“Tell your friend that in his death, a part of you dies and goes with him. Wherever he goes, you also go. He will not be alone.”
Jiddu Krishnamurti
AUBURN, Maine — I cut his lawn as young boy and shared a drink with him as an adult, but I never knew his first name until I read his obituary on the Revere Journal’s website this week.
I knew him as Happy Sciaraffa — a confirmed bachelor and quite the ladies man — and as he aged, he continued to surround himself with classy, beautiful women as well as enjoy the night life.
He knew how to live and I admired him for his gusto and bravado. I have no idea where his nickname came from but Happy was always a mystery to me.
And yes, Mr. Sciaraffa was a ‘Happy’ guy and a charming character who remains one of the many outlandish and cherished adults who came and went in my life.
I met Happy as teenager. I started my own landscaping business called, “I Mow Lawns.” A good friend of mine, Bob Marra, came up with the name of my endeavor.
Clever, huh?
The first time my ad ran in the Revere Journal over a dozen elderly people called my parents’ home and hired me on the spot. My father allowed me to take his car and I drove around the Greater Boston area cutting lawns for older adults, who really just liked having some company and an excuse to feed a growing young man.
Older people enjoyed a visiting short-haired teenager who didn’t addressed them as sir and ma’am. They trusted me with their unlocked homes, and when I left for college, their generosity with a going-away gift or two was overwhelming. And they fed me, and at that age, I was always up for a free meal, and there really is nothing like home-cooking
Happy heard about my enterprise through my father. The two were the old guard of Revere and were solid and upstanding citizens who loved their community.
After meeting with Happy, I thought he was a quirky guy with a unique sense of humor. It was a relationship that was forged with sarcasm, trust and jocularity. He was proud to work for the Massachusetts Registry of Motor Vehicles — where Bay Staters grow old waiting in long lines to renew their licenses.
I cut his lawn through college to pick up a few extra bucks and stay in touch with Happy. Northeastern University’s tuition wasn’t cheap, but Happy was stubborn when parting with a buck. He thought I should be paying him for the privilege of mowing his lawn.
We sort of grew into a comedy team, where we tossed barbs at each other as we mowed his huge yard with a push mower. It took three hours to complete the task, but Happy would drag it out and insist we take a break and enjoy a libation at his well-kept, shaded backyard that was hidden behind a giant brick house that resembled an old army barracks.
All I knew is his home was dark inside and also housed his Uncle Bill, a cherubic and easygoing fellow with a large smile. I also worked for him filling in pot holes in the parking lot or cleaning the kitchen at the Bayside — a pub and restaurant owned by Bill in Revere.
The Bayside no longer exists like a lot of good people in my life.
Happy would get me other jobs, including cutting the lawn for his brother Pat — a man rough around the edges with warm heart. I got so busy doing odd jobs that my sisters began working with me.
Happy wheeled in a large color TV into the backyard and turned on the Sox game.
“Sit with me,” Happy demanded. “What the hell is your hurry. Can’t you just enjoy the game with a friend.”
“Hap, I really should get going. Got things to do,” I responded.
“C’mon kid. Really! Just sit here a little while and enjoy the game, will ya” Happy said.
“How’s your father. The team looks good this year,” Happy would always ask.
He always kept an eye on the Revere High baseball team, which was coached by my father, Al Blasi, for 42 years.
But Happy was using a stall tactic. He liked having me around to brag about his friendship with the mayor and taking trips to the Red Sox spring training camps.
And you know, I didn’t mind keeping company with him and listening to those stories about my community. When things got rough at home, and an issue arose concerning my car insurance, Happy brought me to the registry in Boston to meet with higher-up who helped solve the issue.
He was a friend, a good friend and a kind person.
We had an audience during our landscaping efforts on several occasions. Aldo Misci and his wonderful wife would stand at the fence and playfully harass both of us. For the Miscis, it was a night out at the Comedy Connection as Happy and I verbally sparred with each other in the next yard. Aldo resembled comedian George Burns. Aldo’s repartee was just as sharp as Burns’ brilliant barbs.
When I moved to Maine, we didn’t see much of each other. You get married, have a child and your world changes on a dime. There are new priorities and unfortunately friendships drift.
During visits with my parents, there were times when I would walk up the street to get a coffee and tiptoe past the driveway that led to Happy’s haven in the backyard.
He always spotted me trying to sneak past the driveway. If I didn’t get away, my coffee break would be delayed by an hour.
Sure enough, Happy called out to me.
“Hey, get over here right now. Don’t you dare walk away from me. Sit down with me,” Happy said. “What is going on with you. How’s your dad and mom?”
There was no backing out now.
I spent a precious hour talking with a gentleman who made my life interesting. There would be other times when I would sit with Happy and chew the fat.
Happy’s death hurts on so many levels. He took a piece of my youth with him on his trip through eternity and his death also represents the passing of time.
I will miss him.
When I sadly discovered Happy had passed away at 95 years old last week, I learned his real name was Carmine, but I will always remember him as Happy because he made all of his friends and family feel that way.
