Birth date: Jan 2, 1951 Death date: Mar 7, 2024
Richard J. Cureton passed away unexpectedly on March 7, 2024. Born in New Orleans, LA to Jerald and Grace (nee Whitesell) Cureton, Rick was 73 years old. He was a longtime resident of Riverton, NJ. Beloved husband of 31 years to Read Obituary
We were saddened to hear of Rick's passing. He was a nice man; funny, gracious, could laugh at himself, and generous. Years ago he gave me advice about my photography hobby which helped me develop that hobby into a business. Sincere condolences to his family he will be missed. Paula T Webb PhD & Mark Douglas
Rick was my best friend -- we went through adolescence together, with everything that entails. As a teenager, I spent countless hours in the Curetons’ house, pool, and driveway, where the basketball backboard served as a crucial character-development center. Our common idol was Bill Bradley, but when it came to basketball, I was vastly inferior to Rick and Doug Nichols (the other member of our triumvirate, who died last year). As a high school freshman, though, Rick encouraged me to go out for quarterback after I’d played guard in Pop Warner football. Rick played football for a while too, but gave it up in high school to concentrate on basketball. Both of those choices turned out well.
The ways that Rick had my back, from Tinton Falls to Monmouth Regional, college, and beyond, are too numerous to recount. Whenever I felt insecure, Rick reassured and bucked me up. After he transferred to Peddie for 11th and 12th grades, we exchanged letters regularly; he saved mine, collected them in a binder, and later gave them back to me. (I still have them.) He urged me to become a writer, and at one point proposed a deal that required me to create an original cartoon every week. I can’t remember what kind of incentive he offered, though ultimately I did become a writer.
Here’s another time when Rick backed me up: The summer after our freshman year in college – where both of us had, ahem, been introduced to marijuana – I wrote a letter to a distant friend mentioning that Rick and I had gotten stoned that night. For some reason I left it out in plain sight, and my ever-vigilant mother found it and freaked out. In the wake of her panic, Rick took the bull by the horns: He volunteered the same information to his father, Jerry Sr. (my mother’s OB-GYN) so that we’d be in the same boat.
I always felt that Rick’s sense of responsibility was a blessing and a curse. He seemed to feel a duty to shoulder the load, hold down the fort, be the adult in the room. Doug and I used to call him the “may-ture” boy – “mature” pronounced like “nature.” At one point, as we entered adulthood, he told me how relieved he was to finally be approaching the age that he felt he’d been all along. Rick and I didn’t have much contact late in life, but my impression – supported by the facts in his obituary – is that this duty of care never waned.
The last time I saw Rick was a few years ago, when he came to California to visit his college friend Jim Cahill, who had terminal cancer. At some point during our day together, Rick asked me what I thought was the worst thing I ever did to him. This was a tough choice, but I singled out a time when we were at my house and he was trailing me, at some delay, up the stairs to my room. Don’t ask why – to scare him or something – but I hid in the hallway around the corner and, when I thought he was still on the steps, dropped a nine-iron golf club in front of him. Unfortunately, he was a step ahead of my estimate, and the club hit him squarely on the head. I was mortified; Rick turned around, went back down the stairs, walked out the front door and all the way home. I chased him the whole time apologizing, but all he would say was, “Aw, Dave.”
Anyway, Rick told me that was the wrong answer. His choice was the time when he asked if he could borrow my basketball for the summer and I said no. It was a “Super-K” brand ball, which we agreed had a special feel – somehow, a really superior basketball. Even though I was but a lowly vassal compared to him, it was mine, whereas Rick apparently felt that, since he was the king of basketball, I owed it to him as a kind of tithe to advance his career.
In retrospect, considering the all the things he did for me, perhaps he was right – it was the least I could have done in return. Maybe if I’d loaned him the ball, he would have played in the NBA. So Rick -- I’m sorry. (But I still think hitting you on the head with a nine iron was worse.)
Rick and I met in the sixth grade, when our respective NJ elementary schools (mine Sycamore, his Swimming River) funneled into New Shrewsbury’s sole junior high, Tinton Falls School. Even then he was the tallest boy, and clearly destined to be both one of the ‘smart kids’ and a stellar basketball player. A handful of us got close and stayed close, hanging out constantly at one another’s houses (or the local drive-in or Monmouth Diner on Route 35), bucking each other up through the usual teen tribulations: getting licenses, swapping or surviving crushes, negotiating the college admission labyrinth. It felt like a minor betrayal when his parents pulled him from Monmouth Regional and sent him to Peddie for the last two years of high school (‘private’ school?), but we learned to exchange letters, the occasional phone call and visits home for hanging out. Losing touch wasn’t an option, then or later, despite the vagaries of distance and circumstance. Rick simply didn’t ditch on the important stuff, most of all friendships; he was the one you could count on to pick up where you’d left off, go the distance or, if need be, share the hot seat.
