Falling Down, The Blog: Moving Along?

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Raves & Praise

"Beautifully detailed and rich in exceptional characterization ... Curran's novel gently reminds readers that fantasy has a place in everyone's life, and dreams can come true. Uniquely uplifting and never didactic, this is a gem." -BOOKLIST, starred review
"With a masterful wit and clever twists, Sheila Curran has created an intricately woven mystery. Captivating, fast-paced, no-holds-barred storytelling, DIANA LIVELY IS FALLING DOWN defies pigeon-holing. Wrestling the complexities of motherhood, loss and betrayal, politics, the environment, and theme parks, it is at once intimate, domestic, and worldly. A debut to celebrate!" -Julianna Baggott, GIRLTALK, THE MISS AMERICA FAMILY, THE MADAM
"Brilliant, touching, and funny as hell, Diana Lively packs a powerful punch. A poignant and biting satire of contemporary family life, American business, ivory-tower academics, and trans-Atlantic cultural differences, this spirited romp through an Englishwoman's Arizona deserves a unique place of honor on any bookshelf. Diana is one of those stories that can linger forever in one's own memory and imagination, as a reference point for every new book that comes along, or even more, for life itself. Wry, engaging, and wise beyond words, Diana is bound to delight and amaze." -Carlos Eire, 2003 National Book Award winner, WAITING FOR SNOW IN HAVANA
"DIANA LIVELY IS FALLING DOWN is a terrific pick-me-up. You couldn't find two more disparate landscapes than Oxford, England and Arizona, and that's exactly what one British woman discovers when she crosses the pond to find herself a fish-out-of-water -- only to realize that for the first time in her life, this means she can stand on her own two feet. Filled with characters who make you laugh out loud even as they break your heart, this is a funny, warm, inventive, original book." -Jodi Picoult, NYT bestselling author of VANISHING ACTS and MY SISTER'S KEEPER

the author, to the left, waving a stick at transition. She is pictured above with only half her siblings. The oldest was taking the photo, the younger four were yet to be born. The family was still living in the place of her birth.

The topic for this blogging cycle is transition. This is a subject better left to those of stouter hearts and braver minds. I hate change. I hate moving. If, as the saying goes, you’re supposed to “be the change you want to see,” I’d most certainly be Lot’s wife, frozen in time, looking back nostalgically at my burning home.

Tomorrow I fly to New Hampshire to dismantle my parents’ household. My mom is still alive and well, but wise enough to realize that she “can’t go home again.” She moved to Atlanta shortly after Daddy’s death and has never returned to the place they made their home.

My siblings and I are meeting to organize the diaspora of their belongings. As a family, we moved often (which may explain my reason for loathing transitions). Still, the surroundings were always familiar, always comforting. The couches, paintings, French cookware and Mom’s pitcher collection. Persian carpets and antique side tables and my great-grandfather’s handmade desk, my father’s hutch, my mom’s vanity, grandmother’s empire sofa.

Mother will take a few pieces for her small house, but she wants her kids to take the rest or give it away.

It’s distressing for me to think of the objects leaving their familiar counterparts. Like in Toy Story, will they miss each other? Or maybe the centripetal force of love that held the family together presided over the objects. Once they’re sent flying off in different directions, is there any guarantee that whatever made my home so comforting can remain?

I know the Pollyanna response. Yes! Of course! It’s just stuff. It’s the memories you’ll cherish. And so forth and so on, as we skip down Hallmark Lane.

Maybe so, but I fear the undoing of the house. The intractable child in me doesn’t want to admit that those days, the ones in which I could go home to Mom and Dad, are done.

At this point in my blog, I got out of my chair to hunt for photos of that gorgeous house, to demonstrate to you its particular beauty. What I found instead, were only people. Flocks of them. So many you couldn’t see the furnishings, couldn’t see anything but smiling faces and arms wrapped round one another to usher yet another person into the camera’s frame.

The youngest four, in Athens, Ga, four moves after the first photo was taken.

I found something else too. Many of the best, happiest smiles were captured somewhere other than home. The beach, visits to cities, vacations, elsewhere.

At Holden Beach,

our home away from home

Maybe, I thought, it’s not the furniture I’m really upset about after all.

Duh.

