"From her father, Danielle Trussoni learned to rock and roll, outrun cops, and never to shy away from a fight. She spent her childhood sitting by his side at Roscoe's Vogue Bar, listening hour after hour as he told unforgettable tales of his adventures as a Vietnam tunnel rat. Far from home, as the war exploded, Dan Trussoni had risked his life crawling through intricate tunnels, designed by the North Vietnamese, where he searched for prisoners. Danielle took in every syllable of what he told her. And, as her family's life grew harder and more complicated, she came to realize that when the man she loved more than anything hurt her or her mother, or drank too much, or beat up strangers, it was because of what he had seen down there, what he thought he could just leave behind." "But Dan's war followed their family, changing them every step of the way. Eventually Danielle's mother gave up and asked Dan to leave their home. All of the children stayed with her, except one: Danielle. When most of the world washed its hands of Dan, his daughter would not. She could never let him go. Studying him like a history book, she came to understand that the war that had come between her parents and altered her family's life had changed many American lives, on and off the battlefield." "In Falling Through The Earth, Danielle Trussoni tells the all-American story of a family's war and peace and all that lay in-between. This is the story of a family forever altered by forces not under their control and a father and daughter too much alike to get along or to leave each other. As Danielle trails her dad through honky-tonk nights, scores of girlfriends, and years of bad dreams, a vivid and poignant portrait of a father-daughter relationship unlike any other emerges." "Told without an ounce of self-pity, Danielle Trussoni's deeply affecting book shows how war keeps changing everything - even after the last shots are fired."--BOOK JACKET.

Danielle Trussoni, who grew up and now lives in LaCrosse, Wisconsin, is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin. On the strength of the first twenty pages she ever wrote (which became part of this book) she was admitted to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop from which she graduated in May 2002.

Winter of '85, we were on the run. Dad veered the truck into an alley, cut across a parking lot, and merged with traffic running along the frozen
Mississippi. My father was always prone to paranoia, but the police had become a real problem. After the last arrest, he'd lost his license. If they caught us again, Dad would go to jail. Streets expanded before us, eerie and lonesome. Pawnshops and motels and tattoo parlors fell away as we passed. The city was cold and sharp-angled, as if emerging from a block of ice.
My father was running from the police, from his first ex-wife, his creditors, and his dreams. He was running from his second ex-wife (my mother), his illegitimate children, and his past. He was running from himself, and I was right there with him, his twelve-year-old accomplice. No matter how far or fast we ran, I stayed with him. I was all he had left.
We slowed down before Roscoe's, Dad's favorite bar, and parked near a set of rusty, snow-packed railroad tracks. Bleak, electrocuted trees tangled before the buildings' brick faÃ§ades. Dad locked his truck and walked ahead. He always moved fast. I jogged to keep up as a neon beer sign blinked, sending swirls of pink over his face. As he turned his head, I saw myself in his olive skin, the hint of haughtiness in his profile. The empty, nickel-hard sky bowled around us, framing my father who looked at me, his smile boyish, and pulled the door to Roscoe's open. â€œAfter you, Danielle-my-belle.â€

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Excerpts

Winter of ’85, we were on the run. Dad veered the truck into an alley, cut across a parking lot, and merged with traffic running along the frozen
Mississippi. My father was always prone to paranoia, but the police had become a real problem. After the last arrest, he’d lost his license. If they caught us again, Dad would go to jail. Streets expanded before us, eerie and lonesome. Pawnshops and motels and tattoo parlors fell away as we passed. The city was cold and sharp-angled, as if emerging from a block of ice.
My father was running from the police, from his first ex-wife, his creditors, and his dreams. He was running from his second ex-wife (my mother), his illegitimate children, and his past. He was running from himself, and I was right there with him, his twelve-year-old accomplice. No matter how far or fast we ran, I stayed with him. I was all he had left.
We slowed down before Roscoe’s, Dad’s favorite bar, and parked near a set of rusty, snow-packed railroad tracks. Bleak, electrocuted trees tangled before the buildings’ brick façades. Dad locked his truck and walked ahead. He always moved fast. I jogged to keep up as a neon beer sign blinked, sending swirls of pink over his face. As he turned his head, I saw myself in his olive skin, the hint of haughtiness in his profile. The empty, nickel-hard sky bowled around us, framing my father who looked at me, his smile boyish, and pulled the door to Roscoe’s open. “After you, Danielle-my-belle.”

Excerpted from Falling Through the Earth: A Memoir by Danielle Trussoni
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.