Richard Young September 14, 1947 – September 25, 2022

Rick’s family is sad to share that he passed away.

We will keep this website active, to celebrate his life. Here is a copy of his obituary

OBITUARY

Richard Young

SEPTEMBER 14, 1947 – SEPTEMBER 25, 2022

Obituary of Richard Young

Richard (Rick) D. Young, 75, of Scituate, passed away on September 25, 2022. He is survived by his wife and life partner of 55 years, Nancy Murray Young; his son and daughter-in-law, James and Priscilla Young of Scituate; and three grandchildren, Henry (Scituate), Colin (Arcata, CA), and Ava (Chicago, IL).

Born September 14, 1947 in Waterbury, Connecticut, Rick was the only child of Roy C. and Amy Gibson Young. A 1965 graduate of Wilby High School, he played basketball and golf, and also worked in the family business, Young’s Auto Supply.

After attending Boston University for two years, Rick transferred in 1967 to the Cambridge School of Broadcasting (later Grahm Junior College) in Kenmore Square, where he met his wife, Nancy Murray. They married in June 1969. Their son James was born the following year, and they settled in North Scituate, not far from Nancy’s family in Minot.

Rick became a counselor at Cushing Hall Residential School on Tilden Road, where, with kindness, patience, and ingenuity, he quickly cultivated strong, positive relationships with his students.

Still, wanting to be able to do more for the boys, he decided to return to college, graduating with honors from UMass-Amherst, with a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology and English. When Cushing Hall offered him the opportunity to develop a creative arts program for the school, the family moved back to Scituate.

For the next ten years, Rick nurtured and guided his students; weekends often found small groups of the boys at the Young’s house, playing board games or drawing pictures, or piling into the 1968 Dodge Dart with all the bumper stickers and heading to the beach. Although the school closed in 1984, many of Rick’s students have stayed in touch through the years.

From 1984-1988, Rick was a department manager at Herman’s Sporting Goods in Braintree; with his knowledge of baseball and golf he became the “go to” guy for help and information.

Then he was hired by Boston University as Senior Communications Coordinator in the Office of Photo Services, where he became an integral member of a small, dedicated team of exceptional photography professionals.

Shortly after his arrival at B.U., he discovered a room filled with cartons of photographs, dating back many decades. From Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Senator Edward Brooke III and Tipper Gore to Geena Davis, Joan Baez, and Robert Parker, there were hundreds of images that traced the history of the university’s distinguished alumni. Over the next couple of years, Rick organized this extraordinary collection, eventually filling dozens of fireproof file cabinets, creating an archive that continued to grow for almost 25 years.

And during those years, hundreds of copies of those photos made their way from the B.U. Archive to authors, newspapers, television programs, documentaries, private collections, museums … and even the Agganis Arena.

A gifted poet and photographer, lifelong baseball fan and card collector, guitarist, and avid reader, what Rick cherished most was spending time with his family and his beloved cats.

Contributions in his memory can be made to the Friends of the Scituate Town Library at friendsofthescituatetownlibrary.org/donate, to support Rick’s favorite place in Scituate.

Some of Rick’s poetry can be read at redtinnoodles.com

Disconsolation Prize

Disconsolation has seen inflation without cessation within our nation,
an aberration, collaboration of groups aligned to create devastation.
The new contender, Gov. Ron DeSantis, has all the charm and passion
of an evil praying mantis. He’s shipping immigrants to Edgartown,
making him de facto Florida’s most evil clown. He’d like to be the U.S. Czar
and will not stop at dirty tricks gone too far. As for his party,
they’re a flock of ciphers, who emanate a general sense of dirty diapers.
The country limps toward two Novembers, which in the end could see us left in embers.

The BIG NRA

There was no election in 2028.
No need, they said, the deed is done.
The country’s been made great.
The New Russian Alliance,
dubbed ‘The BIG NRA,’
will make war cease and enforce peace
the standard MAGA way.
The laws of grab and tell will be
in practice ’round the world.
Our great red hat militia
will have trigger fingers curled.
And in the streets will march
the armies of cloned Rudy Gee,
all leaking oil and destroying
our once brave history.

Seventy Five

Some say seventy-five is three-quarters alive.
I’ll make the best of one-fourth that remains.
They say it sneaks up quietly, old age and all that jive.
My brawn may be long gone, but I’ve got brains.
I can’t run fast. I can’t walk far. I rest after the stairs.
I try to eat food that won’t make me die.
I tend to forget some things but it seems nobody cares.
My sense of humor remains wry and dry.
Don’t want to reach a hundred. I see no sense in that.
To live beyond one’s time’s often a gaffe.
I’ll know time’s drawing near when I can’t pick up a bat.
And that it’s time to go when I can’t laugh.

