As a child I was raised in the small country town of Lake King.
I had many hours playing in the bush either by myself or with my big brother Steve and my sister Val. We would walk through the bush on the rubbish tip dirt track that wound its way past a large gnarled and deformed gum tree,we named the "tit "tree because of its huge breast like growth protruding from its front. I love to rummage through old tips that have layers of the past poking through the newer loads.
Rusting camp pie tins, spring keyed wind back sardine tins, miners lanterns, shrivelled leather boots, dried animal skeletons, broken pieces of blue dynasty ceramic cups and plates, rusting inner spring bed bases, the chassy of a racing green model T Ford truck, with the shiny front fender buckled and twisted, the domed, heavy bonnet, open like a whales mouth waiting to be fed.