Pittsburgh, PA
The scene: The Penn City Grille at the Westin Convention Center in Pittsburgh. Memorial Day, 10:15 AM. My brother, SC, is standing at the hostess station. A server with blond hair and glasses appears, just as we were hoping he would.
SC: Hi Randy, you probably don’t remember me…
Randy: Oh, hi! Of course, I remember your face. You look different from the last time I saw you. No suit and tie!
SC: Heh. Yeah, I’m not working today. Mind if we sit in your section?
Randy: Sure! I’ve got a five-top right here. Who’d you bring with you today?
My brother makes introductions, and Randy repeats our names. He shakes our hands, says a few sweet things to my boys, and leads us to our table.
~*~
If you’re wondering, we’re on a 36×37 mission: we’re visiting a city we’ve seen dozens of times, but we’re seeing it through fresh eyes. In other words, we’ve vowed to seek out the things we’ve never done here, and if they sound fun, we’ll do them. No plans. No timeline. Randy is our final stop.
He doesn’t know why we’re here. No one is allowed to tell him, either, because I want to observe him organically. From what I’ve heard and read, he’s a rare and interesting guy. The Chicago Tribune thinks so. Good Morning America thinks so. The Dave Matthews Band thinks so. And so do 50,000 or so other tourists annually. It’s time for me to see if I agree.
~*~
First, a few steps back.
Last year, my husband drove to Pittsburgh with my brother to help my former sister-in-law’s family business. Later, they peppered the “how was your trip” recap with info about some dude named Randy.
“You have to meet this guy,” GB said. “He’s an artist with this huge, kinda quirky personality. He bought an old building on the Central Northside, completely renovated it with recycled stuff, and started this whole rejuvenation project across his community.”
I love art. And I’m fascinated by people who can cut themselves loose from social convention. But so far, nothing sounded that out of the ordinary. GB could see I wasn’t convinced, so he opened a Google search and showed me this:
And this:
And this:
“This is Randyland,” he said.
I scrolled up and down, clicking picture after picture. “Is this for real?” I asked.
GB nodded, arms folded.
“Huh!” I said, nodding back.
~*~
I did some research before we left for Pittsburgh because that’s what we Journalism School grads do. Here’s what I learned about Randy Gilson.
Randy was raised in a poor neighborhood across town from where he currently resides. His mother—a Salvation Army minister—was a single parent to six children, so they didn’t have much when he was a child. In one article (on popcitymedia.com) he said his interest in recycling and refurbishing trashed items began when he was a child. He built bikes and made toys for his siblings year-round, then stored them in the basement. At Christmas, he placed his creations around the Christmas tree so his family’s holidays would look like the ones in magazines.
I’m not sure how or when he came to live in the Mexican War Streets district, but I do know his restoration project began in 1982 with a $1,000 unemployment check and some barrels filled with dirt and flowers. In 1996, he bought the 3-parcel Jacksonia Street property for $11,300.
Today, Randy is almost single-handedly responsible for installing 800 streetscapes, 50 vegetable gardens, and eight parks across the 30-block area.
~*~
I watch Randy closely as we eat our breakfast. Five families come and go, and each makes a special point to tell our host goodbye. They initiate hugs and handshakes. He remembers their names. They leave the restaurant feeling important, like they’ve just seen a long-lost friend. Me? I’m taken by how he treats my children.
“Do you know why good food is important?” he asks them. They nod like smiling, hypnotized puppets, so he continues. “The food goes down your throat and into your belly and down to your toes and up to your brain, and that’s what makes you smart! That’s what makes you strong!” His eyes crinkle into a smile as my boys shovel spoonful after spoonful of cinnamon-scented Irish steel-cut oats into their tiny, chewing mouths.
The tender, exposed, joyful heart on this man! In a way, I’m frustrated by some of the well-intentioned phrases reporters have used to describe him—“eccentric,” “larger than life,” “colorful”—when I simply see a man who is kind to the core. He’s a good listener who was told he’d never amount to anything, and so he proved them wrong with his gentle and generous and fun-loving spirit.
“Randy, when you have a minute,” I say, “Can we get a picture with you?”
O, Maura, SC, Randy, H and GB. Gotta love the iPhone high res!
Heh. Look at this picture. It’s blurry, but it captures everything I want to say about Randy. He makes people happy. I can’t explain it. He just does.
Anyway, we click the picture, and the next thing I know, Randy is handing me a map and offering to give us the Randyland grand tour if we can wait an hour for him to go home and tidy the place. We arrive before he does, unfortunately, so we snap the photos you saw above, then pile into the car to head back home. The boys burst into tears. They don’t want to leave Randyland.
Nobody does.
(P.S. Randyland isn’t the only “new thing” we did in Pittsburgh this weekend. Check back tomorrow for more…)
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