Books, Cats and a Fine Woman

I’m only one thrombosis away from heaven.
Sat close to death six times, but my lucky number’s seven.
I try to stay out of the sun and avoid all white light.
I sleep and ponder half the day, and stay up half the night.
My raison d’etre is herding cats and keeping dishes washed.
Walking in shoes brings hip pain, thus exercise is quashed.
And so, I’ve turned to reading. And books have saved my life.
I’m happy with my fiction, poetry, felines and wife !

Stop the Spiel

Classified documents are missing.
It’s time to stop Republican ring-kissing.
Remember in November when you’re picking,
these red state liars need a good ass-kicking.
Democracy itself is now at stake.
Vote out the MAGA-morphs for your own sake.
To pass these fiends along to yet another generation
will just continue ruining our country’s reputation.
We can only hope that ’24 will have distinction
as a free election that prevents our own extinction.

The Reign in Ukraine

Goodbye Mikhail Gorbachev,
you sure tore down that wall.
And now your people hate you
for heeding Reagan’s call.
Ronnie pulled the wool, it seems,
o’er unsuspecting eyes.
Began with arms for hostages,
and just continued lies.
And now it’s come to Putin,
our own T-monster’s ‘friend,’
attacking Ukraine’s nuke plant
which could court a grisly end.
Perhaps he’ll get his union back,
reverse history books,
while NATO observes in their fear
and Ukraine slowly cooks.

Under House Arrest

I wear a headband of police tape.
My brain is a crime scene.
Sometimes I say what I don’t think
or think what I don’t mean.
My memory’s a jukebox
full of skipping forty-fives.
Too many tunes, too many tracks,
tied to so many lives.
Awake all night, plagued by my plight,
surrendering by dawn,
I rise at noon, aware that soon
the day is almost gone.
I know that aging’s not a crime,
but it could be much cleaner.
It’s surely not a felony,
perhaps just misdemeanor.

O.G. Sparks Fly

Electronics have no feeling.
Oftentimes they leave you reeling.
One day, just as you had feared,
your password has disappeared.
All your work’s gone into hiding,
with so much upon it riding.
Reestablishing contact
isn’t just a simple act.
Jump through hoops to hit dead end.
Electronics aren’t your friend.
You can’t find some help online.
Your machine can’t hear you whine.
Google tells you, try again.
Welcome to the looney bin.
Fall into a thousand traps,
increase harder keyboard taps,
’til you’re pounding on ‘escape,’
your face purple as a grape.
If electronics could laugh,
you’d break your keyboard in half.
Silently, you hit reboot.
Then you go off on a toot.
Electronics? Just a vapor.
Not your friend like pen and paper.

Fatal Flaw

His castle in Palm Beach, 
called ‘Mar-a-Lago,’ (Sea to Lake),
was home to secret documents
he had no right to take.
Some with top priority,
like info about nukes,
were hidden in a basement
club accessible to kooks.
When asked to give them back,
he didn’t even offer half.
To him, the notion ‘classified’
was nothing but a laugh.
Confronted with an FBI raid
taking back the haul, 
he gave the following excuse
(the man has lots of gall):
“Every President steals things
when forced to leave their post.
So what if I stole a few things.
Obama took the most.”
The man has no conception
 of the notion of the law.
One hopes this proof of treason
just might be his final flaw.

Rat Tales

A church full of rats in elegant hats
were ready to pray to their lord.
The high priest of vermin always gave his sermon
from inside a hollowed-out gourd.
They sang of great scraps and afternoon naps
and filled every one of the pews.
The high priest did squeak, with food in his cheek,
and said, “Vermin, I have some good news.”
It seems the pizza rat, who’d stirred up human chat,
was going to be the guest at next week’s meeting.
He’d bring a map of spill zones and discarded food locales.
The congregation dreamed of better eating.
“He’ll show you a cafe down one dark alleyway
which has amazing food but not much seating.”
The service ended with tails intertwined.
Aside from cats, food preys on a rat’s mind.

No Monkey Business

I’ve suffered through the Ukraine war, 
pandemic and inflation.
The world’s in such a fragile state,
we all need a vacation.
So, wrap me up in shower curtains.
Seal me in a box.
I didn’t come all this long way
to die of monkeypox.

