When I look at the walls of my office, I can see so much of my life.

There are dozens of pictures of the people I love, shadow boxes with press passes from places I've been and all sorts of other mementos.

[caption id="attachment_1168" align="alignright" width="199" caption="10, maybe 11, Hall of Famers"]<a href="http://mikerappaport.net/onevoice/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/20110110_14.jpg"><img class="size-medium wp-image-1168" title="20110110_14" src="http://mikerappaport.net/onevoice/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/20110110_14-199x300.jpg" alt="" width="199" height="300" /></a>[/caption]

I've written before about my prize collection of baseballs, and also about my 14 framed movie posters from films I love. The rest of our home looks elegant, and my office is anything but, with all sorts of different things covering nearly every inch of wall space.

It all makes me happy, but at times I find myself wondering why memories of things past seem to matter so much to me. I also wish I had started saving mementos from earlier times in my life. The oldest things I have go back for the most part to about 1980 and the beginning of my career in journalism.

There were so many things I did and so many places I've been that I have nothing in the way of artifacts. I lived in Europe for two years in the mid '70s. I attended the New York World's Far in 1964 and '65, and Expo '67 in Montreal a couple of years later.

It's all right, though. Any additional things I had would mean getting rid of some of the things on my walls.

One room worth of memories is more than enough for one man.