Polysyndeton (pol-y-syn’-de-ton): Employing many conjunctions between clauses, often slowing the tempo or rhythm. (Asyndeton is the opposite of polysyndeton: an absence of conjunctions.)
There was a dog, and a cat, and a chicken and a truck. Dad called it a “farm” for income tax purposes. We grew an acre of milkweed and sold the seed pods as milkweed fritters by the side of the road. I had a card table with a propane deep frier and a little picnic table. Ma made me a pointy hat that looked like a milkweed pod. My name is Rodney, so my sister embroidered “Rod’s Pods” on my apron along with a rainbow. I also had a sign that said “Fresh Egg for Sale.” Our chicken Charlie laid one egg per day—so the egg sign was sort of a joke. Oh, talk about jokes, I had a battery-powered cassette player. I would play “Old MacDonald Had a Farm,” and “Farmer in the Del,l” and “Baa, Baa Black Sheep,” and “Five Little Ducks.” whenever a car would pull up. “Farmer in the Dell” was a favorite and sometimes I would sing along while they ate their fritters.
The milkweed pod season was long and we had many repeat customers. We made pretty good money. So good, that mom could cut back to half-time at “Joysters,” the “good-time oyster bar.” Mom said she “shucked” when she was asked to, but most of the time she just served drinks. Now, she got home at 1.00 a.m. instead of 4:00! All because of the milkweeds.
Dad had recently become what he called an “entrymanure” quitting his job cleaning septic tanks. He thought he was being funny when he said the job was a crock of shit, a shit storm, for shit, shitty, or a “poopalooza.” We laughed politely and congratulated him on what was ahead.
He was making counterfeit one dollar bills in the garage. They were packed in boxes and strewn ankle deep on the garage floor. The guys who promised to buy all he could print for five cents on the dollar hadn’t shown up yet, so Dad had an overflow problem. Dad asked me to help him cart some of the boxes up by the road and set them there for people who thought they needed a few dollars. Dad’s generosity was admirable. The money buyers came the next day and Dad made a tidy sum. He yelled “Start the presses!” Sheets and sheets of dollar bills flew off the presses. It was amazing. Like magic.
I had made pickled milkweed pods to get me thorough fall. They were surprisingly popular, but I needed something to pull us through winter. We get a lot of snow up here in the hills, so I wracked my brain about snow’s possibilities for making a Buck. Then I got the idea! Pre-fab snowmen! Most people are too lazy to build a snowman, but nevertheless they love them. So, I made generic snowmen with coal buttons, teeth, and eyes; with carrot noses; and with arms made of tree branches. I also used pizza boxes to fill with small premade snowballs. The snowmen sold like crazy—I had a high school kid deliver them. The snow balls were a bust. I’m going to keep working on the concept. Maybe making the pizza box’s lid into some kind of variation on “Corn Hole.”
“People” published an article about my snowmen. 100s of people flocked to our farm. A kid wandered off and his parents found him in our garage, along with Dad’s “money maker.” Federal Agents showed up the next day and took Dad away. I still feel like I’m partially to blame. Anyway, Dad got off when his lawyer argued that the fake one dollar bills were play money that hadn’t been labeled yet. Now, Dad’s setting up some kind of laboratory in the garage.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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