National, state, and local parks preserve the nation's historic and cultural resources, natural landscape, native habitats, and remaining wildlife. I first experienced the Park system in my teens. I was always photographing where I was, drawing sketches and collecting bits of debris from trail sides, tidal pools, and roadways.  I've maintained those visual memories cataloged in large, purple boxes, each marked with a bit of blue painter's tape. Abandoned bird, wasp, and hornet nests plucked from the ground and brush, preserving each from decay. Jagged bits of pale white, orange, and purple shells pocketed on beach walks; brown, torn, and perforated leaves of every variety, size, and shape; small bits of dead tree bark, birch white, and walnut brown; mammoth, gourd sized pinecones from the west coast and delicate, cylindrical cones from Maine; brick red and grey-speckled stones of all shapes; umber hued bits of oddly shaped oxidized metal; geometrically shaped ocean glass in shades buff-green, dusty blue and translucent white; disregarded, often fingerless work gloves; the crumpled skeletons of armless, lens-less eyewear; countless sketches on stained cardboard, scrap paper, and plywood and photographs; hundreds and hundreds of photos.  Each artifact is a memory. Each memory an image; each image holds the potential for new work. 

Our health and, at times, our sanity depends on being able to get outdoors. The use of parklands trails and open spaces has doubled since the Covid pandemic began, as has the thoughtlessly inappropriate disposal of trash, animal waste, and general disregard for the landscape of our parklands. Our parklands change as we use them. We have to find a way to coexist.