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Genre: Historical Fiction
Word Count: 100
In 1969 my mother packed me off to my aunt and uncle’s dairy farm in Wisconsin.
“But Mom, Uncle Otto’s weird. That eyepatch and those scars—ick.”
One night he took my Jefferson Airplane record from the stereo and replaced it with his own 45.
“You tink das ist protest music?”
“‘It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing,’” He sang. “The SS ransacked our nightclub, but I danced all the way to Buchenwald.”
Uncle Otto taught me more than the jitterbug that summer.
At his funeral last year I saluted my favorite uncle with, “Swing Heil!”