You Follow?

Living in self-quarantine during this time of COVID-19, I think about my kids, old friends, important love relationships, and my brother, Charles Bowden—Southwest writer extraordinaire. I get a little teary about it all, and maybe that’s the COVID-fear kicking in. 

Being in that “vulnerable age group,” I suit up like an astronaut when I head to the grocery store, trying my best to follow Dr. Fauci’s rules.  Wear the mask, put on gloves, stay away from crowds, try not to fondle the avocados or squeeze the peaches, and get in and out as quickly as possible. 

But I digress. COVID-fear does that.  My mind flits to grocery stores (which terrify me) and musings about what Chuck would make of this brave new world brought to its knees. 

Chuck loved to cook, and wandered for hours in high-end shops spending way too much money on pots and pans. He was on a first name basis with the butchers in the meat department.  They saved cuts of meat for his specialty dish, osso bucco.  He always left the kitchen a mess, expecting someone (a woman, usually) to clean up. 

He taught me to make risotto, and insisted that I never put the lid on the pan when stirring the rice.  His chef-Nazi persona came out.  Then he sent me a risotto cookbook and called me every few days to make sure I was trying out his recommended recipes. 

He wrote every day for hours beginning at 3 AM, then shopped for the evening meal with great care.  And he drank a lot of red wine.

I was on a Tucson Festival of Books panel a few days ago to discuss, and hopefully clarify, the many sides of Chuck Bowden. 

Jim Harrison, noted poet and Southwest author, called him “America’s most alarming writer.”  Indeed, this is the name of the book of essays about Chuck:  America’s Most Alarming Writer, a collection of 40 essays by friends and fellow writers.

My role on this panel was to contribute the big sister reflection—the one with all the fleeting, random memories of our childhood and adolescence. Our relationship over the years blew hot and cold.  Sometimes we were in sync.  Other times he would disappear, as if family news was too much of a distraction from the real work—his book writing.

I realized that my Chuck experiences had nothing to do with his writing.  He was just my little brother, sometimes an amazing ally, and sometimes a pain in the ass.

What might people want to know about my kid brother?  Here are some things that I didn’t talk about on the panel. 

Chuck was brilliant and exasperating and exhausting. 

When we were kids, our conversations often lasted until 4 AM.

I understood maybe 1/3 of our dialogue.  You follow?

We listened to Beethoven and Barbara Streisand on the living room floor, the old hi-fi going full bore. Music stopped his endless monologues. 

There were intense arguments around the dinner table. My mother would cry when tempers flared. Dad challenged Chuck’s ideas regularly.  But then, Dad would tell me privately that Chuckie “had a point.”

When Chuck pontificated, I could tell him to shut up.  And he did. I had some clout.  I was the big sister.

I realized that the kid could write with his first book, Killing the Hidden Waters.

I would give anything for an all-night dialogue now, headache and all.

You follow?