A minor illustration of that last comes to mind, mildly humorous and so typical of Rick. We’d gone off to college, mostly in New England. Road trips between schools naturally followed. One freshman year weekend Rick came up from Brown to visit me at Wellesley, which was then and remains today an all-women’s Seven Sisters school. The campus, in a quiet suburb of Boston, is impeccably landscaped with a broad wooded lake. We spent the afternoon canoeing there, paying little attention to the time until sunset was close and it seemed too late for him to be getting on the road back to Providence. My dorm was mostly single and double rooms, with a shared common bathroom on each floor. A friend with a single had gone home for the weekend, so we decided he could bunk in her room – a clear violation of Wellesley’s strict in loco parentis parietal rules prohibiting males in the sleeping quarters of dormitories. It was easy enough to blow off that concern: we knew that our intentions were innocent (they were), and my friends were okay with our solution to this pesky logistical problem. All was well until the next morning, when Rick wanted to brush his teeth and shower before hitting the road. I was in my room, when suddenly a piercing scream came from the bathroom. I ran down the hall and entered to find the horrified housekeeper, frozen in place and pointing at the door of a locked toilet stall. Protruding below were two hairy and decidedly male-looking muscular calves, with a pair of enormous size who-knows-what bare feet attached. The house mother was summoned. I thought the whole thing was pretty funny, but she most decidedly did not. I was summarily threatened with disciplinary charges for this egregious violation of parietals.
I never found out what the punishment would be, however, because Rick immediately went into chivalry mode, professing the pureness (and consummate practicality) of my invitation to stay overnight. House Mom was so impressed by his noble defense and gentlemanly demeanor – also, doubtless, by his good looks and sheer height — that the threat of being hauled in front of the dread disciplinary council evaporated on the spot. I was off the hook, and Rick was back on the road to Brown.
Rick never lost those skills at diplomacy, or his steady loyalty and impulse to defend and protect those he cared about. Big and big-hearted, he was the quintessential go-to guy to the end.
---Sue Dolan
Rick and I were born one day apart, he on January 2 and me on the third. Our families moved to the newly developed Swimming River Acres around the same time, part of the great suburban migration of the 1950s. Rick lived two houses up from me on Riveredge Road, and we were part of the large gang of kids who grew up in the neighborhood. We were in the same cohort through elementary and junior high school and spent countless hours hanging out in each other's homes. While I have plenty of stories about growing up the way we did, I will share this:
During the summer before our sophomore year in college, I had a job working at the local drive-in theater and got Rick to join me. It was menial maintenance work, rewiring broken window speakers and cleaning up what you can imagine was pretty gross trash in the lot, especially in the back rows on Sunday morning, but we took it seriously, going so far as to buy matching jumpsuits for our personal uniform. We worked alone, and one day, Jersey summers being hot even back then, we recognized our mistake and ended up stripping down to our boxers, gloves, and workboots as we filled the large plastic trashbags. On another occasion the manager had us drive into NY to pick up some special large promotional posters for the movie "Patton." A visit to the big city was different, so we donned jackets and ties under our jumpsuits, determined to do something special. Off we went in the theater's clunky truck, taking the back roads since its top speed was maybe 45. In the city we made our pickup someplace in the west 30's, and then, it being close enough to lunchtime, found a midtown steakhouse. Off came the jumpsuits and, looking like the executives we fancied ourselves to be, we enjoyed a fine steak lunch that cost (remember, this was some 50 years ago) the princely sum of maybe $35. When we got back to the theater, we went to the office to get reimbursed for our expenses. I turned over the receipts: $4.00 for gas, 50 cents for tolls, $1.00 for parking, $35.00 for lunch. The manager, a longtime employee of the Walter Reade Organization, shuffled through the slips, stopped, took off his glasses, looked up at us, said "What the hell?", looked back down, thought for a long minute, sighed, and paid for everything.
Condolences to his family.
Jeff Nintzel
Rick’s zest for life was contagious! Always loved our conversations and good laughs together over the years. God bless.
Deepest sympathies to Lynne and the whole family.
-Andrew and Jennie Comerford
Rick was a good friend. He did a Great job as Chairman of The Food Bank of South Jersey, and as his Vice-Chairman we became very close. I will miss him. We are in FL so I will be unable to pay my respects. RIP Rick.
Joe Ford
Ricky you will be dearly missed by all your golf friends. We all shared lots of great times with you. Rest in Peace big guy.
I grew up with Richard , I played Pop Warner Football “ The New Shrewsbury Rhinos “ with him. We went undefeated .
Davy Darlington , Doug Nichols and Richard were always together.
Richard’s. Father Dr. Cureton was our team Doctor. I remember Dr Cureton
And Mrs Cureton being VERY upset after we played Rumson / Fairhaven when the Rumson people were insulting the Black Players on our team.
All the Cureton’s were wonderful people. Richard was a wonderful person from the beginning.
I was upset when Richard left our school system ( Monmouth Regional) and went to Peddie. We wished he had stayed with us through H.S.
We missed him. God Bless him and keep him. God Bless his family.
Ricky Binaco.
Super nice guy. I'm glad I got to know him. Rest in heaven.
Chari Nance
One of the nicest guys ever!!! His big smile and positive attitude will never be forgotten. He I’ll be missed at Riverton. He will be missed by so many. So glad we had the chance to know him. RIP
