​Dream catchers did not originate in New Mexico, but if you know where to look, you’ll find them everywhere. Powerful symbols, they have spawned numerous metaphors to help us understand life. 
 
One version of the original dream catcher legend says that the Spider Woman (Asibaikaashi), was the custodian of all Ojibwe. However, as the tribe started spreading out across Northern America, she could no longer care for every member. So to help Asibaikaashi keep unity and peace within the growing tribe, the Ojibwe women started weaving magical webs for their infants. These orbs hung above the children's beds to protect them from harm or bad dreams. 
 
The orb shape is powerful. As Black Elk, the early 20th century Oglala Sioux Holy Man said,
 
Everything an Indian does is in a circle, and that is because the power of the World always works in circles, and everything tries to be round . . . The sky is round and I have heard the earth is round like a ball, and so are all the stars. The wind in its greatest power whirls, birds make their nest in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours. Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing, and always come back again to where they were.

Native American tribes now share the dream catcher. They understand suffering and injustice on a painfully fundamental level, having paid the consequence for others’ entitlement, selfishness and irresponsibility time and time again. 
 
As entitlement, selfishness and irresponsibility show no sign of waning, it is not surprising that other cultures have turned to the dream catcher as both inspiration and warning: a reminder of our interconnectedness. Rather than be angry that other cultures turn to the dream catcher, Native Americans, the Ojibwe tribe in particular, have reason to stand tall.
 
For another way to see the dream catcher is that our world is one ginormous web, into which we each weave the tiny thread of our lives, with no boundaries of race, religion, nationality or gender. We end up belonging in many different smaller webs: those of our families, our jobs, our schools, our neighborhoods, etc. 
 
We each carry a thread and trust that the person with whom we interact will meet us and hold up their thread, to create a solid stitch in the web. 
 
Sometimes this filament is impersonal but nonetheless essential: we trust the pilot will safely land this plane, we trust this chef will adequately cook this chicken. If each one of us holds up our end of the thread with integrity, we carry on in harmony. 
 
Often, the filaments are more personal: a parent, spouse, sibling, friend, co-worker. 
And when people with whom we are interwoven die, they take their thread with them, creating a hole in the webs of those connected to them. Just as the myth says, sorrow, loneliness and all sorts of pain enter into this hole that is created.
 
When those we care about die prematurely or violently, their string is yanked out of our webs, and the hole is larger, deeper.
 
It is almost impossible to build a healthy web with those who are selfish, entitled or irresponsible. In the legend of White Buffalo Call Woman, she passed this wisdom down in her Lakota Instructions for Living:
 
Friend, whatever you do in life, do the very best you can with both your heart and minds… When one sits in the Hoop Of The People, one must be responsible because All of Creation is related. And the Hurt of one is the hurt of all...
 
So it was this past summer that the hurt of Vice-Principal Susan Montoya became the hurt of all who knew her when she soared into our Big New Mexican skies on her fatal balloon ride. Shortly before the balloon fiesta, authorities released the toxicology report of her pilot: the amounts of cocaine and pot found in both his blood and urine were at near fatal doses. 
 
Because of his irresponsibility, entitlement and selfishness, the string of trust Susan placed in him was torn asunder. With her string violently severed, a gaping hole was created in the webs of her family, co-workers and friends.
 
So it was also this month, on the set of a low budget Western called “Rust”, shot under our Big New Mexican skies at Bonanza Creek Ranch. 
 
The web of a successful film set must be tightly woven: the hours, proximity and locations dictate it. When they are not, unspeakable tragedy can ensue, like the death of Director of Photography Halyna Hutchins.
 
Those who lack integrity, who live under delusions of entitlement, irresponsibility, or selfishness cannot hold up the threads others entrust them with, and the web suffers. 
 
The 24-year-old armorer from Arizona is the one responsible for the guns and any ammo on set – (and they found 500 rounds, some live). She is the one who alleged in an interview that although her father is a well-known armorer, she is largely “self-taught”, and almost didn’t take her first job, because, she shared, “I wasn’t sure I was ready”. She dropped many threads on this, her second job.  
 
