spiritual battle

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?

Click here on the links:

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

Want more fiction?

Science Fiction?

Read the mischief and mayhem Boris the oversized 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

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

Family History Friday–My “Convict” History

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My “Convict” History

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

No, actually, my great-great-grandfather 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.)

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

However, Friedrich did not give up. He moved to Berlin and, keeping a low profile, completed his studies at the 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

***

Virtual Travel Opportunity

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

Click on the link 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.

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…

Final Two Days for MAG Exhibition

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Here I was, merrily thinking the exhibition at Brighton Central finished on Saturday. Then my art and writing friend informed me it’s Sunday. So, there you go, a bonus day. If you have time and are in Adelaide, head down to Brighton Foodland, corner of Edward Street and Brighton Road, to view this brilliant display of artwork. Again, Marion Art Group (MAG) has done well, paintings selling like hotcakes at times.

So come, treat yourself, and have a look.

Meanwhile, click on the link below and read my story behind one of my paintings, Ghost gum, Western MacDonnell’s.

Feature Painting: Ghost Gum, Western MacDonnell’s © L.M. Kling

Story Behind the Painting–Secret Men’s Business

Travel with the T-Team Next Gen–Crazy Can in Coober Pedy

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T-Team Next Generation

Alice to Adelaide

Part 2

[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.

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

This time, a crazy robot toilet incarcerates me.]

The Trucks of Terror

Morning and the dawning realisation why this campsite may not have been popular. Anthony stomped around the tent, grumbling.

‘I got no sleep last night,’ he snapped. ‘Kept getting woken up by those trucks rumbling all night. And their lights. Just as I drifted off to sleep. Those lights shining into our tent.’

‘Will you be alright to drive?’ I asked.

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he sniffed. Anthony was a man, after all, and infallible.

We moved like snails, packing up. I loaded the Ford’s rear with stuff. Next minute, Anthony was there unloading and repacking. Must do it right, even on the last leg of our journey.

[Photo 1: While I waited, morning views from Marla campsite © L.M. Kling 2013]

While he played his version of luggage-tetris, I wandered off to the BBQ hut to check for any forgotten items that might lurk there. And behold, sitting rather smugly in a rather obvious position on the bench next to the BBQ facilities was Anthony’s water bottle. You just have to wonder whether the water bottle had legs and hid when we were searching for it the previous night. Then, when it realised that it might be left behind, it positioned itself in the fail-safe position to be found. The water bottle is not the first item to “hide” from me and then “reappear” in a place where I have looked a dozen times before …

There was much rejoicing over the lost water bottle that was found.

Owing to Anthony’s meticulous care in packing, we were the last to leave the campsite.

As we travelled the long monotonous stretch, I slept a bit, wrote in my diary a bit, and then stared out the window at the red earth, gibber plains, and twisted corkwood trees.

*[Photo 2: Inspiration for a painting— Trees twisted on the gibber plains © L.M. Kling 2013]

Anthony took my hand. ‘I’m sorry I was grumpy.’

‘That’s okay, blame it on the trucks that kept us awake all night.’

‘I swear that there was a truck that shone its lights straight into our tent.’

‘Yeah, it seemed that way,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps we can stay at Woomera in a cabin tonight and get a decent night’s sleep.’

‘Yeah, why not!’

Around two o’clock, the landscape evolved from flat and stone scattered to low-lying hills pockmarked with what appeared to be giant rabbit holes. Signs warned visitors to beware of mineshafts.

*[Photo 3: Mineshaft mountains © M.E. Trudinger (nee Gross) 1956]

‘Lunch at Coober Pedy?’ Anthony said.

‘Yes, but … first a toilet stop.’

‘And where do you suggest?’ Anthony glanced at me and then gazed at the mineshaft-littered hill face.

‘A service-station? Or a pub?’

‘And where’s the service station?’

A tour of Coober Pedy yielded no service stations that we could find. And he who wanted to save money and eat a picnic lunch was not willing to enter a pub for the loo in case it entrapped us into eating in there.

‘What about the playground and BBQ area where we had tea with the T-Team on the way up to Central Australia?’ Anthony suggested.

Bad suggestion …

But, at the time, I agreed. Lunch and loo visit in one hit.

2. Chaos in the Can at Coober Pedy

We settled down at a picnic table near the automated toilets. Anthony prepared the sandwiches while I dashed into the “robot” dunny to do my deed.

While I sat on the tin throne, country and western-come-Hawaiian music clanged away. Did I detect a banjo while the toilet roll unfurled itself for me? No button to flush. Oh, well. Once I washed my hands, the toilet duly flushed. Then, I placed my hands under the air-dryer. As usual, I am invisible to this universe and the cohort of air-dryers that belong to it. The air-dryer refused to acknowledge me and blow air on my wet hands. Oh, well, I’ll dry my hands with my own towel from the car that exists quite happily in my universe.

