RANDALL CLIFFORD KONEN
10-22-51 - 11-14-05
River Rat Randall
Randall was a gift - to me and to many people. At first he seemed sort of strange, but when you got to know him, it was the rest of the world that was out of step. Beneath the clown act, he was strength and love personified.
Randall didn't just pass by, he left a part of himself with you, and he also took a part of you with him. Unlike other people you'd meet, the part of you he kept with him he loved, he honored, and he treasured.
Nightmares of his childhood haunted him until his death. He ran away for the final time at age 11. He drifted and was taken in by Lou Gottlieb, of the Limelighters, and lived for awhile at the Morningstar Ranch, among many and diverse places.
The hepatitis that killed him started in Vietnam with accidental needle sticks under field conditions, the result of being a Medic, and like about 10,000 other Vietnam veterans, the hepatitis went undiagnosed until it was far too late. By the time he documented that it was service-related and the VA approved a liver transplant, he was out of time.
One of his very favorite places, Cecil M. Hardin Lake
Randall's disarming happy-moron act allowed him to get close to people who ordinarily would not have trusted anyone. He went out on calls despite how ill he became, and he covered Lifeline 50 to 60 hours a week. What better man to cover a suicide hotline than one in the last of his life, who valued each remaining hour so highly he tried not to sleep and miss any of it. Randall really cared about people. But everyone knew he held Sara closest to his heart.
Randall held on as long as he could. His unfailing love for others showed in the cheerfulness and humor he tried so hard to maintain as his life slipped away. But long before he died, his mind was just shot.
I miss him still. He listened to me when no one else cared about me anymore. He loved me when everyone else who had ever loved me had died. He understood as if we had come up in the same horrific place, as if we were actually twins. My nightmares were his nightmares.
His brother Marine, Bill, was never the same after Randall died. I can't comment about places I never went and things I never saw, but Bill Culhane did, and what he knew concerning Randall was good enough for me. Bill and Randall heckled each other back and forth, but Bill would have given his life in defense of Randall. Regarding Vietnam, anything said against Randall was an attack on Bill, and vice versa. They had each others backs.
Randall had a terrible start in life, but he didn't let it poison him. He credits the Marine Corps for having turned his life around. By the time he matured, if it could be said that Randall ever truly grew up, he had compassion and love for people, helping others to live even as he was dying. He was dearly loved, and so many hearts were broken when he died. One of them was mine.
Once he tried to tell me something, half unconscious, on the phone, waiting for help to arrive, that he had done things he was sorry for when he was young, a long time ago. And I told him he was my brother and I loved him, and it didn't matter anymore. It was the last time we spoke. I was hospitalized myself, and he died while I was in the hospital.
I saved a few things Randall wrote. Other people who loved him were able to save many more things, too. I read them still. As his illness progressed, he grew less coherent, but his basic whimsical personality remained. He was often joking and screwing around when writing to friends, and you had to know him.