The AD from California, the one charged with running the set, the one who handed the gun with a lead bullet to the actor, telling him it was a “cold gun” admitted after the fact that he didn’t actually take the time to properly check the gun. There were even two prior misfires of the prop gun on set the week before. This AD also dropped so many threads.
 
The star who fired the gun was also a producer on the film, in town from New York.  Who is responsible for a set if not the producer? Where he could have knit a tight web, he didn’t. In fact, hours before Halyna was killed, six seasoned camera operators and assistants quit, frustrated by subpar working conditions – safety being one of their concerns. It was reported that Halyna had been advocating for safer conditions for her crew; to no avail. Money, it seems, trumped people. 
 
When these qualified crew members threatened to walk, they were replaced with non-union workers. In fact, the qualified crew was informed that if they didn’t leave that fateful morning, producers would call security to remove them. This is the set the producers created.
 
These very same producers hired the AD who had been fired off a 2019 set for ….wait for it…the negligent discharge of a firearm.  
 
However, remember: a dream catcher is an interwoven circle. As Long Man (Isna-la-wica), a Teton Sioux observed:
 
I have seen that in any great undertaking, it is not enough for a man to depend simply upon himself.
 
So because this web is a circle, one must turn 180 degrees and consider its other side: the power of those threads that were woven with integrity and trust. The talented and beautiful Halyna clearly knew how to weave threads with others.  
 
Her gaffer Serge Svetnoy had worked with her on at least five other productions.  “We took care of each other,” he wrote after her death. “I can say with 100% confidence that she was my friend.” This confidence is the result of webs that make life worth living.
 
Because Halyna knew how to build wisely, Serge also acknowledged and thanked camera operator Reid Russell for being part of their web.  When Serge signals out Reid as part of the team, I know what he means. Reid is one who holds tightly the threads others give to him.
 
My favorite memory of Reid is from my brother Jake’s wedding. Jake and his bride danced to Bobby Darrin’s “Under the Sea”.  I remember thinking, “Wow, I didn’t know Jake could dance!”. That thought lasted until the bride’s cousin Reid later started to dance with her. And I mean DANCE.  As they began to twirl and groove, the dance floor emptied. In fact, the entire wedding party actually stopped, mouths agape. Reid moved with unabandoned vitality and grace, and the bride morphed in to Ginger Rogers to keep up. At the end of the song, the whole place burst into enthusiastic applause. “Oh my,” I whispered to our sister. “Cousin: 1, Groom: 0. Let’s hope Jake has some moves we don’t know about.”
 
Serge wrote, “Reid was with us and helped save Halyna”. 

But wait, you say, Halyna was not saved.  
Yet because she knew how to build a web of trust and love, Halyna was saved from dying alone. In the worst hour of her life, it was this web she had carefully built with those around her that held her tight.  She bled out in the arms of her friends: “We all loved Halyna,” Svetnoy declared.  “All loved” because that is how tight threads work, even in a professional environment: Love. And love never fails.
 
And Serge is right: with these strong threads, people live on. 
 
Chief Seattle Suquamish believed:
 
There is no death. Only a change of worlds. 
 
Halyna, a master web builder, will live on in every tightly woven web she built, despite the hole her departure tore.  Her threads to Serge and Reid reflect the artistry of shared interests, shared values, shared talents, the beauty of life: love of art, of family, of horses, of music & dance, and of the Big New Mexican sky. 
 
Yes, this self-described “restless dreamer,” Halyna will live on, especially in her husband Matthew and son Andros' webs.  But while she lives on in 9-year old Andros, the hole in his web is deep and irreparable, the kind that occurs when a parent dies when you are still a child. Ironically, this mirrors Reid’s childhood web. 
 
I hope to one day see Reid dance again at a family celebration. I am no fool. I know a deep piece of him forever lies in the ground in the church at Bonanza Creek Ranch, under the Big New Mexican Sky, tied with Halyna and Serge. I understand that he will never again dance with the unabashed vitality and possibility of youth that I remember. But to see Reid dance again at all will be a triumph of sorts, grace in its glory.
 
