Woodpecker's SongA Sister Remembers Charles Bowden Peg Bowden (bio) My earliest memory of my younger brother, Chuck, was watching him roll in the snow in the dead of winter on the family farm outside of Chicago. When he was two years old, Richard III, our black-and-white Australian sheep dog, affectionately known as "Richard the Turd," would lick Chuckie's snotty little nose and face, and my baby brother would tumble off his American Flyer sled, into a snowbank, shrieking with laughter. He didn't mind the cold wetness of the snow or the dog slathering his face with doggy licks. He didn't mind the sizzling heat of summer, either. In fact, he loved the extremes. From babyhood on, Chuckie liked the acute physicality of nature, and the exertion and sweat of extreme exercise. And, over time, his physical energy fused with the cerebral, as he vigorously pursued his passions in the offbeat, intellectual corners of his own peculiar universe. There were three of us: big brother George, myself in the middle, and baby Chuckie. When Chuck was three years old, our family moved from the farm to Chicago, settling into an Irish Catholic, Anglo neighborhood where Dad had bought a two-story apartment building. Upstairs lived a family with a feisty little boy the same age as Chuck. Within a week that little Irish kid had beat the crap out of my brother. The kid's father, a big burly fellow who had a taste for Irish whiskey, had taught his son to fight, but Chuckie didn't have a clue about this brawling behavior. I clearly remember my mother being quite distressed about this, and Dad taking Chuck out into the backyard, doing his best to teach him some defensive maneuvers (and a few offensive moves as well). Dad was not a fighter. His idea of parenting was on a more passive, rational level, sitting at the kitchen table, and not skirmishing with a three-year-old on the backyard lawn. [End Page 55] Click for larger view View full resolution The Bowden kids: Peggy, George, and Chuckie, Chicago, Illinois, about 1952. (Courtesy Peg Bowden.) But somehow it worked. Chuckie and Willie (the feisty Irish kid) were soon squabbling and punching each other regularly, and ultimately they turned out to be the best of friends. Chuck learned to hold his own in our South Side Chicago neighborhood. [End Page 56] Our parents believed that a swat on the behind, now and then, was the only way to raise a civilized child. Even though Chuck knew he would get a spanking if he destroyed his shoes and pants in a mud puddle, he did it anyway. My mother would say, "If there is a puddle between here and the end of the block, Chuck will find it and come home muddy." Spankings were always delivered by our mother's hand. (Dad, a man who drank daily with gusto, was afraid that he would lose control.) There was an air of defiance in Chuck when it came to the conventions of family life. It was a quiet defiance. He didn't talk about it, and rarely cried out when he was spanked. He just pushed the limits and paid for it, again and again. The kid was a bit of a masochist. George and I felt somewhat guilty about Chuck getting the brunt of the corporal punishment, but we shrugged, rolled our eyes, and decided that our kid brother set himself up for it. Chuck's shenanigans were done with a half-smile and a dose of attitude. He was the family clown, the cut-up, the one who broke the rules, and there was no negotiation about rules in our house. Things were pretty black and white. Our parents ruled by fear and love. The style was authoritarian and we didn't dare cross the line in the sand. Except for Chuck. He leaped across that line with glee. Family vacations were long car trips to the Black Hills, Mt. Rushmore, and the Iowa farms where our relatives raised corn and soybeans. One Christmas break we drove from Chicago to Monterrey, Mexico. Dad was enamored...
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Oct 1, 2019
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