I learned that Michael Young wasn’t going to be with us much longer the week I was working on a pastel of Osgood Pond in Milford, NH. I heard the news from my brother Chuck who lives a stone’s throw from Osgood Pond. Chuck was so broken up when he called that he could barely get the words out. I thought something had happened to Chuck or his longtime love, Lou-Ann. For a nanosecond I was relieved that they were ok . . . and then came the news that Mike Young was dying. The sorrow was overwhelming. I told Chuck I would drive over to the Merrimack Hospice.
When I got there an hour or so later, the Young family filled the lobby/gathering room area. Mike’s sister Mollie, my classmate and partner in many crimes during our college years, was the first face I recognized. It has been difficult to connect with Mollie for decades but this was an opportunity to be with her, made possible by Michael’s tragic diagnosis. Mike’s son Jonathan—whom I had never met, but felt as if I had from all the stories Michael had shared—greeted me and said that Mike would not be receiving any more visitors that day. I realized I didn’t feel any need to see Michael but I felt a big need to let him know I was there. That he meant so much to me that I would literally grab my keys and jump in the car upon hearing that he was in hospice care.
I was able to let Michael know I was there by replying to a year-old text message from him. He had written, “I’m in Keene. Are you?” before dropping over for a nice catch-up visit in late June 2025.
Before I left the Hospice parking lot, I texted Mike, “I’m in Merrimack, are you?” Always a laugh riot, I am. I don’t know if he laughed, but he wrote back and I was able to tell him how much he meant to me and thank him for showing us all how to live life to the fullest before we check out.
I came to know Michael when I was a freshman at Bucknell and he and Chuck hitchhiked or took a bus to Pennsylvania to visit. He went by the nickname Radar then, with his innocent look and round spectacles. He was quiet but had a twinkle in his eye and was always ready for any activity involving beer. As we were pooling money for food or beer, Michael slowly took off a well-worn hiking boot and pulled a twenty dollar bill from under the insole. He hid it there for safe-keeping because no mugger would ever look there he explained. As he handed over the bill, he took out a little notepad and jotted down the amount of the expense. He must have been 15 years old and already he was an accountant in full accounting mode. The bicycle I took to Bucknell had been rebuilt by Michael. I remember gifting him some abstract acrylic paintings from an art class.
More than 30 years later, I was privileged to be one of Michael’s accounting customers. He fired me for some failing. But before that, he had joined a volunteer team who—against all odds—led the City of Keene in winning back a Guinness World Record for lit jack-o’-lanterns. I will go on record and say that without Mike Young that feat would not have been accomplished. He helped raise hundreds of thousands of dollars in sponsorships and made sure all obligations were met.
When I got the news that Michael had died, I was headed to Santa’s Village in Jefferson, NH, with my 11-year-old grandson. When we got there, there were images of the man in red with the snowy white beard everywhere. Mike’s sister Chris had sent me two recent pictures of Michael, one with red backpack straps and one with a red shirt. He looked just like the big guy.
I’m still at odds with accepting that the world no longer has Michael Young in it. It doesn’t sit well with me that someone younger than me, who was dear friends with my younger brother, should die before me. I know Mike will live on through his son and the grandchildren he adored home-schooling.
I know I’ll think of him often and be grateful to him always. Sending this out there, as a message to Michael.