I do not know what it is like to lose a friend like Susan or Halyna so violently and suddenly. But like many, I do know what it is to lose someone I love with all my heart. So many of us are walking around with webs torn asunder, with holes into which grief, fear, doubt, disappointment, and pain fester. 
 
But it is this – this having loved and having lost - this is what shows us the need to hold all the tighter to the new threads people give us, and to the old threads friends and loved ones continue to share with us. This understanding helps us appreciate the daily chance to connect even casually, to live with integrity, so that we hold each other up. This understanding motivates us to eschew any irresponsibility, selfishness and entitlement we feel because we deeply understand we are all in this together.
 
Legendary musician and songwriter Robbie Robertson, of Mohawk and Cayuga descent, understands these dream catching webs. He does not believe in boundaries: not of race, religion, gender, nationality.  His song Ghost Dance can be seen as a powerful testament to those who weave strong webs in the face of those who do not:
 
You can kill my body
You can damn my soul
For not believing in your god
And some world down below

You don't stand a chance against my prayers
You don't stand a chance against my love
They outlawed the Ghost Dance
They outlawed the Ghost Dance
But we shall live again, we shall live again
We shall live again

Dad dances with his mom at his sister Ann's wedding...and years later with his daughter at hers.

On September 25th, Dad was supposed to be up in Albuquerque, enjoying our mountain view, eating my husband Jory’s gourmet cooking, being entertained by three of his youngest and silliest grandkids. 
 
On September 25th, I sit at Dad’s bedside in Tucson with my sister Pauline, as his body slowly cools. 
 
My dad is a good man. 
He was, and always will be. He has transcended time now, so past, present and future all apply.
 
When Dad canceled his trip to visit us, I planned to drive down for a routine visit on Monday. However, on Sunday, Pauline emails, later texts, that Hospice confirms he has taken a serious turn for the worse. Panicked, I throw way too few clean pairs of underwear and clothes into a bag and hit the road. I call Marilyn, one of Dad’s best friends for the last 60 years. “Get a priest for Last Rites,” she urges me.
 
By the time I complete my seven-hour drive, I am stricken to learn that Dad has already been unconscious for five of them.  
 
His eyes are closed, mouth open. “Dad, I’m here. I’m here,” I tell him. His eyes roll in response and he twitches, as if confirming that hearing is the last sense to go.  
 
Exhausted, Pauline plans to go home. “Wait – what??”  I stop her.
​I’ve never been with anyone when they’ve passed away, and the thought of it scares me. I’m a product of my society, the one that has largely sanitized death and marginalized dying.
 
She looks at me.  
“He could die,” I say lamely.  
“That’s the plan,” she sighs. “There’s nothing to do but be here.” 
Isn’t that ultimately our challenge: not to do, do, do but just to BE?
 
Dad has a strict DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) order so he has eschewed hospital aid. The caregivers at his facility have permission to give him morphine every two hours as needed, and they do.  I recline in his chair, then make a bed from the couch cushions, as I greet the caregivers at midnight, 2am, 4am, 6am.  
 
I am by Dad’s bedside at 7:31 AM when he opens his eyes and focuses on me. “Dad!”  He knew I was coming, and he waited for me.
All I can think to say is, “I love you! I love you!” I see him acknowledge this, then he clearly tells me, “I love you.” This. This here is why I rushed across the desert. To see and hear him tell me this one last time is everything.
 
I tell him it’s OK to go, but he has already lapsed back into unconsciousness.  Convinced he can hear, I call his sister Helen and give her the chance to say goodbye. Then I FaceTime my brother Jake, still on the East Coast. The priest arrives, a soulful Nigerian who had just visited Mom in Memory Care. It is a beautiful ritual, these Last Rites.
 
Then, it's time to get Mom from Memory Ward. 
 
The sedative we had been waiting for has arrived. Mom is unaware that Dad is leaving us.
 Our family friend El advised (on my drive down) that we let Mom deduce (or not) what is going on with Dad.
 
Hunched in her wheelchair, Mom looks smaller, but is delighted to see me. I start to cry.
 
