Randy Edward Stevens
Now, you might not know much about Randy Stevens. Or maybe you do. But if there’s one thing to understand about this modern Dionysian, it’s that he led his life in stories. And he’d have no qualms telling you as far as stories are concerned that just about any clever tactic is fair game in the name of telling – or making – a good one. But that’s not really something one must do in this case, when the tales seem tall enough on their own.
It makes sense that on a particular Wednesday in San Bernardino, CA in 1953, two months before Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay summited Mount Everest, Randy was born. It was a time for adventurers and dreamers, and the world was just about ripe for the next batch of folks who chose to blaze their own paths instead of following the road well-traveled.
As far as Randy Stevens goes, well, Horatio Alger couldn’t have written it better. Mister Stevens took to life like a fish to water, and boy did he have the yarns to prove it.
Take, for instance, his many travels by land, sea and air…official demarcations often disregarded in favor of finding the most exotic of ports of call from Bora Bora to Guana. Like a well-known other adventurer who took to another Delta of this fine nation (and who presumably might have also had his own first boat at the ripe age of 14), Randy captained his Flamingo cruiser from one California waterway to the next, likely never growing weary of that illuminated beacon that often welcomed, “Port of San Francisco.”
On the other side of the country, if you happen to enjoy time in lovely Bridgewater, PA, well… there are quite a few stories surrounding Mr. Stevens in that realm, too. Starting his career in a shack overlooking the Beaver River, sharing the office with his brother, Rob, not only did he masterplan the details of that little town right down to the gazebo, but you might never have experienced the great Bridgewater River Regatta had it not been for him and his folks, Robert and Ruth. His determination and admirable pursuit of architecture led him even further. In fact, if you wouldn’t expect that the boy who once called Beaver Falls home might wind up alongside the titans who designed New York City’s Museum of Modern Art and the Parliament House of Pakistan, then you’d need to reconsider.
When it comes to the life of Randy Stevens, there are a lot of those moments. From “Paul Bunyon-ing” an 18 foot tree in the name of Christmas cheer, to narrowly escaping an awful and unexpected fire, to that slightly more clandestine tale wherein he *may have* swayed U.S. election results with the help of an unwitting young man named Dan Rather…But we won’t say much more about that here.
A friend to all Hokies, an enemy of the salamander, the hero of this story-about-stories in his later years could often be spotted on ragtop days driving his red Ford Mustang through Sonoma, only to go idle for the utmost discerning of vistas which notably and oft involved a winery-adjacent picnic. He loved all of California – particularly Northern. From Bodega Bay, up to the Avenue of the Giants, along the coast of Humboldt, and down and around and across and through, from Yosemite to Sea Ranch, Randy Stevens did indeed traverse it all. In fact, some might say he’s marked enough territory in Northern California to challenge that of General Vallejo.
If we can take a moment for an actual believable truth, however, pure happiness came by way of a much simpler route. All it really took for Randy was a little Mid-Century Modern anything, a great meal and glass of wine, a space for his model trains and coin collection, conversation with friends old and new, and a chair next to his favorite people: The Bacall to his Bogart, wife Lisa Stevens, and his kindred spirit, daughter Anna.
Randy Stevens was always at his best among friends and family: making what could otherwise be a mundane evening into a jamboree. An armchair historian and folklorist, he could put the most dedicated of scholars to shame with his intricate retellings of everything from wartime sagas to the John Philip Sousa marches of the 1930s Aliquippa marching band.
I guess this isn’t much of a story afterall. But there are plenty of them in the memories Mr. Stevens left with those he knew. So I implore you: ask them to tell you one or two. And if you don’t get around to it, at least take this away from a man who knew how to live: Make sacred the time you have. Savor the moment. Forge traditions that will survive you. And never, ever relinquish that joie de vivre.