Obituary of Randy Holmes Young

Age 72, passed away Wednesday, April 2, 2025 at his home.  Randy is the son of the late Williard Holmes Young and Mary Katherine (Lyon) Young. He is also predeceased by his brother Bruce Young.  Randy is survived by his daughter Carlye (Matthew) Trickett, grandchildren, Abigail, Alexander and Madeline Trickett; sister Gaynor L. (Dennis) Young-Pierce; brother Ryck Young with Bridgett Kingsley; former sister-in-law Debbie Young and Herm; along with several nieces and nephews.  A memorial service to celebrate Randy’s life will be held in June at Keuka Lake. 

A Tribute to My Father

My father passed away at his home on April 2, 2025 and since then I have been trying to figure out how to summarize his 72 years.  Looking through pictures I am reminded of his most precious moments, and some I was able to be a part of.

There’s a picture of his first Christmas, sitting around the Christmas tree with his older brother Ryck and my grandfather.  My father’s chubby cheeked grin, so full of life and his eyes bright with the unknown future ahead. As a child, growing up on the family farm, my dad spent time hiking in the woods, cross country skiing, and watching deer from the kitchen bay window while enjoying jam on warm toast.  He was a farm boy and being outside brought him the most joy.  While going to school at Elmira Free Academy, he participated in gymnastics, found a love for numbers, drafting, art and using his hands.  Outside of school he worked at the family ski shop, skied, hung out with friends and lived life.  His friend’s Mouse and Fitzy were always characters in the stories that he told.

Many of his pictures were from the top of pitched roofs 20+ feet in the air admiring the view.  He was fearless, but precise, and he couldn’t stand it when corners were cut.  My dad loved his tools and took so much pride in his craftsmanship.  I can still see him in his jeans and t-shirt, taking his tape measurer off his belt clip, measuring once, and marking the lines with his pocket knife sharpened pencil. He was unapologetically himself and said exactly what he thought and I am happy to have inherited some of those qualities as well. 

My father always tried to make my visits fun.  One year he took me to Greek Peak where I learned how to snowboard. Many times, we would go to the mall arcade and spend a fortune in quarters playing pinball games and air hockey.  The rest of the time we would hang out at the farmhouse.  I loved the farmhouse, the way it smelled and the fact that my grandfather had helped to make it what it was.  We walked the creek, explored the woods, the barns, hung out by the pond and picked flowers.  Sometimes we just sat inside and built things with tinker toys and Lincoln logs. It was wonderful.  A few times I remember being scared at night and he would sit with me until I fell back to sleep.  In the morning, we would eat breakfast with my grandmother and watch the deer and birds outside until we went to the ski shop.  There, I would watch him refinish skis and play in the clothes racks.

When we couldn’t be together, he would send me cards with caricatures and gifts that no one else had. Every letter started with “Dear Pooper Do” and ended with “I love you, Dad” and a heart made with X’s and O’s.  The gifts he sent me were always unique like the in-home solar system, a tabletop pinball game, books on how to draw, handmade earrings, a clay pig piggybank, cassette tapes of his favorite bands, a handmade skateboard or a hand strung wooden tennis racket.  As I grew older his letters and voicemails addressed me as “Beautiful”, but their endings were just the same.  My gifts became more practical like, USB phone chargers, boxes of greeting cards, flashlights, cool gadgets, calendars and umbrellas.  The caricatures in the cards continued along with his sketches, paintings and drawings and I cherish them all.

My dad loved that his granddaughter, Abigail was born the day before his birthday.  After her birth, he visited us in Naples, Florida every few years.  On his visits he would spend time teaching her to draw or how to give her toys a proper bubble bath.  One year, he revamped and repainted Abigail’s playground.  Each year he would celebrate his birthday with a Boston cream pie; however, he was happy to eat any type of sweet!

Over the last year, he had finally settled down and had a place to call home and I wish he could have enjoyed that a little while longer.  Sundays will be quieter without his calls or voicemails saying, “Hey Beautiful, it’s your dad!” I will not hear his voice or his stories and that makes me sad.  I will just have to hold onto his last words, “I love and miss you whole bunches.  Tell Abigail I love her and Matt hello for me.”