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

No Justice

Of course he had her killed on Rosh Hashanah.
He likes to mar big dates with evil deeds.
And killing of the Democrats’ madonna
had become uppermost amongst his needs.
We might see Ted Cruz on the Supreme Court.
Or maybe Big Bill Barr or Judge Jeanine.
Moscow Mitch will bitch that time is so short
his men must rush this through, know what I mean?
The fate of Merrick Garland does not matter.
That was a matter from a different time.
This justice will be named despite the splatter.
Yes, it’s amoral, but it’s not a crime.
The lives of our grandchildren will be tainted
for decades by our mad king’s justice picks.
Their future, bleak already, will be painted
by one crazy rich man’s dirty tricks.

Martin and Lewis, Together Again

John Lewis finally crossed that bridge,
he’s on the other side.
He now rests with Reverend King,
and we have one less guide.
They broke his skull in Selma,
as he, protesting, knelt.
Served thirty years in Congress.
His passion was heartfelt.
He always worked for justice,
used non-violence to fight strife.
These last four years, he fought the swamp,
’til cancer took his life.
He was a man whose history
defined a striving nation.
Let’s hope he feels redemption
at the next inauguration.

Gazebo Nights

When the fellows brought their cellos,

it got mellow straight away.

All the hangers-on and horns-in-pawn

of course would have their say.

And the violins screamed violence,

while violas sweetly bloomed,

as the harp came in like silence,

when the kettle drum then boomed,

all the dockside shook like thunder,

echoing came voices, crying.

We have but one stage of wonder.

And then all the rest is dying.

Compound History

Consider all the family’s been through.

They’ve died in cars, in planes and now canoe.
Some call the family Kennedy
unlucky as a clan can be.
Joe Junior went to war, his plane went down.
JFK ambushed in Dallas town.
RFK, election day, shot at hotel in L.A.
Seemed like no end to their misery.
John John junior’s plane went in the sea.
Teddy lived through two bad crashes
before cancer made him ashes.
Later relatives have died, accidents and suicide.
There was even talk about a curse.
This latest boating death just makes it worse.
Their name rings out in history,
garlanded by mystery.
One could say the family car’s a hearse.

No Sunshine

Almost a million jobs are gone.

I think it’s time to mow the lawn.
And where is my stimulus check?
I stayed inside, so what the heck?
I haven’t seen my friends in weeks.
Wind whistles through my hollow cheeks.
The raindrops are a welcome patter.
Nothing else now seems to matter.
Watching trees blow, wet and slick,
can make one forget the sick.
Images of death and dying
ought to keep one up nights, crying.
Never thought I’d see a plague.
Always thought Camus was vague.
Hoarding cans of food to eat.
Body bags are in the street.
There’s a navy ship at dock,
nurses working ’round the clock.
Bless the workers. They’re essential.
Fortitude is providential.
In their manmade cave inside,
all know someone who has died.
Every day the list expands,
writers, actors, men in bands.
As the world around us dithers,
just today we lost Bill Withers.
Life’s become a tragedy.
Tonight I’ll sing “Lean On Me.”