When you clean out the hive, does it make you want to cry?

My family moved into our house in Gentilly in early 1989. When we bought the house, its floor plan was similar to several houses in that block where the actual living space was on the second floor above a ground level garage and "basement." Over the next year, my dad and a friend of his and I doubled the living area by adding in the basement a bedroom, bath, and a second living room complete with a small wet bar and a fireplace. This house will always be home to me. I lived there throughout my high school and college years. (I went to LSU in Baton Rouge where I stayed in a dorm. This does not qualify as moving out.) While we were there, most of the neighborhood kids learned to play basketball in our driveway. My brother learned to play guitar there and once I moved out he turned my bedroom into a makeshift recording studio. We buried two dogs in the backyard.
This weekend, my dad and I moved all of our family's collected crap out of that house and crammed it into a one bedroom apartment in Mid-City which is already suffering from the strain of the load. Clearing out your childhood home is an unreal experience. Out of the attic came box after box of yellowed photos, report cards, first halloween costumes, Mardi Gras beads, and lots and lots of rat shit.
Among the recovered treasure:

1 Empty bottle whose label indicates that it once contained K&B brand Vodka.

1 Sports Illustrated Superstar Baseball Game with a notebook full of meticulously compiled statistics from hours of play.
1 Entire set of Times-Picayune Monday sports pages during the 1991 Saints division championship season.
1 Edwards for Governor '83 poster.
1 New Orleans Jazz pennant.
1 Poster of former Saints running back (now broadcaster) Hokie Gajan.

Countless ghosts and memories and whatnot. I'm tearing up right now. Talk amongst yourselves.