In everyone's home, whether it's a million dollar mansion or a studio apartment, there is a focal point.

For some, it's their music. For others, an heirloom piece of furniture that, though scarred and worn, reminds them of those who have come before.

When I move, boxes and boxes of "memories" go with me. They will probably stay boxed well past the "if it's unopened for one year, it's gone," theory. I know not what will eventually become of them.

I've considered scrapbooking, but it seems way too precise and way, way too time consuming.

Peggy Jane the Mom worked at the dining room table one entire summer when Fritz the Dad was at training camp, and the end result was finally getting in albums more than 30 years' worth of family snapshots.

Now the albums are in boxes, but at least she has them.

So the memory boxes have escaped the dump trips - and always will.

The things that I was the most anxious about, that made me feel my unpacking wasn't yet complete, were my enormous amounts of books - mostly cookbooks, but other books as well.

Being the petulant, irrational girl that I am, I sent all but two of my mismatched, cheap, random bookcases away when the move occurred - either at the garage sale or gave them away.

But I now have matching bookcases in the dining room, and they are fabulous. Without a degree in library science, I've organized them according to Sal, sort of like Dewey invented the decimal system. And I finally feel like it's home.

All football books hold a place of honor, ranging from the technical ones Fritz wrote to histories of the NFL and Wyoming football. Other random printed stuff that has Fritz in it is there as well, with a giant ceramic Packer mug thrown in for a little color.

The cookbooks are shelved in ways that make sense to me - some alphabetical and some by usage.

There is one entire Wyoming cookbook shelf and one entire regional shelf, made up of cookbooks from places as diverse as New Orleans and Nebraska.

I spent time at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial this week, which is at Fort Caspar through late this afternoon.

I talked to a Vietnam vet and when I had finished, I shook his hand and said, "thanks for serving."

"Aw," he said, "I was just a buck sergeant."

Mouse and her roomie drove 31 miles for homemade soup last weekend. When they left, I forced gas money on them so they'll come back.

They are anxiously awaiting the cookbook of Mouse favorites I've been promising to build. She added recipes to the list while she was enjoying her soup and bread.

Perhaps it was the wall with more than 58,000 sons and daughters, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, that came to our town.

Perhaps it was the seventh anniversary of 9/11.

Perhaps it was the impending arrival of Ike to the Gulf Coast.

Perhaps it was Mouse driving 31 miles for homemade soup.

The handwritten cookbook is such a small thing to do. But someday, it may be on a shelf somewhere among her "memories."

I'd best get it done.

Reach community news editor Sally Ann Shurmur at (307) 266-0520 or sallyann.shurmur@trib.com.