The legend of Arthur Bowers: World's toughest granddad

By Jon Arthur Perry

December 21, 2005 | I miss my granddad. He went on a trip last year to a better place. I look forward to seeing him again someday, but hopefully not for a while. I still have plenty of things I'd like to do.

For one, I want to write a story about his life. So I figure today is a good time to start. Heaven knows we can "want" to do things for a long time and never end up doing them. In recent years I always "wanted" to sit down with him and use a tape recorder to interview him. I wanted to learn details about the stories that echoed around my home over the years. The time he spent as a soldier during World War II, his boxing career, when he sang and played guitar in a country band, as well as other tales that were like legends to me growing up. But like so many good ideas, I never did it. So this is a story about my granddad often told through the voice of a child who thought of him as a superhero.

Granddad was a thin man. Years of living under a hot Arizona sun made his skin brown and leathery. His dark brown eyes had a natural squint to them, kind of like James Dean's, giving him a look that said "I know life can be hard, but I'm in complete control." He walked bowlegged and would always wear button-up shirts, rolled up the elbow. On his inner left arm he had an Army tattoo of a snake on a knife with an inscription reading "Death before Dishonor." Every friend I had from the time I was 4 to 15 knew about it.

His thin face was always framed by the same haircut; short on the sides and longer on the top. He would comb it back into a Fifties style. He had a high forehead but he wasn't balding. I remember this well because growing up I had a high forehead and everyone would tell me I was going bald. With confidence I would tell them that my granddad on my mom's side still had a full head of hair, and how our foreheads were almost identical. "That's what decides if you go bald or not." As I headed into my 20s I realized that this was just a myth. Regardless, I am glad my granddad's hairline gave me hope for all those years.

It's impossible to talk about my granddad without mentioning he was tough as nails. Swear to God, he could do anything in the world if he wanted to, especially if someone told him he couldn't do it. I have no doubt in my mind that if someone told him there was no way he could make the Leaning Tower of Pisa stand straight up, he would eventually figure out a way to do it. Most likely he would just stand at the bottom and push on it until it started to move.

He could fight, too. "He used to be a boxer," I'd tell my friends as a feeling of pride would rush through my body. "Growing up he was dirt poor and as skinny as a pole, but he used the Charles Atlas program to get buff and started kicking butt in the ring." I remember Granddad once told me about this huge guy who picked a fight with him in an alley. My granddad tried to avoid fighting but finally had to lay down the law.

"When the cops showed up they asked him where the knife was because the guy's face was all messed up," I'd say as I swung my arms like I was fighting. "My granddad had learned a little trick from his boxing career. Every time he would hit the guy's face he would twist his wrist so it would tear the skin."

I always knew my granddad wasn't a violent man. He just wasn't the type of guy to let somebody push him around.

Did I mention Granddad almost died twice when he was young? When I say almost I mean he was pretty much pronounced dead. The first time was when he was parachuting during the war and his chute got tangled with this other guy's. "He fell hundreds of feet from the sky. All the bones in his feet shattered like glass," I'd say to my wide-eyed friends. "They told him he'd never walk again. But he had so much will power he recovered and now he can run as fast as anyone I know."

His other brush with death happened when he was a truck driver. "His diesel lost control when some kid rear-ended him in a snow storm. It went off the side of a cliff as big as the one by the university. You know the one above the Island," I'd say, losing my breath from excitement. "My granddad got thrown out of the truck and hit his head on a rock. When somebody showed up to help him they said they thought he was dead." Somehow Granddad managed to live through that as well. I guess it goes back to him never being the type to give up.

I haven't talked about Granddad's voice yet because I wanted to save the best for last. He had a southern accent as rich and thick as the coffee he'd drink in the mornings. One of my most vivid memories is when I was at my uncle's house in Alabama. I was out on the river paddling around on a little inflatable boat when my granddad came out on the pier and hollered out "Better be careful, Boy, or you'll float out to sea, and you'll hear me singing, Aloha boy, Aloha boy." His fun voice and Hawaiian/Country singing made me burst out in laughter as I floated around on the glassy water.

So I guess you probably have figured out by now I thought my granddad was pretty cool when I was a kid. When I got older I saw a different side of him. The last few times I talked with him the conversation was nearly always focused on my grandmother.

My dad says the last 20 years of my granddad's life were only possible because of his desire to make sure my grandmother was taken care of. I have no doubt in my mind that this is true. The talks I had with my granddad about my grandmother bring tears to my eyes. Granddad loved my grandmother. He would tell me over and over again about the woman who stood by his side for so many years. He would show me pictures he kept in his wallet of his life-long love. "She is as pretty today as she was when I met her." He ended almost every sentence with a confession of his undying love for his wife.

I still regret never sitting down and interviewing my granddad about his wild adventures growing up. But after writing this paper I've realized the story he told me over and over again was the best one ever.

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