I step to the sliding door and press the large blue button. The music volume increased. But the doors did not oblige. I pressed the blue button again. Nothing. Just the demented music. Becoming more demented.

I read the instructions. And pressed the blue button again.

Nothing.

I hit the button.

Kicked the door.

I sat down by the stubborn, un-sliding door.

And waited.

Instructions said I must vacate this automated, locked-down establishment in ten minutes. As if to press its point, the “robot’ toilet ramped up the annoyance level of the music.

What’s worse, I had entered this pongy prison without my mobile phone. Or jumper. It was cold in there.

Anthony called from the outside. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I’m trapped,’ I replied. ‘The toilet won’t open.’

‘Have you tried to push the button?’

‘Yes, a million times.’

‘Well, you must’ve done something wrong.’

I noted that the blue button had written on it “touch free” and then I figured, That’s why the toilet’s incarcerated me. Touching it must’ve broken its rules. ‘Has it been ten minutes yet?’

‘Not yet.’

Then, the blue button, which I’m meant to push for my release from this demented can, the button that has “touch free” displayed on it, lit up and vibrated. But the door refused to budge.

I pushed the door. No joy. It stayed locked, and the not-so-ambient music went on and on like some crazy organ-grinder.

I was starting to imagine a security guy in some dug-out office in the middle of Coober Pedy laughing at this old jailbird (me) … when …

A voice from above warned, ‘You have exceeded your stay; you must exit immediately.’

‘Not that I haven’t wanted to,’ I snapped back. Pushed the vibrating bright button, yet again. Pulled the door. Still as stubborn as.

‘You have exceeded your stay. You must exit immediately.’ Followed by the crazy music.

I rolled my eyes. ‘I wish.’

Watched the door. Hoping. Praying it would open.

‘You have exceeded your stay. You must exit immediately.’

I waited and watched. ‘You might need to call the police or emergency services to release me,’ I told Anthony.

As if it heard my warning to call the authorities, the door slid open. I leapt out. ‘Yay! I’m free! I’m free!’ I jumped and danced in front of a rather unimpressed husband. ‘I’m never going to be in one of those things again! I thought it was never going to open!’

‘Come on, let’s have lunch,’ Anthony snipped, ‘We’ve already wasted twenty-five minutes.’

‘Not before I get my jumper, I’m freezing. You don’t know how cold it was in there. I’m never going into a toilet without my mobile phone or a jumper. Ever.’

As we munched on our sandwiches, a brisk wind chilled us to the bone, even with an extra layer of clothing on. A little indigenous boy scampered into the evil “robot’ toilet. Less than a minute later, he exited. Anthony then went into the same crazy “can” and was out in two minutes.

‘How did you do that?’ I asked.

Anthony replied smugly, ‘I pressed the blue button.’

‘So did I, a dozen times.’

‘You must’ve done something wrong.’

‘Just my luck, I had to be incarcerated by the toilet.’

So, out on parole from the Cooper Pedy “jerry can”, we escaped this town and headed for Woomera.

[to be continued …]

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2021; updated 2026

*Feature painting: Desert Storm Brewing, Lake Hart © L.M. Kling 2025

***

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

Travelling Friday–Road Trip to Sydney (6)

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Road Trip to Sydney in the Charger (6)

[Based on real events, but some names have been changed. And some details of events may differ. After all, it was over 40-years ago.

Finally…the intrepid road trip travellers reach Sydney.]

The Conference and Rick Never had a Girlfriend

As far as conferences went, not a bad one. Lots of singing, worshipping God, that is, lectures, Bible Study, eating, and meeting new friends and old friends too. Our accommodation was down Anzac Parade, about five kilometres, halfway to the beach. I shared a small apartment with Rick and Dad. Dad drove me back and forth from the conference centre at Randwick. Not sure what Cordelia did, but I think she connected with other members of her family who attended the conference and stayed with them. Rick, I think, ferried Mitch and Jack to and from the conference centre.

This arrangement becomes relevant later in the week of the conference.

One session that stands out was the one on relationships.

Rick and I sat side by side in the front row.

This will be interesting, I thought. Maybe I’ll get some tips on how to get a boyfriend and be popular like Cordelia.

‘So,’ the speaker said, ‘How many of you have had a boyfriend or girlfriend?’

Everyone, including me, raised their hands. Everyone, that is, except my brother Rick.

‘What? You’ve never had a girlfriend, Laddie?’

