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He fell out of a red sky at dawn, floating gently, feather-like, his thick-soled aviator boots pointing down. He drifted toward green checkerboards, which became fallow fields, a rusting plow mute testament to interrupted harvests. Scanning this surreal, solarized snapshot, drawing even closer, he must have recalled his promise-- "Someday we'll visit France where they dance the Cancan." (Wink!) Having just seen a movie with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, my father danced my mother through quiet Detroit streets, dipping and spinning, with vocal accompaniment so loud that sleepers were startled from their dreams. German soldiers watching from the tree line below, noticed how his white chute bobbed with each round they fired. He was buried in a nearby churchyard. But grandmother, who believed the French were an immoral race, had his casket moved to Indiana.
My father's plane was shot down during WWII. He left a wonderful legacy--stacks of letters which gave me great insite. He touched my entire life.
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