Upon seeing Dad, eyes closed, mouth open, stretched out, Mom says, “He’s not eating very much, is he?” 
Pauline had told me earlier that Dad had stopped eating on Wednesday, five days ago.  
“He’s not,” we agree.  
She studies him further. “He seems very tired.”  
“He is, Mom.”  
“He’s ready to go, isn’t he?”  
“Yes. He is.”
With this, she takes a breath. She looks at him, his eyes still closed, and tells him, “You did a good job, John. You can go now.” 
 
We sit in silence. Then Mom asks for the phone. She wants us to call one of her best friends from high school.  
“Um – Mom?” Jake asks from my phone on Facetime. “Don’t you want to talk to Dad instead?  I mean, while you still can?” 
Mom considers this. “No. I want to talk to Cathy.”
 
She goes on to request prayers from Cathy because, she explains, “John is in the shadows of the Football Stands now”.  I don’t know what Cathy makes of this, but since Dad was Captain of the Amherst College football team his Senior year, I find Mom’s assessment both poetic and accurate.
 
Later that afternoon, I sit alone with Dad for hours, putting cream on his feet and hands. I share last thoughts about the past, present and future. But mostly I just want to thank him. Over and over again. Despite classic growing pains, we forged an unshakable trust and devotion over the years. 
 
I have zero personal experience with death, but I’ve read that at the end, breathing gets more raspy, and there’s a dramatic death rattle with the last breath. 
 
I’ve also researched the fascinating phenomenon called “Death Bed Visions”, which is when the dying are greeted by beloved predeceased family and friends, who have come to escort them on. It's compelling because these apparitions are ubiquitous, transcending religion, culture, nationality and eras.  
 
In 1926, Sir William Barrett, a Professor of Physics at the Royal College of Science in Dublin, conducted one of the first measured studies with the dying, publishing his findings in a book titled "Death Bed Visions."
 
While Barrett was a colorful figure, three of his findings remain inexplicable, to him and everyone else: 

1. Many on their deathbed called out the names of loved ones. At the time, some of these loved ones were thought to still be alive, both by the dying and those in the room. However, communication in the 1920s was slow, and it was later discovered that every single loved one that was seen on any given death bed had previously passed away. Every. Single. One.
2. Several Catholic children on their death beds were surprised to find that the angels they were told would be greeting them had no wings, but looked like ordinary people. Photos were not common, so it’s likely these children didn’t recognize those predeceased family members who might have known them.
3. None of the dying showed any signs of fear when seeing these “ghosts” or apparitions.  

There’s been a boatload of research since, done by everyone from physicians to hospice care workers. None of it contradicts the above. 
 
Not knowing Dad would be in a coma, I had brought old photographs of Dad with his family, as a portal for him to launch into stories. But I now realize that on a subconscious level, I did this in the event of a deathbed visitation. I place these photos around Dad’s room: his mom on her wedding day, his Dad at his office.
 
There’s a photo of his sister Ann, the aunt I was closest to. Ann had a wicked sense of humor, and her phone calls often helped me through the tumultuous years of having two babies 18 months apart. (“You need a boy”, she would advise sleep-deprived me, while knee-deep in diapers, giving the toddler her pacifier, while burping the infant).
 
Classic Ann: two days AFTER she unexpectedly died, I receive a letter from her in the mail, which pretty much freaked everyone out. She was preparing to travel from New Hampshire to South Carolina for the winter. Mailing it must have been one of the last things she did.
 
Of course, being Ann, it contained a recipe for Foolproof Standing Rib Roast : “This is THE recipe!!” she emphasized. And then she wrote: “I’m off to warmer climates – one day more and I’d be a basket case. Looking forward to meeting new people and eating the ultra-ultra Carolina oysters”.  
 
Off to warmer climates and looking forward to meeting new people..??? I can hear Ann laughing from the grave as I read this. Like Dad, when they got laughing, their entire bodies would shake with mirth. Boy did she love life. This too, I learn, is a huge part of death: remembering the good times.
 
