Larry Fratello made his last stubborn and unforgettable stand against the universe on September 25, proving once again that he would always do things his way, on his terms. The mold was broken when Larry was born, and everyone who crossed his path knew it.

Born in Brooklyn and raised in Northport, New York, Larry grew up under the watchful eye of his Sicilian-born father, Larry Sr., and his mother, Matilda, in Northport, the town he cherished all his life. From the very beginning, it was clear he would be a force of nature—impossible to contain.

School never really suited him. Instead of walking there, he often detoured to a kind neighbor's home for cookies before eventually making his way in. Teachers struggled to manage his antics, sometimes relegating him to a spot under their desk or in the coatroom—neither of which slowed him down for long.

Larry's childhood was defined by adventure and mischief. He snuck out to ride his horse at night, got chased across the VA golf course by security, and delivered newspapers on horseback—sometimes adding in his sister Jeannie's Girl Scout cookies for good measure. Perhaps most legendary was the day he leapt off a barn roof with his horse—a stunt that would have ended in disaster for almost anyone else, but for Larry became just another legendary story and an even more legendary reputation.

Larry proudly served in the United States Air Force during the Cuban Missile Crisis. His stories from that time were pure Larry: going bear hunting and ending up being hunted by the bear, accidentally standing on a nuclear bomb, and jumping out of a plane after only "practicing" off a picnic table—landing miles off course in the tundra, tangled in trees. His mother learned about it when his friends mailed her a parachute stuffed with sticks. You can imagine how that phone call went.

He went on to live many lives in one. He was a black belt in karate, a pistol expert, a Deputy Sheriff, and a decorated Suffolk County Police Officer honored for bravery. He ran toward danger, not away from it—saving people from burning cars both in uniform and off duty. He was also a dreamer, a business owner, a bus driver, an avid skier, and a horse whisperer with a gift for taming the untamable.

Larry didn't tolerate nonsense, but he would give the shirt off his back, the last dollar in his wallet, and his time to anyone who truly needed it. He was the quintessential New Yorker…stubborn, direct, loud, and often foul-mouthed, yet also loyal, generous, and deeply honest. Larger than life in every way, Larry was impossible to forget. To know him was, truly, to love him.

He somehow bamboozled my late mother, Janice, to marry him on December 28, 1986, and spent the next 28 years embarrassing her with his language, his refusal to change out of dirty ripped jeans, and his relentless need to defy social etiquette. Somehow, he turned all that contrarianism into charm, a trick only Larry could pull off.

Not long after, I came into the world, and from that moment on, my life was shaped by the force that was my father. Growing up with Larry as a dad meant being raised by someone fearless, and fiercely protective but who loved with his whole heart. He taught me…by example…that rules were negotiable, but loyalty was not. He had a talent for pushing every button you had, then making you laugh even when you were furious.

His flaws weren't hidden—they were worn openly, like the jeans he refused to throw away. But they made him real, they made him human, and they made him unforgettable.

Larry was also, somewhat secretly, an incredible singer and accordion player. As a child, he stole the show performing "Mexicali Rose," and years later, he would quietly sing me to sleep. His New York accent, colorful vocabulary, and his love of good food—especially my mom's cooking and his mother's cream puffs—were all quintessentially Larry.

He was happiest with a plate of pasta and fresh clams, lobster, or crab legs in front of him. Fittingly, his last real meal was linguine with clams. When asked how it tasted, he smirked and said, "Mmm… clammy."

Larry was a husband, father, brother, protector, prankster, and teacher of life's toughest lessons…and my hero.

He taught me how to ride horses, bikes, and motorcycles; how to swim, fish, shoot, drive, manage a boat, and figure things out, usually by throwing me straight into the situation without warning. Case in point: handing me the wheel of the car while driving across the George Washington Bridge so he could eat his salad. I was nine.

I was his shotgun rider, assistant, sous chef, and sidekick. I was also his personal "pick-up device," because, as he liked to say, "you're closest to the floor" (I'll admit I've stolen that line and now use it with my own kids).

He even tried to teach me how to ski, though that one didn't end quite so gracefully. Come to think of it, neither did my first day on a dirt bike, which ended with me flying headfirst off a four-foot retaining wall. He came running, full of concern — or so I thought — only to yell, "Did you break the bike?!"

Together we built a restaurant in the summer of 1997, hiked mountains, explored waterfalls, rode go karts, went fishing, and rode a mentally unstable horse named Nell. I'll forever treasure the Jeep rides up to the Poconos with country music playing on the radio, listening to stories of his youth and life lessons he wanted me to absorb. And for all his macho, rough-edged exterior, he melted every time Butterfly Kisses came on and I'd catch a tear roll down his cheek as he reached for my hand. It was proof that beneath all that toughness lived a man with a tender heart.

