“Hello, Dad,” I answered my phone, unaware of the bomb about to be dropped.

“I’m selling my house, getting rid of everything and moving to Florida,” my 83-year-old father barked in the cantankerous tone that had become standard for him in recent years.

“Wait, wh-what?” I stuttered. Up until that call, my father was adamant that he’d “NEVER sell the house” that he owned in a North Carolina beach community. For Dad, the three-level house in walking distance to the beach was the last vestige of his successes as a businessman — proof that, despite Dad’s physical weaknesses, he’d been strong, decisive and smart with his money.

However, the house was totally impractical for someone using a walker who’d had heart, back, hip and knee surgeries. Its top floor main living area necessitated the pricey installation of an elevator when Dad’s knees failed. The pool and yard required extensive maintenance, which Dad now paid someone to do. And the once-airy house was now overpacked with 20 years of Dad’s “priceless” stuff.

“The realtor,” he spoke in loud, angry-at-the-world blurts, “wants this house emptied out. I’m having an estate sale. Can you come help me?”

A month later, I was on a flight to North Carolina, huddled in economy seating like a cornered rabbit, still stunned by this turn of unlikely events.

My father was changing his mind every few days. Florida became South Carolina, then Tennessee. The newest plan was to buy a local condo in North Carolina. Selling “everything” became keeping memorabilia, then some furniture, then half of the contents of the house.

My bestie since 9th grade, who knew Dad’s eccentricities well, offered to help. As we left the airport in a bottom-feeder compact rental car, we strategized.

We envisioned systematically organizing items to be sold in the estate sale scheduled for the end of the week. We planned mornings walking on the beach, before spending afternoons calmly labeling and packing. We spoke of fun cocktails we planned to drink and restaurant hush puppies we planned to eat.

Entering the ground floor of Dad’s house, we set off a cacophony of yaps from his three high-strung Yorkies. Before finding Dad in his electric recliner on the top floor, we heard him, barking orders at the dogs and us.

“Now, they’re coming in an hour, so I want you to —”

“Wait, who’s coming?” I interrupted.

“The estate sale crew’s coming over to price everything!” my father snapped as if this new information was common knowledge.

“But we haven’t had a chance to sort out what you’re keeping! We thought they weren’t coming until later this week!”

Before we knew it, my friend and I were knee deep in piles of clothing not worn since the Bush administration, scores of dusty knickknacks, stacks of plastic takeout containers and loaded guns. When the estate sale crew arrived to find us amid the unorganized hoard staring like deer in headlights, an antagonistic rapport was struck. It was us against them.

“That’s worth a helluva lot of money!” my Dad bellowed repeatedly, referencing dust-blanketed decoy ducks, ornate beer steins and spider-webbed power tools. The estate crew grumbled to themselves, visibly annoyed.

The next morning, my father was in a foul mood, the gravity of his rash decision having set in. “They’re taking everything away. All my memories,” he lamented angrily. Although it was smart of him to get out from under the crippling physical and financial responsibility of his house and move into a one-story condo, we felt compassion for my father taking on what many elderly parents aren’t brave enough to do.

We sprang into action, arranging “keep” items in his remaining living space, where he’d see his treasures and photos of family members. That afternoon, we picked up flowers and Chinese takeout. My father chortled and choked on pecan pie while watching “Marley and Me” in his recliner. The future, once again, looked bright.

“That looks real nice,” he said, admiring the keep items we’d carefully arranged on a nearby shelf. “You done good, girls.”

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com