Later that night, I am alone again with Dad. Pauline has gone home, hospice has just given him his morphine, and I lie down, both tired and wired. I notice Dad’s breathing has changed. It is more ragged. I rush to his side. Nothing else seems different.  
 
I text Pauline: “May not mean anything but Dad’s breathing is more labored.” 
 
Her reply: “Hmm. Might be the beginning of the last stage.  Is it rattly?”
 
“Yes. I could hear it from the other room. Then it goes back to normal.”
 
“Thanks for letting me know. This is quite a journey.”  
(You think?!?!  In case you haven’t noticed, my sister tends to be understated).
 
Dad is working so hard to keep breathing. Something once taken for granted is now a troublesome chore, even a burden.
 
I text again, scared: “We’ve entered a new phase of ragged breathing – more consistent”
 
Her measured reply: “Seems like the end is closer, but I don’t know by how much. Hang in there Steph. Hope you can rest. I just took half a Benadryl, so I’d like to sleep for a bit but I can come up there if you want me to.”
 
Sleep? Hell no. I text: “I cannot rest with him working so hard. Hopefully it won’t be much longer.” 
 
No reply.  I don’t know how I know this, but I know this with certainty: she will miss his departure if she doesn’t come now.
 
I text, “I don’t think he will make it thru nite.”  I put down my phone. Nothing more to say.
 
The room is dark, lit by only the closet light. It is oddly peaceful. 
 
Dad suddenly opens his eyes. 
 
I gasp. “DAD!”
 
But he is not seeing me. This is not like when he opened his eyes before. He is lying down, gazing above, focused on something I cannot see. He is beyond the room.
 
I think of the Death Bed Visions. 
 
“Dad? Are you seeing them? Has your family come for you?” 
 
As if in response, he shuts his eyes and opens them again immediately. He has spent most of the past 29 hours with his eyes shut, no matter who was with him or what they said. Now he can't stop looking at something.
 
It is clear that whatever he is seeing, he likes, and is very focused on. 
 
I close my eyes in the darkened room and hold his hand. The room feels serene. All the fear I had been gripped with inexplicably drains away. In its place, I feel comforted. I can't exactly tell you why, but I start a roll call. Ann is the first I summon, because her I know. I have witnessed time and time again how much she loves her little brother. 
 
I open my eyes, and see only Dad, but can actually feel that we are not alone. I greet Dad’s mother and father, my grandparents I have never met. All those who have gone before Dad, I now call by name, remembering each of them: his sister Mary, Uncle Walter, Aunt Grace, Henny and Carmel, Aunt Mary, friends Paul, Jack, Mike. I am crying so hard the tears are pooling at my chin and dripping on to Dad.

“Come!” I tell them. “Come get your boy. Come. We love him, but he wants to go. So take him. Take him to God, to Love, to the Afterlife….” I sob. After awhile, drained, with nothing more to say, I whisper “Thank you, Thank you.”
 
During this, as if in participation, Dad keeps opening his eyes, gazing upon what I feel is with us in room softly lit by the closet light.
 
Now (and again, I can’t tell you why) I feel the urge to sing. To Dad, to our family, to all the Love I feel in the room, a love that is deeper than me, older than Dad, bigger than the sum of us. I look at his parents’ photos and the song that comes to me is Amazing Grace. Again, why this song?  I have no idea.  I haven’t heard it in years, but as if engrained in my cells, every word of every verse comes to me clearly. I’ve always wondered how singers can sing at emotional times without crying, and now I know. It just comes to you. I take my time as I sing: amazingly past tears, pitch perfect, the beautiful a cappella voice that is mine fills the room, caressing my Dad, who is leaving us.  
 
As I reach the song’s end, as if on cue, my phone rings. Pauline. She has come. 
She had texted me, but so engrossed was I in my song, I never heard the notice.
 
“Dad”, I say. “Pauline has come. I have to go and let her in downstairs. So I’ll be gone for five minutes or so. If you want to leave in privacy, we respect that. I hope you wait for her to be here. But you do what you need to do.”
 
With that, I race to the stairwell. My sister has brought a pillow and blankets. She does not understand that he might already be gone by the time we get back to the room, just as I did not understand that he would be in a coma when I arrived in Tucson. He is leaving us, and we know it, but we do not somehow understand it.
 