He was also ferociously protective, shadowing me on nighttime runs to make sure I was safe, and later smuggling makeup-sized tasers, pepper spray, and switchblades to me after I moved to Los Angeles. He was, however, absolutely terrifying to anyone who came too close to his daughters. With Uncle Bob or his former police partner Randy at his side, he would deliver threats straight out of a Sopranos scene. And, to my lifelong embarrassment, he once physically removed a neighbor from our pool — by his nipples — when he thought he was getting too close to me.

That was Larry.

I didn't fully understand the weight of his reputation until I showed up at the local fire department to volunteer on an ambulance and realized that, more than twenty years after retiring from the police force, everyone there still knew — and feared — Larry.

He had a way of pushing me to stand on my own, like the time I called him with a flat tire and he told me simply to "figure it out" before hanging up. Later, he showed up to check my work, told me I had done it correctly, and that he was "proud of his girl". That was his way. He was the kind of father who threw you into the frying pan when you needed it but also the kind who danced with me as a toddler standing on his feet, wore the friendship bracelets I made him until they disintegrated off his wrist, and filled my summers with mud-soaked dirt bike rides, ice cream from the Sweet Shop in Northport village, sunset walks on Sunken Meadow boardwalk, campfires in the backyard, and pancakes with sun-warmed raspberries we'd picked fresh from the yard — always smothered in his signature concoction of jam, cream cheese, and syrup.

Most of all, he made sure I never doubted his belief in me. Before every exam, from grade school to my cardiothoracic oral boards, he would tell me, "confidence is high," borrowing the phrase airmen used before a mission. Those three words became the soundtrack to my courage, a reminder that my father's faith in me was unshakable.

Larry fervently loved life. He was always up for a round of catch, a hike up a mountain, a dirtbike ride, a run at Sunken Meadow, impromptu sprints up the hills lining Waterside Ave, tennis, horseback riding, go-karts, or a late-night card game (he loved spades) — you name it, he was in. In his heyday, he never said no to a good time. He and my mom were notorious pranksters; he'd drive across Aunt Patty and Uncle Bob's pristine lawn after a fresh snowfall or swipe their luggage, scattering clothes across the yard for laughs.

He loved 25-cent poker games, Fourth of July pool parties, and summer nights spent with cold beer, good conversation, and the company of his beloved Terrace Court neighbors and lifelong friends. He would lose himself in a classic cotton candy colored Long Island sunset, the sweep of mountain views, or the simple joy of basking in the sun at the beach. He especially loved watching storms roll in from our deck, savoring the drama of the sky.

Larry knew every corner of Northport like the back of his hand and could navigate the VA woods blindfolded if needed. Case in point, we were out riding dirtbikes when a surprise storm rolled in and we were stuck in the thickest heaviest downpour I've ever experienced where all I could see in front of me was the light of his dirtbike. He got us home safely, with another core memory logged in my memory bank. He also introduced me to one of my favorite hidden spots — the creek by Crab Meadow where he would take me at low tide to chase fiddler crabs, which I've passed along to my own children as "Pop Pop's spot."

Larry had a soft spot for animals. Just about every dog he owned was a rescued misfit of some sort. Without fail, every night he would let them lick plates clean — proudly calling it a "pre-wash," to the horror of new guests who usually learned the truth a little too late. He also adored his horses, Ginger and Tonka, and even had a personal attack goose named Big Bird, who charged at anyone who came too close, including my older sister.

About eight years ago, Larry was diagnosed with frontotemporal dementia. Even then, he remained himself. He remembered everyone, loved his coffee and clams, and mostly just lost what little social filter he had to begin with. True to form, he fought fiercely to maintain his independence. Too stubborn to surrender, we were eventually forced to stage an elaborate "kidnapping" to bring him from New York to California to live with me. With the help of my best friend, who scooped him up straight from hospital discharge, she somehow managed to get him onto the plane after plenty of drama and fanfare.

The airplane crew's concern over his injuries and his tendency to be fresh caused a three-hour delay, until I finally convinced the pilot to take off by handing over my medical license number and personally accepting responsibility. And so Larry made the infamous cross-country flight…eight broken ribs and all.

It was classic Larry: defying the rules, dragging everyone else into absurd situations, and refusing, always, to be told what to do.

He also left behind my childhood home full of crap: twelve bags of birdseed that sustained a rat colony under the porch, squirrels in the attic, and a garage packed to hoarder-level capacity. A heartfelt thank you goes out to our lifelong friends and neighbors, the Hollands, who lovingly restored the home he had built with his father, and finally upgraded the tiny kitchen my mom always hated.

In the years that followed, he continued to fight—against his illness, against setbacks, and against anything that tried to take him down. He adored his grandchildren, Luca, Aria, Ciro, and Enzo, who brought new light and laughter into his days. He never missed a chance to crack a joke, demolish a birthday cake, demand coffee service, or remind us how much we meant to him. He also never failed to ask Thomas for a six-pack (or special services from his caretakers) when I left the room… or sneak into our fridge in the middle of the night to steal alcohol like a deranged teenager. We eventually had to lock the fridge and the gates to the kitchen after I caught him trying to saber open a bottle of champagne at 2am. Ask me about the time he changed the gate code one night and then promptly forgot what he changed it to.

