Saying Goodbye to My Childhood Friend: The Rev. Larry Harris

They say childhood friends are our truest friends. They know your true background, character and heart before you know yourself.

Most men have one special childhood buddy who’s unforgettable. It’s usually the one you had your first fight with. For me that was my neighbor, Larry Harris. Larry died unexpectedly last week, and I needed to tell the world what he meant to me and thousands of others.

As children the boys who lived on our Riley Street block called me “Frankie” and Larry was affectionally nicknamed “Fat Larry”. That nickname was never used as a pejorative or out of disrespect, and Larry didn’t seem to object. It just flowed off the lips of the boys on the block. He was just “Fat Larry.”

Larry and I were the same age, born a month apart in 1955. We attended grammar school at P.S. #53 where we were in 3rd and 5th grades together. We walked to school and back for lunch and recess every day for years.

In third grade something happened between Larry and I that taught me the biggest lesson of my life until this day. At the beginning of our 3rd grade school year, Larry missed several weeks from school for an unknown reason to me. That year our teacher at the beginning of the year went on maternity leave after Christmas break, so the teacher was different at the end of the year. At the close of that semester, the new teacher awarded certificates to kids with perfect attendance for the year. Larry’s named was called and he went up to receive the certificate. But my dumb Dudley Do right butt raised my hand and told the teacher Larry had missed school early in the year. She checked the record and took the certificate back. Naturally, Larry took exception and we got into a fight outside on the way home at the corners of Roehrer and Landon. I really don’t recall if anyone won or lost the fight, but I wound up getting my butt kicked later.

That evening my father heard I was in a fight. When he asked what happened – after I told him he, immediately grabbed me up in my collar: “don’t you ever be a stool pigeon again, you hear me? You know what a stool pigeon is? Don’t you ever be a snitch,” he snarled in my face. I believe that was the first time I ever heard the terms “stool pigeon” or “snitch”, but I learned quickly I wasn’t going to be one ever again. He then bum rushed me across the street and made me apologize to Larry and his father, Mr. Harris. We shook hands, and Larry and I carried on like it never happened. I think we walked to school together the next morning.

Of all the life lessons I learned, that stands out most. Larry and I became better friends after that.

In the summers we played along with the other boys in sandlot football, baseball and basketball in what turned out to be a toxic waste site located behind his house that became known as the Kingsley Playground. Before the property was remediated, the vacant property was once the site of a small pharmaceutical factory that operated during WWII. Allegedly, the original business owner made a death bed confession he had dumped toxic chemicals on the site after the factory closed.

Back in the day the boys in the community played and frolicked in the abandoned building and unkept thick overgrowth that was the perfect natural habitat for boys to explore and do mischief. I vividly remember chewing on wild rhubarb stalks that grew along the fences and tracking kookaburra’s home stuck on our pant legs back home. It’s amazing we survived but we did.

As time passed, both of our lives diverged. Larry went on to find a career at Chevy, retiring in 2010. Not to anyone’s surprise, he embraced the ministry later in life. Even as boy, he was always a good dude; always easy to be around, and never had a bad thing to say about anyone.

His greatest testament to his life was exemplified at his funeral service last week, where every seat in the church was filled to capacity with mourners from across the country who came to say their final goodbyes to a great man of God, who genuinely impacted the lives of thousands people. His obituary tells his life’s story:

Reverend Harris accepted Christ at an early age, and he had a strong faith. He had the privilege to provide the word to many congregations, including Pilgrim Missionary Baptist Church, where he was ordained in 1994 and served for seven years as an Associate Pastor under the late Reverend R.D. Holloway. In 2000, he moved to First Calvary Missionary Baptist Church under the auspice of the late Reverend Whitfield Washington. Afterwards, Reverend Harris became the Head Pastor of First Baptist Church in Lackawanna, NY. Once his tenure at First Baptist was over, he continued to minister in bible study and preaching whenever he was called.

In 2023, Reverend Harris became a member of Pleasant Grove Baptist Church, where he served as an Associate Pastor. Prior to beginning his ministry full time, Larry was employed at General Motors (GM) and American Axle (AA), where he retired in 2010. During his tenure at General Motors and American Axle, he served in the role of Employee Assistance Coordinator, where he extensively helped individuals and their families. He was always a helping hand, a shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen.

Larry was an avid baseball card trader; he loved to root for his hometown teams, and could carry a tune singing karaoke. One thing about Larry is he never met a stranger. He loved hard and he was loved by many.

On March 29, 2024, the Lord and His infinite wisdom brought the earthly life of Reverend Larry James Harris to a close.

He is preceded in death by his parents Johnnie and Isabell Harris. Reverend Harris leaves to sustain his memory his children: Crystal (James) Davis of Austin, Texas; Tanisha (Elmer) Osorto of Birmingham, Alabama; and Ebony Atwood of Buffalo, New York (his bonus daughter); his grandchildren: Dorneshia Davis, Taylor Hudson, Noah Hudson, Elijah Osorto, Michael McBride, Nasir Osorto and Charelle Wilbon; and siblings: Adriane (Ernest) Fisher, Michael (Diane) Harris and Shelly Hunt.

God speed, my friend. I can’t be sure if I’m going where you’re at, but maybe you can put in a good word for your old friend, Frankie. You will be missed.