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Ace On The Hill

PRESENT DAY. I might as well begin with the unflattering part. I was a brat from the start. Of course, all kids act out in their own ways. Some kick, some thrash, and some ball up like little bugs. Me? I liked to throw things.

      My Uncle Sam (yes, that was his name) once said I grazed his head with a strawberry before I could even speak. At a Michigan daycare, I tossed a milk carton out the window because it wasn’t my customary chocolate flavor. Not long after that, I stepped away from my 5th birthday party to hurl a half-dozen 45 records against the brick wall in my family’s back yard. The reason? I’d learned one of my friends had already turned five. 

      To the casual observer, my parents, Joel and Louise Zimmerman, had their hands full. But the observer also needed to take this into account: by the time I was ten, our family had lived in five different homes. Five. When the news was broken, the reaction wasn’t pretty. If I couldn’t throw an object, I’d throw a fit. 

      My little sister, Justine, began to copy my frustration almost as soon as she could talk. Instead of being annoyed by this, I welcomed it. I finally had an ally. It was going to be two against two from that point on. 

      Eventually, Mom and Dad began to use synonyms for the dreaded “M” word, but trying to soften the blow only frustrated us more.

      “Plant new roots?” I asked. “Can you explain?”

      “Yeah,” Justine said, crossing her arms. “Can you eggs-plain?”

      All of this leads me to a chilly Pennsylvania evening in the winter of 1975. By this time, I was 11 and Justine was 8. Looking back, maybe we should’ve seen it coming. Coasters, coffee table books, and ashtrays—all part of the normal living room landscape—had been hidden away. It wasn’t because of some post-holiday cleaning. It was a defense strategy.

      Justine and I were playing Monopoly on the living room floor beside Mom who was curled up on a sofa reading a book called Atlas Shrugged (I didn’t get why anyone would read, or write, a book about someone shrugging). Meanwhile, Dad was in his favorite chair flipping through the Wall Street Journal like he usually did after dinner. He suddenly cleared his throat and set the newspaper on the floor.

       “Hey, gang, let’s have a little discussion,” he said with a pleasant tone.

       Mom closed her book and stood beside Dad. 

       “Want to share something with you both,” Dad said. 

       Mom placed a hand on his shoulder. I don’t know if it was mom’s touch, or Dad sounding like the father in the Brady Bunch, but I knew what was coming—

       “We’re moving!” I blurted, hopping to my feet.

       “No!” Justine echoed, rising beside me. 

       My parents turned to each other in disbelief. 

       “How could he possibly know?” Dad asked.

       “I did not say a word,” Mom replied.

       I looked around for something to throw. Where was everything?

       “Could he have seen you moving the ashtray?” Dad asked. 

       “How could he? He was at school,” Mom insisted.

       “I don’t even know why you guys have ashtrays,” Justine said. “Neither one of you smokes.”

       “All right, enough!“ Dad bellowed. “I said ‘discussion’ not  ‘rebellion.’ Now both of you sit your fannies down.”

      Whenever Dad used a substitute word for bottom, like “fanny,” “rear end,” “rump,” or the French one (“derriere?”), we knew he was close to blowing his stack. Justine and I glanced at each other knowingly and plopped down on the sofa. 

       Less than a minute later, my folks hit us with the news: we were moving to Massachusetts. Massachusetts. Dad might as well have said Belgium–it felt that foreign. I begged for another location. 

      “Yeah, anywhere but there,” Justine added. I doubted she knew the difference between Boston and Brussels, but as always, I was thankful for the support. 

      “I once had a substitute teacher from Boston,” I argued. “Mrs. McQueeny. She’d say things like, ‘Let’s go ovah the ansahz heeya.’” 

      “What did he just say?!” Justine asked, her face scrunched in a knot.

      I threw up my hands. “See?! We’re gonna flunk!”


Book Sample

PRESENT DAY. I might as well begin with the unflattering part. I was a brat from the start. Of course, all kids act out in their own ways. Some kick, some thrash, and some ball up like little bugs. Me? I liked to throw things.

      My Uncle Sam (yes, that was his name) once said I grazed his head with a strawberry before I could even speak. At a Michigan daycare, I tossed a milk carton out the window because it wasn’t my customary chocolate flavor. Not long after that, I stepped away from my 5th birthday party to hurl a half-dozen 45 records against the brick wall in my family’s back yard. The reason? I’d learned one of my friends had already turned five. 

      To the casual observer, my parents, Joel and Louise Zimmerman, had their hands full. But the observer also needed to take this into account: by the time I was ten, our family had lived in five different homes. Five. When the news was broken, the reaction wasn’t pretty. If I couldn’t throw an object, I’d throw a fit. 

      My little sister, Justine, began to copy my frustration almost as soon as she could talk. Instead of being annoyed by this, I welcomed it. I finally had an ally. It was going to be two against two from that point on. 

      Eventually, Mom and Dad began to use synonyms for the dreaded “M” word, but trying to soften the blow only frustrated us more.

      “Plant new roots?” I asked. “Can you explain?”

      “Yeah,” Justine said, crossing her arms. “Can you eggs-plain?”

      All of this leads me to a chilly Pennsylvania evening in the winter of 1975. By this time, I was 11 and Justine was 8. Looking back, maybe we should’ve seen it coming. Coasters, coffee table books, and ashtrays—all part of the normal living room landscape—had been hidden away. It wasn’t because of some post-holiday cleaning. It was a defense strategy.

      Justine and I were playing Monopoly on the living room floor beside Mom who was curled up on a sofa reading a book called Atlas Shrugged (I didn’t get why anyone would read, or write, a book about someone shrugging). Meanwhile, Dad was in his favorite chair flipping through the Wall Street Journal like he usually did after dinner. He suddenly cleared his throat and set the newspaper on the floor.

       “Hey, gang, let’s have a little discussion,” he said with a pleasant tone.

       Mom closed her book and stood beside Dad. 

       “Want to share something with you both,” Dad said. 

       Mom placed a hand on his shoulder. I don’t know if it was mom’s touch, or Dad sounding like the father in the Brady Bunch, but I knew what was coming—

       “We’re moving!” I blurted, hopping to my feet.

       “No!” Justine echoed, rising beside me. 

       My parents turned to each other in disbelief. 

       “How could he possibly know?” Dad asked.

       “I did not say a word,” Mom replied.

       I looked around for something to throw. Where was everything?

       “Could he have seen you moving the ashtray?” Dad asked. 

       “How could he? He was at school,” Mom insisted.

       “I don’t even know why you guys have ashtrays,” Justine said. “Neither one of you smokes.”

       “All right, enough!“ Dad bellowed. “I said ‘discussion’ not  ‘rebellion.’ Now both of you sit your fannies down.”

      Whenever Dad used a substitute word for bottom, like “fanny,” “rear end,” “rump,” or the French one (“derriere?”), we knew he was close to blowing his stack. Justine and I glanced at each other knowingly and plopped down on the sofa. 

       Less than a minute later, my folks hit us with the news: we were moving to Massachusetts. Massachusetts. Dad might as well have said Belgium–it felt that foreign. I begged for another location. 

      “Yeah, anywhere but there,” Justine added. I doubted she knew the difference between Boston and Brussels, but as always, I was thankful for the support. 

      “I once had a substitute teacher from Boston,” I argued. “Mrs. McQueeny. She’d say things like, ‘Let’s go ovah the ansahz heeya.’” 

      “What did he just say?!” Justine asked, her face scrunched in a knot.

      I threw up my hands. “See?! We’re gonna flunk!”


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