Epizeugma (ep-i-zoog’-ma): Placing the verb that holds together the entire sentence (made up of multiple parts that depend upon that verb) either at the very beginning or the very ending of that sentence.
Singing Christmas carols, Scottish folk songs, and oldies, it was from the rum more than anything else. I was wearing a wreath on my head. Uncle Vic had his shirt unbuttoned to his belly button. Aunt Cat was holding her boobs and wiggling. Uncle Tom was showing off his plumber’s butt, bending over the piano. Aunt Millie kept raising her skirt, showing off her undies with Santa’s face on the front, complete with a beard. Uncle Joe had a stocking hanging out of his pant’s fly. The triplets were wearing Trump wigs and were kicking an inflatable sex doll around the Christmas tree.
Once a year, my family goes insane on Christmas Eve and does these things, and more. I tried to find out for nearly my entire life, why? Nobody knew what our ethnicity was, so I couldn’t find its cultural origins. Plus, the tradition was so much fun, they didn’t want to lose it. As far as they could see it was unique to our family. Nobody else in the world celebrated Christmas Eve like we did.
Then it happened. Right before he died, my great-grandfather Bart told me he had a story to tell. I was visiting him at VA Home where he lived for free because he was disabled from serving in the Army. He had lost a leg, and an eye, and a hand in combat in the Korean War, where, as he put it “My mind was blown beyond repair.” Although he had an artificial leg, he preferred his electric wheelchair. In his later years he was awarded a Tesla wheelchair by the VA. It went like a bat out of hell and Bart had several collisions. One more thing: he had invented a small compact wheelchair tire inflator that made him a ton of money, and almost, a Nobel Prize.
Now, he was going to tell me the BIG SECRET. His breathing was shallow as he began. This is what my great-grandfather told me: “Your anscestors Woke up in Utah before it was Utah. There weren’t even cave men. Nobody else was there. They were alone. They were on the banks of what we now call the Great Salt Lake. They built a fire and sat there trying to figure out where they came from. Most of them believed they came from a distant galaxy and were dumped by the lake as punishment because they had committed crimes. At least they recognized each other, even if they were like strangers in every other way. They didn’t like where they had landed, so they walked away together eating prickly pear cactus and jackrabbits roasted on sticks. They hiked for 140 days and 140 nights, reaching what we now call Lake Tahoe, depleted and nearly dead. But lo and behold, there was a thriving little town there called Ponderosa. Your ancestors were shocked and grateful and immediately moved to assimilate, mostly working in the casino and hotel businesses. They adopted “Casino” as the family’s last name.
It was December and everybody in Ponderosa kept talking about “Christmas.” It was a celebration. Your anscestors wanted to be a part of it, so they studied it and discovered Santa Clause. They practiced going ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ and bought red suits to wear on Christmas Day. They got a tree and decorated it with soup can lids, drilled with a hole and tied to the tree’s branches with pieces of yarn. They bought presents for each other and put them in pillowcases under the tree.
Christmas Eve had come! First they . . .”
Great-Grandfather started choking and gripping his throat. He could no longer talk. Green smoke came out of his mouth. His nurse screamed and ran out of the room. Two creatures with gigantic heads suddenly materialized at the foot of the bed. Like all of us Casinos he had a boil on the back of his neck. One of the creatures lanced it and great-grandfather deflated. They folded great-grandfather lengthwise, neatly rolled up great-great grandfather, put him in a gym bag, and vanished. The nurse came back in the room and remembered nothing. She told me to get out or she would call security.
Although I was frustrated that great-great grandfather couldn’t finish his story, I felt that I was closer to knowing where my family originated. But, I’ll never know how they came up with our weird Christmas Eve tradition. We were the Casinos, and that was that.
So, I’m sitting here watching this year’s celebration when Uncle Billiam hops by with pencils in his ears and nostrils, and a tomato in each hand.
Merry Christmas.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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