I think Dylan Thomas said, “After the first death, there is no other.” When my brother Tommy died, I took this as gospel. What, I thought, would ever hurt this badly again? I felt immunized now. I felt I knew grief.

Knowing something in its ferocious depth however, doesn’t innure you from suffering the bends the next time you fall into the well. Knowing your father was 92 when he died, that you had won the Grand Slam Lotto of family life, it doesn’t mean a whole hell of a lot.

You still miss the “old fart”, as my dad called himself. You still mourn the fact that he won’t be on the other end of the phone when you call with news, he won’t be there to open the front door, or close it when you leave.

That being said, I think the thing I feared, the centripetal force that held our home together, it’s already left the building. Which is why my mom can’t bear to see such a vacant house, chock full of belongings. They, like the rest of us, keen for the gruff voice and welcoming presence that had made the whole place feel so alive.

So. Back to transitions. I realize now, much as I’d like to avoid them, it’s not an option. I can opt for paralysis but the world around me isn’t stopping just because I’d like it to cease its infernal spinning.

So maybe, instead of stalling, I can try to take the higher road. One that better resembles my parents’ unflagging courage. Maybe I can regard this as a chance to honor my parents by loving my siblings and treating them as delicately as the Waterford crystal we’ll be wrapping. Maybe I can take this opportunity as the gift it really is, a chance to pay my respects to a lovely mysterious thing. I can brush my hand along the family couches and burnished tables and to know that in this place, we experienced the extraordinary pull of two people who loved each other in such a way that anyone nearby could not help but be drawn into their comforting nest.

Sheila Curran is the author of two novels, Diana Lively is Falling Down, and Everyone She Loved.

Comments

Sheila, How beautiful! You are very lucky to have such a wonderful, welcoming family. And we are so lucky to be a part of it. Love, Pat

Posted by: pat brewster | August 12, 2012 at 08:37 PM

My Dear - how blessed you are to have such rich family memories. Truly blessed. Hugs and love, M.

Posted by: Marianne Tatum | August 13, 2012 at 11:00 AM

Sheila, you are always able to find the "thing" just below the surface that everyone knows is there, but either doesn't want to see, or simply ignores. We spent years in that house together with our kids, brothers, sisters, your parents and eventually one of our grandchildren. Our 5 kids are feeling similar loss of tradition and home, even though they only spent a week or two a year there. I hope this writing of yours gives them, as it has me, a clearer view of what is already gone, but that we still have in the form of what he built... in life, not a house. LD

Posted by: LD | August 14, 2012 at 07:14 AM

Sheila,It is through tears that I write to tell you how deeply you have touched my soul. Your family home is all those familiar things that we were surrounded by or comfortably nestled into, in addition to the other constant, your Mom and Dad with open arms and a kindness that was beyond measure. You are all loved! Sally

Posted by: Sally Bulger | August 14, 2012 at 08:29 AM

so moving. and beautiful.

trying not to keep shaking the stick here.

xo
jb

Posted by: Julianna Baggott | August 14, 2012 at 03:14 PM

Wonderful post.
I also helped my parents move from the house they've been living in for 30 years. It was especially hard on my mother but we all realize that it was a good move and turned out to be the best move they made (my dad died two years later).

http://www.ManOfLaBook.com

Posted by: Man of la Book | August 15, 2012 at 07:20 AM

You raised me as your own, and from my childhood to now you'll still remain, as you've installed - or maybe it was brainwashing - my "favorite" Aunt. The house will be missed, but I couldn't be more fortunate to still have our ever-growing family and their support every day. Thank you for writing this. Your talent and way with words inspires me daily. Love you.

Posted by: T | August 15, 2012 at 04:11 PM

Dear Sheila, you write it so well, those years you were blessed to find yourself in the Curran house! You and dede and all will be in my thoughts and prayers this weekend....such a transition to go through, but no better people to do it with..I have been there with my siblings...such a passage! Thanks for sharing...and God Bless you all!! Sandy. ( Dedes friend from Sarasota)

Posted by: Sandy snyder | August 16, 2012 at 10:16 PM

I painted this old cupboard white using Porters milk paint but decided it was rather boring all white so I painted the door recesses a rather nice chocolate (yes its Cadburys brown!)

Posted by: woolrich outlet | December 04, 2012 at 06:15 AM