The night shift worker sees us and asks for an update. All I manage is, “He’s leaving us.”
 
But thankfully, he has not yet left. His breathing is still raspy. His eyes are closed, then open, to gaze on those he once again belongs with.
 
We sit on either side of him in the darkened room, my sister and I, each holding his hand.  
 
Again, when I rushed from my home I packed a scented candle, never never thinking of death. It was to write with. Now, I calmly I instruct my sister to light it. The flame gives the peaceful room a hallowed glow. 
 
From my iPhone, again – I don’t know why this song, or why the urge to still sing – I call up Cat Stevens’ Morning has Broken. Pauline and I sing along. As we sing, I start to remember how Dad loved this song. We sang it almost weekly at St. Joseph’s Church in Paris. Memories of us young, healthy and vibrant flood my mind. I see that (again, unaware) I have brought the 19th century stained glass window panel they purchased from St. Joseph’s Church right next to Dad’s bed. It is as if I am running on primal intuition, with no conscious planning. Other songs that Dad loved come to me, and we serenade the Room with them.
 
Pauline has been with us for about 40 minutes now.  Dad is still gazing fixedly on something, still struggling to breathe.
 
“What’s remarkable,” I muse, “Is what a long lifespan every one of his relatives (him included) had – except his parents.” 
 
She nods her head. 
“His dad died in his 40s” she recalls.
“His mom was about your age when she passed,” I realize.
 
“His Dad died of ulcers. Did his mom just give up?” she asks.
“No, Dad said kidney failure,” I tell her.
 
“Really? You know, Dad’s kidneys were never the greatest. Remember he used to get gout when we lived in Paris?” she recalls.
“Oh yeah!” I do remember, and never thought of kidneys.
“He never drank enough water. Ever,” she says.
“That’s true,” I agree.
“Not just when he was older. Even when he was young,” she muses.
 
“Wait - Oh my God – wait – did he just leave us?” I ask.
“No” she reassures me. “Hold on. He’ll start breathing after a beat. Just wait.”

Again, I don’t know how I know – I’m holding his hand which is still warm. But I know.
“Holy shit. There’s no wait.” I freak out, announcing, “He just died. Dad is gone. He’s gone!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah! Yeah…..”
There’s no pulse. 
 
“Ugh!” I groan. “Please tell me we were NOT discussing his kidneys and poor hydration when he left!! I mean, I was expecting this dramatic death rattle or  - but like – he just - – “
 
My sister gives me a half-smile. “Just like Dad. To slip out the back door unnoticed.”
 
She’s right. Anyone who knows Dad knows that he was very low key.
 
I suddenly start to laugh, “I feel like this has Ann’s humor all over it – once again. I can hear her say, “John – You gotta be kiddin’! They’re talking about whether you drank enough water???! Let’s go! ”
 
On a deeper level, I know Dad was content to leave while we were comfortably prattling on about something, no tears, no drama, just us together.
 
Three days later, Pauline will share her thoughts in a beautiful eulogy entitled We See Ourselves in our Parents. 
 
She closes it by remembering that one of Dad’s favorite quotes is by Robert Browning: “Come Grow Old with Me – the Best is Yet to Be”.  
She is spot on. Dad would quote this often, even in his Amherst Reunion books over the years.
“Now,” she continues, “it’s time to hear the last verse.”
(Huh, I realize. After all these years, I never bothered to actually read the poem – how DOES it end?”)
 
