Richard Primo

Obituary

Richard Victor Primo, 80, died on August 31, 2026, after a few days of loving farewells with family and friends. He was holding the hand of Sherrill Primo, his wife of 56 years.

Richard was born in 1946 in Long Branch, NJ, to Josephine and Vincent Primo. He had two siblings, Carol and Danny, and is survived by close family members: his wife, Sherrill; nephew Anthony; daughters Kari and Sara; son-in-law Michael; and four grandchildren: Jordan, Shane, Logan, and Julian.

Family love was the centerpiece of Richard's life. His genuine regard for others and remarkable skill as a listener led to a successful 45-year career in clinical psychology. Richard had a gift for making people feel understood even when they didn’t know him well.

A keen observer and distiller of details, Richard was an avid poet and a photographer: passions he came to in midlife.

Richard loved sharing old movies. He was famous for his spaghetti sauce – never the exact same twice – which left dinner guests rapturous. Over his years, he explored a love of motion and nature, enjoying activities such as cross-country skiing, windsurfing, canoeing, hiking in Acadia in Maine, and simple daily walks along the Niagara River and the Creek Trail at Crosslands.

Richard was a night owl, a bakery-finder, a befriender of shopkeepers. He was a treasure hunter, and he would take his time in a library or used bookstore. He was inspired by Quakerism and Buddhism. He walked fast in New York City and loved having nowhere to go. Richard rebounded countless basketballs for his children and grandchildren, real and metaphorical.

Richard once told his daughter, newly a parent: joy is not a lesser art. Among many things, he is remembered for his integrity, humor, kindness, gentleness, and his abiding love for the world and people around him.

Poetry

“The Loved Ones” by Wendell Berry

The loved ones we call the dead
depart from us and for a while
are absent. And then as if
called back by our love, they come
near us again. They enter our dreams.
We feel they have been near us
when we have not thought of them.
They are simply here, simply waiting
while we are distracted among
our obligations. At last
it comes to us: They live now
in the permanent world.
We are the absent ones.


“Epigraph” by Ted Kooser

The quarry road tumbles toward me
out of the early morning darkness,
lustrous with frost, an unrolled bolt
of softly glowing fabric, interwoven
with tiny glass beads on silver thread,
the cloth spilled out and then lovingly
smoothed by my father's hand
as he stands behind his wooden counter
(dark as these fields) at Tilden's Store
so many years ago. "Here," he says, smiling,
"You can make something special with this."


“Distant Regard” by Tony Hoagland

If I knew I would be dead by this time next year
I believe I would spend the months from now till then
writing thank-you notes to strangers and acquaintances,
telling them, “You really were a great travel agent,”
or “I never got the taste of your kisses out of my mouth.”
or “Watching you walk across the room was part of my destination.”
It would be the equivalent, I think,
of leaving a chocolate wrapped in shiny foil
on the pillow of a guest in a hotel–
“Hotel of earth, where we resided for some years together,”
I start to say, before I realize it is a terrible cliche, and stop,
and then go on, forgiving myself in a mere split second
because now that I’m dying, I just go
forward like water, flowing around obstacles
and second thoughts, not getting snagged, just continuing
with my long list of thank-yous,
which seems to naturally expand to include sunlight and wind,
and the aspen trees which gleam and shimmer in the yard
as if grateful for being soaked last night
by the irrigation system invented by an individual
to whom I am quietly grateful.
Outside it is autumn, the philosophical season,
when cold air sharpens the intellect;
the hills are red and copper in their shaggy majesty.
The clouds blow overhead like governments and years.
It took me a long time to understand the phrase “distant regard,”
but I am grateful for it now,
and I am grateful for my heart,
that turned out to be good, after all;
and grateful for my mind,
to which, in retrospect, I can see
I have never been sufficiently kind.

Gallery

Memory wall

September 4, 2026

My guy, my uncle.... the one and only Richie Rich. That was my nickname for him growing up. I can still see the smile on his face when i would call him that. 😃. He truly was a great listener and someone I thoroughly enjoyed talking to. Such a great guy that is going to be dearly missed. I always loved visiting him and the family in New York for Thanksgiving years ago. They were ALWAYS my favorite Thanksgivings! Every birthday he and my aunt Sherrill call me and for some reason I always miss their calls, but fortunately they would always leave me a message. I NEVER delete them so I have a treasure trove of birthday wishes from him that I will NEVER be deleting and will most certainly be listening to regularly (like i just got done doing right now). Rest in peace my dear uncle. U will forever be missed. Until we meet again. Love you, big guy.

D.L. Hart

Service