at Sellicks Beach and Lillie coming out of Renard’s van in the morning. She had always wondered if there was more to her once best friend’s vanishing act to Tasmania than merely apple picking.

El cleared her throat and mumbled something Fifi didn’t quite catch, but it had something to do with Lillie’s response.

‘You know, do you think it’s wise to have Zoe living with you, so soon?’

‘No, why?’

‘Just…’ Fifi sighed. She couldn’t help herself giving advice, fixing things. ‘Seems to me she might be mooching.’

‘Mooching?’ El frowned at her. ‘Why?’

‘That’s what some people do. Just saying, be careful.’

‘Zoe’s not like that,’ El snapped. ‘I wish you wouldn’t be so judgemental. She’s a lovely lady, very intelligent and level-headed. Actually, I enjoy having her around.’

‘Sorry,’ Fifi said and looked down at her pink roses. ‘I’ve over-stepped the mark again, haven’t I?’

‘No need to be sorry, you have a lot going on.’ El leaned back and examined her work. The tanned face glared back at her from the canvas, his beady eyes narrowed. ‘Tell me about Jimmy, what’s he like as a brother?’

Fifi paused and prepared to give some pat answer that she hoped would satisfy her former detective friend’s curiosity.

Her mobile rang the tune of “Scotland the Brave”. She dove into her bag, fished the device out before it stopped and entered the merry-go-round of phone tag.

*[Photo 4: In the theme Celtic, Bagpipe player © L.M. Kling 1995]

‘Hello?’ Fifi answered.

‘Hi Fifi, Dee Berry here from police investigations. I have some follow up questions, just a couple. Have you some time?’

‘Yes,’ Fifi said while standing up and moving out to the foyer. It was quieter there.

‘Do you remember when Lillie, your friend at the time, left Adelaide for Tasmania?’

‘Ummm,’ Fifi grimaced trying to force the memory cells to perform, ‘we went on a hike where we found…’ no, not sure if I should reveal that, ‘Lillie got lost and we found her near some cute little cottage. That was in January…sometime…it was so long…’

‘When did she go to Tasmania?’

‘Er, after January, I think…February?’

‘You’re not sure.’

‘It’s 40 years ago.’ Fifi gnawed at another nail. That Zoe, she doesn’t look forty. Crumbs! Jacob is 40. Where did that time go? Her mind wandered around the possibility of matching the two up. Then she realised they were most likely first cousins and dismissed the possibility.

‘How long did she stay there?’

‘I don’t know, six months, maybe? A lot was going on in my life. Jeepers! I got married and was having her brother’s baby. Lillie was not happy about that. She wanted nothing to do with me. With her, it was all about her career. I wasn’t good enough for her. Cripes! She didn’t even come back for my wedding. Her brother’s wedding.’

She didn’t mean to spill all her sordid details of her former life to this detective, but it just all slid out, like it wanted to be out. As if the detective, silent on the other end was some sort of therapist.

‘Interesting, don’t you think there was a reason she didn’t come back for such an important occasion,’ Dee said. ‘Is there any reason that you can think of that caused her to miss the wedding?’

‘Not sure, but I always wondered if she had been pregnant…’ Fifi hadn’t intended to share her speculation, but that just sort of slipped out too. ‘On that night when Milo, you know…in the morning I saw her come out of Renard’s van.’

A chuckle on the other end. ‘Well, I’ll be.’

*[Photo 5 and feature: Memories of Tasmania, Huon River © L.M. Kling 2016]

‘I was really worried for her. Lillie was such an innocent back then,’ Fifi huffed. ‘But then after her working holiday in Tasmania, she came back without any baby in tow. So, I thought she must’ve been lucky…but…’
‘Thank you, Ms. Edwards, you’ve been most helpful,’ Dee said, her voice sounding chipper. ‘I’ll let you get back to your…’

‘Painting.’

The phone clicked off. Fifi sat for a moment and reflected. Probably best I didn’t mention El’s news about Zoe. Not my place to tell. Let the cops figure out that one themselves. Why is it relevant? Gives Francis Renard an alibi, I suppose.


© Tessa Trudinger 2025

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Sometimes real life is stranger than fiction.
Sometimes real life is just real life.
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