Epizeuxis

Epizeuxis: Repetition of the same word, with none between, for vehemence. Synonym for palilogia.

“Dive, dive, dive you gutless wimp!” My father was working on what he called my cowardice complex that I had inherited from my grandfather. He had me perched on the top level of the playground swimming pool diving board. Well, actually there was only one level. It was one foot above the water. I stood on it trembling, fearing for my life. My little brother Beaver (named after the kid on the TV show) sneaked up behind me and pushed me off the end of the diving board. I screamed for help and an old man walked through the water over to me and told me to shut the hell up. The water was only four feet deep and more people were injured scraping their faces on the shallow bottom of the pool diving than ever drowned. In fact, in the history of the municipal playground, nobody had ever drowned. Nobody.

Yet, because I had inherited my grandfather’s cowardice I was terrified that I would inhale lung loads of water if I dove and die a hacking choking death beneath the water, or crack my skull on the pool bottom.

I did some research on my grandfather to see if I could find a remedy for my cowardly life. I found his journal which documented some of his experiences.

He “served” in the German Army in WWI. He was drafted at the war’s onset and disappeared after the swearing-in ceremony. He disguised himself as a gypsy. Gypsies were not allowed to serve in the military. He hid out in a caravan and the gypsies hid him and taught him how to make loaded dice. One day, he wandered off from the camp. When he came back the caravan had pulled up stakes and headed for a new campground. In the ultimate display of cowardice, he started crying, running around in circles, and rending his gypsy garments. After an hour, he got tired and stopped. Standing there moaning, his torn pants revealing his private parts.

A woman came by and stopped and stared at him. Looking at his torn pants, she asked him if he knew what a zucchini is. He said “No.” She said, “Your thing looks like a zucchini. You shall come live with me and my husband.” He lived in their basement for the entire war. His job was to grease up his “zucchini” three times a week and “frolic.”

In this case my grandfather’s cowardice earned him a pretty good deal—far better than being in a war. I learned that being a coward can be fun.

Then, there was changing light bulbs. My grandfather was an afraid of ladders. He would not change lightbulbs. It was dark in his house because back then women (aka his wife) were not permitted to do manly work because men were afraid that they would take over the world. Eventually, all of my grandfather’s lightbulbs burned out and it was dark in the house at night. After he fell down the stairs twice in the dark on his way to bed, my grandfather decided to do something. Candles were out of the question—they would burn the house down. He settled on miner’s hard hats with lanterns mounted on them like headlights. Having emigrated to Pennsylvania, used miner’s helmets were in abundant supply and he bought one each for his wife and three children and five more for guests. The romantic play of the lantern light on the house’s walls gave it a nightly aura of love and peace. Once again, my grandfather’s cowardice had taken him down a road toward something beneficial.

I vowed to find redemption in my cowardice. At the same time I learned that the worst thing about being a coward were the taunts and ridicule addressed by cruel idiots. So what if I didn’t rescue the baby held at gunpoint by her insane father? So what, I didn’t run into a burning building to save a puppy? So what, I or dodged the draft?

I was destined for the safety of better things as I rebounded from peril and hid or ran away.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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