When I was a child trees were simply there. But along the banks of creeks and the river on the Upper Macleay trees were much more than that. My grandfather and great grandfather on my father’s side were second-wave farmer-cedar cutters and they worked in the bush well into old age supplementing the meagre income earned from the dairy farm. My father also worked hauling logs, driving trucks and sitting astride the cat, cutting and shaping the bush, a third-wave cedar cutter as were his brothers and cousins along the Upper Macleay. And we were mill children for a time, surrounded by trees, logs, whirring chain saws and the swirling ever present gritty dust.