So, take and use Thy work: 
Amend what flaws may lurk, 
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! 
My times be in Thy hand! 
Perfect the cup as planned! 
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! 
​

​At the age of 87, John L. Young passed away peacefully surrounded by family on September 28th.  What John most loved: his wife of 56 years Donna (Coffey), traveling the world with his family Pauline (Rush), Stephanie (Rosen) and John (Jake), being stationed for Cabot Corporation in Boston, Brazil, France and Texas, his home overlooking the ocean in Hingham, the laughter of his 8 grandkids, his deep life-long friendships, some going back to Quincy’s St. John the Baptist (Elementary), St. John’s Prep, Amherst College, Tuck School of Business Dartmouth College (MBA). He was a lifelong fan of the Red Sox, delicious food, a stiff drink, the ocean in its many moods and forms, his siblings Helen (Dolan), Charles, Mary, Ann (Hatton), and their children, and the South Shore of Boston. We'll celebrate a funeral mass in 2022 at St. Paul's Church (Hingham). More on John's wonderful life at www.evergreenmortuary-cemetery.com/obituaries/John-Young-86/

​John L. Young passed away peacefully surrounded by family on September 28th. Born in Boston on July 19, 1934, the son of Charles and Pauline Young, John attended St. John’s Prep with his brother Charles, then Amherst College, then Dartmouth College (MBA), but always referred to his sister Helen (Dolan) as “the smart one”. He is predeceased by sisters Mary and Ann (Hatton). John and the love of his life Donna (Coffey) were married for 55 years, in which time they traveled the globe and created lifelong friendships. As the Managing Director of the Brazilian Plant for Cabot Corporation and Director of Finance for Cabot Europe, John showed his family the world, but Hingham was Home. His spirit lives on in children Pauline (Rush), Stephanie (Rosen), and John (Jake), in-laws Joe Rush, Jory Rosen, Darragh Fitzsimons, 8 grandchildren, and nephews & nieces. We'll celebrate a funeral mass in 2022 at St. Paul's Church (Hingham). More on John's wonderful life at www.evergreenmortuary-cemetery.com/obituaries/John-Young-86/

​Born in Boston on July 19, 1934, John Young loved Hingham and his South Shore friends.  As a child in days before air conditioning, his parents Charles and Pauline Young would drive from their home in Quincy, through Hingham, to their summer cottage in Hull with children John, Helen (Dolan), Charles, and Ann (Hatton) and Mary, (both now deceased). On every commute, young John would dream of owning the big white house on the hill overlooking the ocean on Otis Street. At the age of 42, John and the love of his life Donna (Coffey) purchased this dream home, but rented it out for close to a decade while John was the Managing Director of the Brazilian Plant for Cabot Corporation and Director of Finance for Cabot Europe. John and Donna then enjoyed Hingham and dear friends for over 30 years. John loved watching ships sail by, storms roll in, and the ocean’s calm. His spirit lives on in children Pauline (Rush), Stephanie (Rosen), and John (Jake), in-laws Joe Rush, Jory Rosen, Darragh Fitzsimons, 8 grandchildren, and nephews & nieces. We'll celebrate a funeral mass in 2022 at St. Paul's Church. More on John's wonderful life at www.evergreenmortuary-cemetery.com/obituaries/John-Young-86/

John Lotter Young: July 19, 1934 – September 28, 2021 
 
Born in Boston, MA, the fifth and final child of Charles and Pauline Brogan Young, they realized that with John, they finally got it right. That, or John’s lively nature scared them from further adding to the clan. As a child, John was prohibited from sitting near car doors for several years, after successfully proving to his beloved brother Charlie that their dad drove so slowly that he could indeed exit from the moving family car unscathed. 
 
The son of the lawyer who helped legalize Sunday baseball at Fenway Park, John was a lifelong fan of “those bums”, which explains much of his hair loss. Through her legendary cooking, his mother fostered a tremendous love of food, which explains his healthy waistline. Even seventy-five years later, John and his late sister Ann (Hatton) would vividly recite menus from Mother’s dinners in tantalizing and mouthwatering detail. Both became excellent chefs, out of the necessity to maintain her culinary standards. John attended St. John’s Prep High School, then Amherst College, then Dartmouth College for his MBA, but always referred to his sister Helen (Dolan) as “the smart one”. The day before he died, he asked if he would see his oldest sister Mary soon, who passed away years ago.  Family was everything to John, and he successfully created a tight-knit family of his own.
 
