It's a dreadful task to break up one's parents' household but, with my Dad's death two weeks ago, we need to get it on the market before Labor Day in order to sell it before the lengthy driveway and parking area need snow-plowing and shoveling, and are covered with ice.
My parents raised most of us kids in this sunny and cheery 6-BR contemporary which my Dad designed, and my parents remained there until they died.
The realtors want the house emptied out, heavy-duty cleaned, and floors waxed, in the next 3 weeks. We 5 kids will draw a number out of a hat, then pick stuff we want in order (jewelry, silver, furniture, chatchkes, art, the Steinway, etc.), then call in Good Will to take whatever they can use. Then comes the dumpster and the cleaning crew. Thus does a home devolve into a house.
I took some photos to help my memory of home when my Alzheimer's arrives.
This is their kitchen with its fireplace with a wood stove insert at the far end of the kitchen area. The only sign that old people lived there, I think, is having things scotch-taped to the cabinets. Plus their refusal to put a/c in the house. That baby picture I was taking home was of me. I don't really want it, but I don't want to throw it away. Everybody has some stuff like that.
The garbage can was to empty the fridge:
