Claire Fullerton's Blog: A Writing Life - Posts Tagged "memphis"

I used to go home every Christmas to the house I grew up in, and Finley used to be there—eventually, anyway. He’d come swaggering in, all blue-eyed, and gray, three-quarter coat swinging. In from Virginia. The educated man; all beaming, charismatic six- foot- two of him, setting the stage in that rambling Southern house by virtue of his presence. It was that way every year because Finley was the kind of guy who could enter a room and take over completely. My brother was that magnetic.
Every December, my mother went all out. She’d have the yardman wrestle yards of pine garland into the entrance hall and drape it languidly along the curving banister in elegant loops tied with taffeta bows of red floral ribbon bordered in gold wire. She draped garland over the downstairs mantle pieces, sylvan and pungent as a forest bed, scenting the rooms in an aroma so redolent it tickled the back of my throat. Year after year, she had the fifteen piece crèche hauled down from the attic and would arrange it on the fold-out desk in the parlor. I never knew how she procured it, but ritualistically a ten foot tree from the outskirts of Memphis would appear in the parlor, skirted in velvet and appointed with lights before she invited anyone to assist. She made a sacrament of Christmas every year, and would slide the big cardboard box marked Christmas from the closet under the entrance hall stairs. She’d reach into the box reverently to produce the ornaments Finley and I made in kindergarten and would coo a wistful, diaphanous succession of “I remember when’s” and “y’all were so cutes.” I’d stand in the entrance hall and watch her delicate gestures, realizing there was a side of my mother given to maternal nostalgia.
I was sitting on the sofa in the card room when Finley came swinging in wearing his gray coat from Brooks Brothers, all long haired and collegiate-cool. He covered the card room in six strides and gave me a hug that lifted me off the floor, before he sat beside me and squeezed that funny area above my knee.
“Quit it,” I squealed, but I didn’t mean it. He could have slapped me upside the head in that moment, and I wouldn’t have cared.
Even the Colonel seemed elated to have Finley home. He gave him a good-ol’-boy back pat and let ring a jolly, “What can I get you to drink?” Surprisingly, in four short months, my brother had risen in our hostile step-father’s estimation. He’d left just as familiarity was starting to breed contempt, but here he was now, an honored guest.
Finley winked at me then walked to the marble-topped table, where an array of crystal decanters held pride of place on a silver serving tray the size of the great outdoors. Something about the way Finley stood made me look at him in a new light. He was tall and fluidly built; the dusky red/blond of his hair waved gently, in a manner mine never could manage. There was something hypnotic about the blue beam of his eyes as they focused from the long angled planes of his face. He stood soldier straight and balanced, exuding an enviable self-assurance in his burgeoning manhood. There was something captivating about Finley, something compelling and electrifying, although few people would call him handsome. But Finley was unique; the kind of guy people turned their heads to watch because something about him was so attractive.
Finley stood shoulder to shoulder with the Colonel, a collegiate Southern gentleman now, making his way in the world. Mom beamed as she watched him, the look on her face reminiscent of the words I’d heard her say a million times before. She’d wave her graceful hand and lilt in her plantation accent, “Well, I just don’t know where Finley came from,” as if she’d woken up one day to the great surprise of Finley at the breakfast table, in the cavernous house she’d grown up in and subsequently inherited in Memphis’ Kensington Park.
“Millie,” Finley turned to me, “what can I get you to drink?”
It was the first time my brother deferred to me as a lady, in that way Southern men do before they help themselves to a drink. In that moment, I was grown up. In that moment, Finley beamed his blue eyes upon me and they set my life in orbit and gave me a place in the world.

Reviews are coming in for Mourning Dove, a coming-of-age Southern family saga set in 1970's and 1980's Memphis, which has a release date of June 29, and is now on Amazon for pre-order. Mourning Dove will be available in print, audiobook and e-book. What makes Mourning Dove different is that it is set in the Deep South-- not the shanty side of the South, where people drive pick-up trucks on dirt roads, but the opulent side of the South, the side that's manicured and glitters in illusory gold, where all is not as it seems! Millie Crossan tells the story of growing up with her charismatic brother, Finley. They are outsiders to the South, and therefore their viewpoint is reliable as the siblings find their way to belonging in a nuanced society steeped in tradition and social mores rife with eccentricities. But what hidden variables arise to see the siblings come to such desperate ends?


Here's what author Johnnie Bernhard had to say:

With a strong sense of place and an authentic voice, Claire Fullerton captures the longing and angst of an aristocratic Southern family. The narrator Millie and her brother, Finley will stay with readers long after this novel is read. Mourning Dove is smart, well-written Southern Fiction.

Pat Conroy's assistant editor, Margaret Shinn Evans wrote: "Set against the backdrop of a complicated 1970s South – one both forward-looking and still in love with the past – and seen through the eyes of a Minnesota girl struggling to flourish in Memphis society, ‘Mourning Dove’ is the story of two unforgettable siblings with a bond so strong even death can’t break it. Claire Fullerton has given us a wise, relatable narrator in Millie. Like a trusted friend, she guides us through the confounding tale of her dazzling brother Finley, their beguiling mother Posey, and a town where shiny surfaces often belie reality. Like those surfaces, Fullerton’s prose sparkles even as she leads us into dark places, posing profound questions without any easy answers."

Author Laura Lane McNeal, who wrote the bestseller, Dollbaby says: In Mourning Dove, Claire Fullerton deftly weaves the story of a Memphis family into a fine fabric laden with delicious intricacy and heart. A true Southern storyteller.

Read more on Mourning Dove's Good Reads page.

That Memphis Movie drops the reader smack in the middle of this one-of-a-kind story by opening with an interview of indie film maker, Eric Warberg, was a stroke of genius. It set the stage, mood, and tone for this down-on-his-heels filmmaker’s background and tells the reader that the stakes are high in this modern-day story. The book comes out swinging, with dialogue so engagingly sardonic it transcends any necessity for knowledge of a film’s production. And yet, in Memphis Movie the reader receives the minutia of what goes into making a movie, and as this fabulous story unfurls, the savvy reader can’t help but think the chaos is a lot like any other line of work taking over someone’s life. Eric Warberg’s identity is at issue. He’s a washed-up fish-out-of-water dragging his tail in the pond he comes from, trying to pull himself up by his bootstraps but not convinced he can. His is the voice of reason, while one of the more cacophonous cast of characters ever assembled spins out around him, each delightfully drawn player with their own agenda. If there’s any prayer of cohesiveness in this dysfunctional crew, it’s all in Eric’s shaky hands. Sisyphus had an easier time of it, and this is what makes this character intensive story so funny. The book speaks in jargon so spot-on it lends ambience, and the characters sputter and sway in a setting only the infinitely hip know of in Memphis. They are all likable underdogs looking for a center. They are scratching around in the underbelly of an historic southern town, trying to make this thing work. Memphis Movie is a blend of satire, humor, and irony driven by sheer intelligence. Only a gifted writer can peg the nuances of human nature to the point where the reader says of each character, “I know that guy!” All praise author Corey Mesler. I’m so atwitter over Memphis Movie, I’m telling all my friends that this book about the making of an indie film is so good, it should be made into its own movie!

From The Power of Words Blog. Thank you, Carole Jarvis!

“Haven’t you noticed the name of the game
around here is what everybody thinks?
You’re only as good as how others consider you.”
- Finley

I love a “different” type of book when it is done well, and Claire Fullerton has achieved exactly that in Mourning Dove. Fullerton’s fresh voice, sense of place, and exquisite writing make this story shine. Creative storytelling reads somewhat like a memoir as life events cause the now-grown Millie to reflect back over her childhood and growing up years, especially as they relate to her brother, Finley. This evocative and poignant story that explores the relationships within the dysfunctional Crossan family captured me from the very first page and never let go.

One normally thinks of people as main characters, but 1970s Memphis is the overarching character around which all else revolves. Mourning Dove is southern to the core, and Fullerton evokes the setting and mores like no one else I’ve ever read. Having lived in the south all my life, there is so much I can relate to. For instance, the southern accent that “operates at lightening speed, and doesn't feel the need for enunciation. Instead, it trips along the lines of implication." And this descriptive passage truly captures the essence of Memphis and southern upper echelons…

It was magnolia-lined and manicured, black-tailed and bow-tied. It glittered in illusory gold and tinkled in sing-song voices. It was cloistered, segregated, and well-appointed, the kind of place where everyone monogrammed their initials on everything from hand towels to silver because nothing mattered more than one’s family and to whom they were connected by lineage that traced through the fertile fields of the Mississippi Delta.

Through Millie’s eyes and voice, we see the close bond between Millie and Finley, a gifted musician with a high intellect – and how a self-absorbed mother and absent alcoholic father affected their lives. It was a time where appearance mattered above all else, with true feelings and emotions well hidden. Posey, the mom, is fascinating – not the most likeable of characters, yet with a vulnerability that touched me. I loved Millie’s expressive thoughts: “I never saw her admit to the complete gamut of emotions inherent in all of mankind, and I thought it was because not all of them played well on her stage. I often wondered if she even possessed unattractive emotions, or if they’d shriveled up and died from lack of use.”

I loved the depth, complexity and realism of Mourning Dove. It’s raw at times, and the unfolding theme of a hero worshipped revealing feet of clay is something to which we can all relate. The seeking of God in different ways, never a "one-size-fits-all" experience, plays an essential part.

Intrigued by the title, I looked up “mourning dove” and discovered how the meaning encompasses the essence of this story: “Their distinctive ‘wooo-oo-oo-oo’ sounds may evoke a feeling of grief over the loss of a dearly beloved. But far from representing death, the symbolism of mourning doves gives optimism with its spirituality. Beyond their sorrowful song is a message of life, hope, renewal and peace.”

Mourning Dove is a classic story that will stay with me for a long time. Highly recommended.

A year ago, I was asked by Eva Marie Everson, the acquisitions editor for Firefly Southern Fiction (an imprint of Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas, which published my 3rd novel, Mourning Dove) to contribute a novella to a book she had in mind that would consist of four novellas, each set in the South and penned by a writer who hails from the region. Eva’s idea was to capture the 4 seasons as they played out on a Southern stage through the art of setting and story. At the time she asked me to contribute, Eva and I had just finished three exhillerating rounds of edits for Mourning Dove. I knew there would be a long wait ahead before Mourning Dove’s release, and although I’d never written a novella, I figured I might as well try my hand. It was that, and what self-respecting writer would say no to an editor with whom they’d just had a wonderful experience, who gave the added incentive of A Southern Season’s assigned publication date!
Upon learning the scant guidelines of 20,000 words set in the South during the season of my choosing, I knew right away I’d write a story set in a Memphis fall. Fall has always been my favorite time of year, for all her eerily suggestive, mood-enhancing promises. As for my hometown of Memphis: I’ll never tire of wrangling her peculiar nuances and charms, which, I’m convinced, are spawned from her proud cultural heritage.
In the days preceding the drafting of my story, I tried on many Memphis hats. There’s much to choose from in that historic, musical mecca on the Mighty Mississippi; it’s seen more than its share of changing times yet still boasts of its past. And the way I see it, a good story always comes down to the characters. How they greet the common place in the every day is where I find the heart of the story. In the Memphis in which I grew up, the particular milieu I come from was rife with story-tellers. As I pondered the subject of my novella, luck had it that one of them called me on the phone.
In the interest of discretion and not wanting to blow my source for all of its future gems, I’ll keep it cryptic by sharing I have the great largess of maintaining a friendship with a certain octogenarian who hails from the genteel side of the Delta and keep it there. Let’s just say it’s not what you say in life, it’s how you say it, and if you asked this particular Southerner for directions to downtown Memphis, they’d take that straight shoot down Poplar and purr it to spun-gold. And I couldn’t tell you now how it was we got on the subject of funerals, but when we did this refined, effusive character unwittingly coined a classic line. ” I know one thing about a Southern funeral,” this nameless person sighed, “you can bet your last dollar that something will go wrong.”
I knew right then that I had my story. I framed my novella within the rites of a three-day, Memphis funeral and titled it Through an Autumn Window. In it, I explored the unspoken complications and attendant guilt and nostalgia of a mother-daughter relationship, and paired it with the festering of unhealed sibling rivalry. I Set this mixed bag of a premise in a Southern culture where everyone tip-toed around iron-clad social mores then I let the games begin!
I am one of four authors who contributed to the book, A Southern Season, and I’m thrilled to announce the book was released on November 1st by Firefly Southern Fiction. There are four different voices depicting the South in this collection of novellas. I believe you’ll find each inspirational !

As it appears of Sally Cronin's Smorgasbord on WordPress:

The house in which I grew up anchors me in the larger world as a frame of reference, although while I was growing up, this was an unrecognized fact. Youth takes given things for granted. I had no way of perceiving the snail-pace of change, that one day I’d walk out the door of the place I’d always called home and close it behind me forever.

The house had familial history. Built in 1901, it had eclectic features— intricate wrought-iron over a series of cathedral doors, a black-and-white tile entrance hall, a lattice-roof gazebo accessed by throwing open the doors of the card room. People in Memphis are mindful of the extreme summers, and fashion their homes accordingly. In the winter, area rugs ran throughout the house, and in the summer they were put away in storage.

Family lore is my mother’s parents went for a Sunday drive and left my then seven-year-old mother with her nanny. Pulling in the driveway of 79 Morningside Park, my general physician grandfather turned towards the passenger seat and said, “I hope you like this house because it’s yours.”

My mother, an only child, grew up in that Midtown, Memphis, four-bedroom house. She kept a Shetland pony in the backyard and rode it along the wooded trails of East Parkway. It was the home she returned to whilst away at boarding school in Simsbury, Connecticut. When she became engaged to my father, it was the setting of their lavishly orchestrated engagement party.

As a child, I visited the house every summer, when my mother took us home to see her mother. We lived up North in those days, my father being from the lake area outside of Minneapolis, Minnesota. The yearly trip my brothers and I took to Memphis opened our eyes to a disparate culture. To my young eyes, there was an austere tenor to my grandparent’s Southern home, an all-encompassing, echoing formality anchored by serious gravity. Because my grandmother, whom I am named for, loved collecting antiques, my brothers and I minded our footfalls when we visited, well aware that most things in the house were breakable.

I was ten years old when my family moved permanently into that house in Memphis, Tennessee. When my grandparents went to heaven, my mother inherited the house and everything in it. It was as if someone flipped a switch during that first year of occupancy, threw the doors open wide and ushered in new energy. My brother, Haines, played guitar and added weekly to his record collection. My brother, Joe, practiced every game ever played with a ball. And even though we had two Scottish terriers, six months into our residency, I waged a full-frontal campaign and ultimately acquired a cat.

My mother, taking the house’s new dynamic in stride, rolled with the changes, but then again, she was conveniently blessed with a delightful sense of humor. I look back now and realize the finesse she brought to the act of balancing the small details of domestication. Through the years, 79 Morningside Park retained a certain antiquated elegance, but throughout my youth, the energy within remained abundantly and vibrantly alive.



One counts on a place they’ve lived in for years. Adolescents put down roots and mark their turf in the interest of security, and much of my coming-of-age security came as a byproduct of knowing my homes’ history, in tandem with whom I could rely on that lived down the hall. Family is the nucleus of a home’s identity. With enough years strung together, they become one and the same to the point where location is an overarching sense of belonging made of complimentary elements. Where one begins, and the other ends is all but immaterial, when it comes to the concept of home.

Which is why I felt like the rug had been pulled out from beneath me when my mother called me with the news she’d be selling the house in which I grew up. I was thirty-six years old, living in California with no plan of ever returning to Memphis but that wasn’t the point. Only one of my siblings lived in Memphis at the time, and I clutched the phone, fighting back immediate tears as my mother explained the house was too big for her to live in alone as she rattled towards her dotage. She had a good point when she declared she wouldn’t be one of those poor unfortunates having to make a bedroom downstairs in their infirmity, having lost the mobility to navigate the stairs. She’d found a charming, one level, zero lot-line house in East Memphis and was excited about her new lease on life. And of course, I supported her, even as I wrestled with my own fear of change.

It’s been many years since my mother sold the house in which I grew up. Most in my family have passed on, and I’ve long lived in the wilds of California. They say home is where the heart is, and what I now know is how well the heart stores memory. When I think of home, my heart leaps to that 3rd generation house in Memphis, which will serve as my home’s frame of reference for all the days of my life.

©Claire Fullerton 2022

My thanks to Claire for sharing this wonderful trip down memory lane through her memories of the home that meant so much to her.