John’s friendships with Quincy St. John the Baptist Elementary School buddies Bob Bruce, Dan Gorman and Leo Zavatone continued to the end. At St. John’s Prep, he was mysteriously voted best dressed, but considered his greatest achievement the lifelong friendships he formed, particularly with George Winchester, who become a Jesuit priest. This reassured John that many of their adventures would be forgiven, or at least that George was sworn to a holy vow of confidentiality. 
 
At Amherst John again thrived, creating more lifelong bonds with the likes of Pete Levinson, John Fulton, Jimmy Li, Jerry Cogan, John Royse, Dick Volpert, and beer. He was also lineback and Captain of the Amherst football team: pure glory in the short term, a prosthetic hip in the long. While majoring in Political Science, John also learned how to get a Volkswagon Bug into Johnson Chapel, from which he and friends threw shrimp to the stunned assembly. He graduated cum laude, sans shrimp.
 
John met the love of his life, Donna Coffey, in a bar, which begs the question why he was so worried years later that his daughter met her husband online. In their almost 56 years of marriage, they created phenomenal friendships, worldwide adventures, and amassed way too much stuff. We confidently say this after decluttering their home of 41 years. Children of the Depression, John & Donna threw nothing away. Really. Nothing. 
 
Pauline, Stephanie and John (Jake) were fortunate to be raised by this man of quiet strength. Two years after signing up with Cabot Corporation, John took us on our first foreign assignment to Pampa Texas, where we lived for almost five years. He again forged lifelong friendships with many Cabot colleagues (Burnham, Fowler, Edwards and Cotter come to mind). While this was followed with stints in Sao Paulo, Brazil (2 years) and Paris, France (7 years), John never came close to mastering another language, not even Texan. When in a “non-English” situation, John would patiently look at the foreigner and just speak more slowly and loudly, his Boston accent on full display. Miraculously, as the Managing Director of the Brazilian Plant and the Director of Finance for Cabot Europe, he managed to get his point across to every non-English speaker he dealt with, from waiters in Italy, to co-workers in Argentina.
 
John loved travel, and in addition to museums and attractions, this meant finding the best food and drink available, whether in the rain forest of the Amazon or the highlands of Scotland.  Along the way, this resulted in his becoming an accomplished WWII buff, a proud Chevalier du Taste Vin (a Knight in wine tasting), and Chair of the Board of Regents for Marymount International School in Paris. Again, it was friendships with the likes of Diane Cahill and Fr. Eugene Mc Carthy which he most treasured. 
 
His deep love of family and friends was only matched by his love of home, the South Shore of Boston, particularly Hingham, Hull and Quincy. John’s close friends here are too many to list, and his love for the ocean rivals its depth. He spent many happy days on his various boats, all creatively named “the Sea Tramp”. Although “fishing” for John often meant emptying beer cans with friends and then stopping off for fish on the way home, John felt more peace on the ocean than he did anywhere else. At the age of 42, he bought his childhood dream home in Hingham which overlooked the ocean, and spent many years there throwing legendary dinner parties with his partner-in-crime Donna.
 
He was thrilled to see his family expand, with in-laws Joseph (Joe) Rush & Jory Rosen, and Darragh Fitzsimons. He was the proud Captain John/Grandpa John to Florence (Florie), Bryce, Kyle, John III (Tripp), Lillie Grace, Alexandra (Ali), James (Weston) and Tyler. He is also survived by many nephews, nieces, and godchildren, whom he adored.
 
When his beloved Donna needed Memory Care, John reluctantly moved to Tucson, Arizona three months ago, muttering under his breath that he would rather die. Unfortunately, he wasn’t kidding. A devout Catholic, he was an active parishioner of churches around the world, and received Last Rites on his last day. He passed away peacefully, surrounded by family.
 
All the above is nothing compared to John’s character. His loyalty, integrity, generosity, gentleness and deep kindness leave an indelible mark on those of us graced to have known him.  Not a day will go by without us thinking of him. Not a day will go by without us missing him. It is the end of an era.
 
After a private blessing, John will be cremated. His funeral mass will be at his beloved parish St. Paul’s in Hingham, sometime in 2022. In lieu of flowers, John requested that gifts be made in his name to St. Paul’s Elementary School: 18 Fearing Road Hingham MA 02043