Normally, the drive from San Francisco to Guerneville would’ve been easy enough: cross the Golden Gate Bridge and head north on Highway 101 for about 50 miles, and then go west on River Road past a number of vineyards, which ease into the towering redwood forests sheltering the many single-stoplight towns dotting California’s Russian River. The previous spring, during what many were calling the state’s worst drought in years, I’d made the same day trip to Guerneville with my friend Jason – who has generously hosted every one of my Bay Area research trips – so we could visit Randy in the town cemetery. This time, as Jason navigated us through the worst rainfall in recent memory, we saw ditches filled to the point where the roadway looked like it would be flooded at any moment. Thanks to his GPS, we managed to navigate a safe detour around the washed out sections, arriving just a few minutes later than we’d originally planned.
Origins of “Chez Rondey”
I should take a moment to explain why we were making this return trip, and what we were hoping to see. With the success of And the Band Played On, Randy, had significant money of his own for the first time, and while Band didn’t make him a millionaire, it did allow him to make a few big purchases. The most significant of these was his first home, a rather plain and rustic looking suburban-style ranch house, tucked just off Guerneville’s main roadway, which he had renovated and expanded into a chic-yet-relaxed ranch-style cabin. With the help of a few of Randy’s friends, I’d made contact with the current owners – a gay couple close to his age who were well-aware of the property’s significance, and who readily agreed to letting me visit the property. From 1988 until the end of his life, this was Randy’s retreat from the fractious worlds of journalism, media tours, and politics. It’s also where he passed away in the early hours of February 17, 1994.
The house, which he’d lovingly given the playful quasi-French name “Chez Rondey,” was built in a hollow surrounded by a steeply sloped forest of ancient redwoods, exuding an energy of respite and healing which was palpable as soon as we turned onto the long gravel driveway connecting the house and road. From the photos and home movies I’d previously seen, it was obvious that Randy’s home had been lovingly maintained, with much of it still bearing the characteristics of his time as owner. Stepping from the car, we could see the doghouse that had been built for Dash, his golden retriever (although it’s doubtful that Dash ever spent any time in it). To enter the house, we climbed a wide set of wooden front steps framed by columns made of thick river rock, from which the front landing connected to a wide, flat hardwood deck wrapping and stretching all the way to the back of the house. That deck had been a prime gathering spot when Randy would host his annual “Shiltsmas” birthday parties every August.
Once inside, the living room evoked a sense of intimacy, even with the hardness of its wooden floors and paneled walls, and the airiness of its vaulted ceiling and central skylight. Facing away from the towering front windows, I recognized a sofa with southwestern-style upholstery, which had been a very contemporary piece in the late 80s: it was where Randy and Dash had sat for the back cover photo of Conduct Unbecoming. The room’s focal point, a massive stone fireplace, seemed like it was inviting us to curl up with a blanket to escape the chill. Anyone who’s ever spent time in a proverbial “cabin up north” would recognize the musty scent of old pine, as well as the mounted deer head on the wall. For Randy’s friends and family, however, I was sorry to report that his stuffed Kodiak bear, a towering behemoth which stood on hind legs and wore a fetching set of pearls, was nowhere to be found. Behind the house, the view extended into what felt like the deepest recesses of nirvana itself – a surrounding hillside so peaceful and sheltered that I now understood why he’d kept a small meditation altar back there.
The Time Traveler
It was a lot to take in over the two hours Jason and I spent visiting the property. Just as I’d considered it important to visit Randy in the cemetery, the pilgrimage to Chez Rondey provided a foundational experience during the early stages of my research. If I was going to convey the tactile experience of this space as Randy had known it, I needed to relate to it with all of my senses. On one hand, I felt like I should have been approaching it like a classic field researcher, cataloguing my observations in a dry, neutral manner and preserving the details as accurately as possible. But we were also there as guests of two very kind and welcoming people, who invited us in from the rain with fresh coffee and chocolate chip cookies, and who’d already extended the courtesy of letting me take pictures.
It gave me a lot to think about as Jason and I said goodbye to our hosts. We went from there to the closest watering hole, the Rainbow Cattle Company, where a friendly off-duty bartender bought us drinks and asked if we were spending the night (we weren’t). Back in San Francisco, ten more days of research were waiting for me. As a writer, I considered the trip to be a good and useful exercise. I’ve always had a stronger vocabulary for systems, feelings, and behaviors compared to places and things, and I knew that having to describe a space with such deep personal meaning would stretch my skills. By stepping into the role of biographer, I realized that I’d taken on the part of quasi-time traveler, putting myself in the same place at different moments and connecting what I’d witnessed in archival footage with the evidence provided by my own senses.
Moreover, I found that sharing the details of that visit brought Randy’s closest friends some peace of mind by bridging the years since they’d last seen the property with the present day. Chez Rondey had been a hub for Randy’s work on his final bestseller, but it was also home to dog birthday parties, summer water fights, and group cake making projects with Beatles music wafting through the kitchen. There were Shiltsmas parties with exquisite catering, massive sheet cakes, and piles of gifts from many well-wishers (Randy’s inner child always loved opening presents). One year during Thanksgiving, Linda Alband idly flipped the oven’s cleaning switch and found it couldn’t be reversed – only to produce the most perfectly roasted prime rib that any of the guests had ever eaten. And less than a year before Randy’s passing, there had been a hastily organized commitment ceremony in the backyard, officiated by Randy’s oldest brother Gary.
Reverence and Reflection
Setting aside the many feelings I have about Randy, the only word that comes close to describing that visit is “reverence.” As I’ve noted previously, my aim in writing this biography has been to explore the intimacy of Randy’s lived experiences, the better for understanding what made him not just a prolific journalist and lightning rod for controversy, but also a gifted and flawed human being with his own vulnerabilities and blind spots. It would be tempting to slip from reverence into sentimentality, overshadowing the “warts and all” depiction I’m working to produce. At the same time, standing inside the home that he so deeply cherished left me with a powerful awareness of the lasting imprint that people and spaces can make on each other.
Reflecting on that visit, I can’t help but think about my own home, an 1880s farmhouse in the heart of Minneapolis, where Jaxon and I have hosted holidays and dinners and backyard hangouts with our friends and family for the past 13+ years. More than a few of our loved ones have told us, “I just feel so at home in your house.” And for at least a couple hours on that rain-soaked afternoon, I felt like I could relate to Randy’s experience of truly being at home.