Even as his body weakened, he refused to let go of his role as my protector. If I cried, he would squint at me and ask why there was "water in my eyes," then grumble for me to "stop that" before kissing my hand — pushing me to toughen up, even as he reminded me I was loved. Even with a tracheostomy he managed to make sure that I knew "I was his whole world."

No matter how sick he became, he always reached for my hand and squeezed it three times: I love you.

When we said what we would learn to be our last goodbye, he said to Thomas "my daughter…is special." Looking back at that moment, I think he knew he was leaving us soon and he gave us his final messages he wanted us to remember. He told us to go home, he wanted to nap…but made sure to conjure the strength to say "I love you" three times while squeezing my hand.

He fought not just against his aging body but against the odds — and against far more than his fair share of sheer negligence. From fraudulent DNRs at Bettendorf Healthcare Center to flat-out misdiagnoses in a broken system, Larry refused to quit, buying me the time I needed to figure out what fresh disaster I'd have to dig him out of next. And somehow, we always managed to do it together.

Even at the end, we were still a team — father and daughter — battling through red tape, bad medicine, and sheer stubbornness to make sure his wishes were honored.

Once you were accepted into Larry's inner circle, his loyalty was absolute, though you never quite knew what form it would take. One day it might be a rambling, sentimental voicemail about how much he appreciated you; the next, a well-timed middle finger from across the room or an obnoxious honk as he drove past your house. With Larry, it all meant the same thing. Nobody else could tell you to "f*ck off" in a way that made you feel completely certain he was really saying, I love you.

Of course, Larry also clung to grudges like Olympic medals. Thoughts and prayers to anyone who found themselves on the wrong side of one…because he never forgot.

Larry despised formality (and any sort of wool)…clearly traumatized by his childhood clothing options. His uniform of choice was simple: a worn pair of jeans (usually ripped with an oil stain or two), a white T-shirt, aviator sunglasses, and a coffee made light and sweet. What he would have wanted is for people to show up comfortable, with a cold six-pack in hand and a good story to tell. He cared about the company, not the formality.

Larry was, in every way, a protector, a moral compass, and will always be my North Star. To his family, he was a teacher of resilience, a master of tough love, and the kind of man you could always count on, whether you wanted to or not. It wasn't unusual for him to plow a neighbor's driveway after a snowstorm, or to secretly guard my Stony Brook apartment at night from his car, something I only discovered many years later. He did it because that's who he was: a man who showed love not with words, but with action, loyalty, and presence.

He leaves behind the people who loved him fiercely — and the people he loved back just as fiercely. Me, his youngest daughter, who doesn't yet know how to exist in a world where he isn't pestering me in his uniquely loving way; and my husband, Thomas, whose acceptance into Larry's circle was sealed with the enormous smile and a booming hello every time he walked through the door. He leaves his grandchildren, Luca, Aria, Ciro, and Enzo, who will grow up hearing legendary stories about their larger-than-life grandfather — and who are already showing hints that they inherited his fiery temper and fearlessness.

He also leaves behind Lisa Rozmus and her children, Nicholas and Lauren. Calling Larry a Casanova would be an understatement, and over the years a few surprise siblings popped up, like Tom Fletcher. Larry never had the chance to know him, but I'm certain he would have welcomed him with open arms. Because if Larry had one rule, it was this: family was whoever chose to stand with you.

Oh, and he had another daughter. Jennifer something.

His sister, Jean Roller, survives him as well — now she is the keeper of Fratello family secrets, and probably a few more stories of her own.

And of course, Larry leaves behind the countless people he touched, saved, yelled at, or cussed out — because loving Larry meant taking the full package: the heart, the grit, and the unfiltered New Yorker he was to his very core.

Larry is joining his late wife Janice, his parents, and countless other family members who are preparing themselves to take on the force that is his free spirit. Sorry, Mom — I did the best I could to take care of Dad and keep him out of your hair as long as possible. Everyone knows you two fought like cats and dogs, but it was also clear you were the love of his life. Losing you broke him in ways he never fully recovered from. I imagine he's back to accusing you of hiding his glasses or his coffee cup, and asking whether you're planning to make lasagna or prime rib. This time, he won't accidentally wash the pot with the gravy, wink wink.

To commemorate Larry, do something he would've truly appreciated: pop open a cold six-pack, eat some clams, or help someone who needs it without expecting anything in return. If you insist on spending money, donate to a local no-kill shelter or adopt a homeless pet in his honor.

Larry Fratello was one of a kind. The world won't see another like him. And honestly, one was more than enough.

A memorial service will be held at Nolan Funeral Home on Sunday, October 26, at 5 Laurel Avenue, Northport, NY 11768.

If you knew Larry — or if this made you laugh, cry, or miss someone of your own — please share. He'd have loved knowing he was still making noise. And if you've got a favorite Larry story, drop it here so his family can laugh, cry, and remember him when the hurt feels heavy.

Forget Chuck Norris. Cheers to Larry Fratello — the man, the myth, the legend.