Sun Flake

Could only take ten minutes in the sun.
I’m old enough to know when my skin’s done.
And then, there were the ants,
and me, out in short pants.
All I could do was sing the blues,
and shoo them with my flip-flop shoes.
The outdoors is driving me inside.
Indoors, with cats, I easily abide.
It takes one bad burn to wake.
And I know my skin won’t flake.
The steeper the grade,
the more one needs shade.
Those little round age spots
are all solar made.
Go inside and dream a lake.
Read, write, rest and maybe bake.

The Ballad of Bobby Crimo

Murder chat rooms on the internet
draw one in to crazies not yet met.
Videos of bloodbaths filmed for fun.
Cartoons of a shooter with long gun.
Bobby’s last post was of a beheading.
He’ll get revenge for years of bed-wetting.
With auto rifle he climbed on a roof,
shot random paraders as a goof.
Dead were folks from eight to eighty-five.
Thirty more he wounded might survive.
Captured after uneventful chase,
his mug shot shows sad young sicko’s face.
Reed thin and quite tattoo decorated,
he finally took aim at what he hated.
Called himself a rapper named “Awake,”
strove to cure America’s ‘mistake.’
Though he was a Cub Scout as a kid,
it seems there was an evil side he hid.
When message boards and 4chan brought him out,
he flipped to a much darker side, no doubt.
And so, in Highland Park, he met his fate,
deciding July fourth was the right date.
He put a murder show on for the news.
Too late now were social media clues.
And when the police tracked him down,
he meekly laid out on the ground.
Bobby Crimo had his say.
Seven people dead today.

Kill Fil (Part One)

Kill the filibuster.
That shit has lost its luster.
The next step is abort
the current Supreme Court.
Then take back Roe v Wade
and start to throw some shade.
Come down on Gaetz and friends
who all seek evil ends.
Boebert and M.T. Greene,
and that whole Big Lie scene,
must be erased with haste, not grace,
for this country to change its mien.

Kafka in Hell

Kafka woke to find he’d turned to Putin.
“To hell with all these bugs, let’s start some shootin’!”
Though Metamorphosis was on his brain,
he opted instead to attack Ukraine.
Killing civilians might be wrong and vile,
but he had not one thought about a Trial.
But Franz felt waging war became a hassle,
and wished that he was back home at the Castle.
Transition was a worrisome occurrence.
He wished he’d go back to selling insurance.
War and its hell turned out to be a bother,
worse than his relationship with his father.

Court and Sparks

Supreme Court favors pollution.
It’s their fourth straight bad solution.
Open carry was the first.
Ban abortions was the worst.
Prayer in schools then got its day.
Now climate change deemed okay.
All three right-wing leaning judges
have obscured our laws with smudges.
Their contempt has freedom flinching.
May be they will bring back lynching.

Abortion Aborted

Supreme Court had a field day
taking women’s rights away.
Yesterday, put guns in play.
For tomorrow, who’s to say?
Maybe bring back slavery?
Poor and homeless work for free,
tossed aside like mere debris.
Next they’ll come for you and me.
What to do when justice breaks?
Remind people of the stakes.
Voting big is what it takes.
Weed out all the thieves and rakes.
We can’t turn back centuries.
The right would drive us to our knees.
A strong wind blows from angry seas.
It’s got the public in a squeeze.

The Elephant Gang

Republican isn’t a party any more.
It’s a nasty right wing gang waging a civil war.
Their leader is an imbecile who thinks he is a Don,
a self proclaimed grand master of the lie, the cheat and con.
Despite their fall, they kept the ball rolling toward anarchy.
Could be too late. They’ll storm the gate and kill democracy.
The fate of our good nation depends on Schiff and Cheney,
presenting information which at times looks simply zany.
The mob that breached the Capital to kill some Democrats
looked like a plan to sink the ship, and these guys were the rats.
If all the planners of this failed coup remain clear and free,
say goodbye to freedom and hello autocracy.

Hunting the Orange Elephant

R is for the Rifles they admire.
E is for Egregious things they say.
P is for the Pacs which steer their thinking.
U is for their Underhanded way.
B is for the Borders they would close down.
L is for the big Lie they embrace.
I is for the Idiot, their idol.
C is Contempt for the human race.
A is for Audaciousness of purpose.
N is for Negation of our rights.

NO means DON’T elect them into office,
lest Democracy fades from our sights.