‘Nope?’

The speaker pointed at me. ‘What about that lovely girl next to you?’

‘She’s my sister.’

Laughter.

[Photo 1: A lone tall ship in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Abandoned at the hostel and trek up Anzac Parade

Towards the end of the conference, one more event stood out.

Dad told me to wait for him at the hostel apartment where we were staying. After lunch, we had an afternoon of free time before the final worship session.

I returned to the apartment for lunch with my brother and friends, eager to catch up on some rest and lose myself in a book. Maybe some journal writing, which had been neglected in all the activity and excitement of the conference.

However, upon my return to the dreary grey corridors of the hostel, my door was locked. Oh, well, Dad said he won’t be long.

I had nothing with me. All my supplies of entertainment and comfort were locked away in the apartment.

So, I sat.

For hours.

After two hours, I began to sniff.

Then snivel.

Then finally, cry.

A lady poked her head out of a nearby door. ‘Are you all right?’

I wiped my eyes. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

She retreated into her apartment.

I looked at my watch. Five o’clock! I’d been waiting for almost three hours for Dad.

Convinced that he’s forgotten me and I’d be waiting for another five hours with that lady sticking her nose in my business every so often, I stood up. Stiffening my lip in grim determination, I marched out of the hostel and strode up Anzac Parade.

I prayed that God would protect me.

[Photo 2: Yachts in Sydney Harbour © L.M. Kling 2002]

Along the cracked pavement. Past long neglected houses. And cared-for ones. Over busy roads at the lights. Narrowly escaping any impact with red-light-running cars. In the humidity. Under light rain. Taking a wide berth around the many hotels. And leering drunks who spilled out onto the footpath. In the ever-fading light that faded into dusk.

Five kilometres and forty minutes later, I entered the conference centre. The session where all had gathered was concluding with prayers. All in a circle holding hands. I slipped in the circle.

The boy next to me squeezed my hand.

Oh, he’s just being kind to poor little old me, I thought. After all, if even my father forgets me …

After over tea and biscuits, my miffed Dad asked, ‘Where were you?’

‘What do you mean? I waited three hours,’ I retorted.

‘Couldn’t you be patient?’

‘Not when I couldn’t get into the room,’ I said. There was a limit to my patience.

‘I went to pick you up, and you weren’t there,’ Dad said. ‘I told you to wait.’

‘And what time was that?’

‘Oh, er, um, about …’ Dad’s voice faded, ‘about five.’

‘Well, I was there at five, and I didn’t see you.’ I sniffed. ‘So, I walked.’

‘But don’t you know how dangerous it was to walk here?’ Dad is showing so much concern after forgetting me for the whole afternoon.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I replied. ‘I prayed, and God protected me.’

‘He did. Praise the Lord,’ Dad said, and then wagged a finger at me. ‘But don’t you ever do that again.’

‘Yes, Dad.’ As long as you don’t forget me again.

Passing through the Blue Mountains

[Photo 3: A view of the Blue Mountains from the actual trip © L.M. Kling 1979]

Our return to the less crowded and more sedate city of Adelaide was serene and uneventful, as was the fair city itself. Especially at the time in 1979.

A few highlights. Mostly, in fact, all are associated with the Blue Mountains. We had missed the beauty and wonder of the mountains on our journey to Sydney, so Rick endeavoured to show us these mountains in daytime on our trek home.

At the lookout to the Three Sisters, we lunched and admired the majesty of God’s creation. Even Rick, using his Polaroid camera, took photos of us admiring the scene. He was taken with the layers of misty blues and subtle greens cascading down into the depths, while the cliff tomes forming the Three Sisters presided over the valley.

I burst out in song, and Cordelia joined in.

After a chorus, Cordelia said, ‘You should try out for the worship band.’

‘Me?’

‘You have such a sweet voice, although it does need to be stronger.’

On the drive home, I considered the prospect of trying out for the band. Perhaps singing in front of the church would make me more popular with the boys. Like Cordelia. But in the end, I decided against it. Too hard. Too much of a challenge for plain old me. After all, the worship band was a highly coveted affair, where lead singers jealously guarded their position. I’d never have a chance. Sweet voice, but not a strong voice, would never cut it.

Back at school, I continued my enjoyment of music, singing in the choir. But I’d always secretly envy the soloists with their stand-out song voices. The stars, with their melodic, strong notes, capture the audience’s focus on them alone.

Instead, in the new year of 1979, my passion turned to art … and writing. These were the gifts God had given me.

© Lee-Anne Marie Kling 2023

Feature Photo: Sydney Harbour from Ferry © L.M. Kling 2002

***

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

Click below on my travel memoirs:

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…