Mr. Cerutti, the smile that kept showing up

Some people live in your memory like a warm hallway light, steady, quiet, always on. Mr. Cerutti was that kind of person for us. Back in 6th grade, we knew him as Mr. Cerutti, the teacher who never seemed to run out of patience, or humor, or the kind of energy that makes a room feel safer just because he walked into it. He had that rare skill where you felt seen without being put on the spot. He smiled like it was his default setting, not a performance. He loved his students, and students loved him back, not because he demanded it, but because he earned it in a thousand small ways that adults forget matter. We also remember what a great athlete he was. Softball especially stuck out. He really shined, not in a loud, look at me way, but in that same steady way he did everything, confident, joyful, and fully present. It was another reminder that his energy was real, not just something he turned on in a classroom. Years passed. Life did what life does, it got loud, busy, full of responsibilities, and the old school days became a file in the back of the mind. Not gone, just quiet. Then 2025 happened. We got a referral through iAutoAgent from a past client. Normal day on the surface, just another call, another person needing help, another vehicle story. Then we spoke with Barb. Her last name landed like a tap on the shoulder from the past. The kind of moment where you stop listening to your own script and start paying attention to the world again. We recognized it, felt that instant pull of familiarity, and said it out loud. “Are you related to Mr. Cerutti?” And Barb said something that changed the whole temperature of the conversation. She told us, with that mix of strength and heartbreak that only grief can create, that Mr. Cerutti was her husband. Then she told us why she called. She needed help selling his vehicle because he had passed away from cancer. No sales conversation prepares you for that. No business process, no script, no checklist turns that kind of moment into something easy. The best we can do is become human and be careful with someone’s pain. We could hear it in her voice, the weight of what she was carrying. Not just the logistics of a vehicle, but the reality that every object left behind becomes a reminder. A car is never just a car when it belonged to someone you loved. It is the seat they sat in. The steering wheel they held. The place where life happened in ordinary ways that suddenly feel sacred once they are gone. We told Barb who Mr. Cerutti was to us, not as a name, but as a presence. We shared what we remembered, that he was always kind, always smiling, always connecting with people like they mattered. We didn’t exaggerate, we didn’t need to. His reputation was built on real moments, the small ones that last. Barb responded the way people do when you speak the name of someone they miss, like you handed them a photo they forgot was still in their pocket. We ended up reflecting together, trading memories across time, school hallways and family living rooms, the past and the present meeting in one unexpected phone call. And that is where the meaning landed. This was not random. We had already helped Barb and her family buy the replacement vehicle. Now she was calling to sell Mr. Cerutti’s vehicle. Of all the people in the world who could have received that referral, it came to us, someone who knew Mr. Cerutti before adulthood, before marriage, before illness, before endings. Someone who could say, truthfully, that his goodness was not limited to his family, it spilled outward, into students, into strangers, into anyone walking past him on a hard day. It felt meant to be that we were the ones to help her finish this part. Not because we are special, but because the moment was. Because it gave Barb something rare in grief, a reminder that Mr. Cerutti’s life had reach. That he wasn’t only deeply loved at home, he was remembered out in the world. That his impact did not disappear when his body did. There is a reflection someone once shared about him that captures this perfectly, how he always seemed to be smiling, laughing, engaging, radiating positive energy. How he noticed a kid who looked down, stopped them in the hallway, asked their name, offered a simple compliment, and changed the entire day with a few kind words. That is the kind of kindness that looks small to the person giving it, and feels enormous to the person receiving it. That was Mr. Cerutti. He carried joy like it was practical. Like it was something you could use to get through the day. And he gave it away freely, without needing credit. Helping Barb sell the vehicle became more than a transaction. It became a closing ritual, handled with care. A way to honor Mr. Cerutti by showing up for someone he loved. A way to make the process simpler when nothing else about loss is simple. Today, we sold Mr. Cerutti’s vehicle to a wonderful family, and it felt like the right kind of ending, not an ending that erases him, but one that lets something he loved keep serving someone else. We also walked away with something, too. We got reminded that the people who shape us early do not always come back into our lives in expected ways. Sometimes they return as a name on a caller ID. Sometimes they return through a spouse’s voice cracking mid sentence. Sometimes they return as a chance to be useful at the exact moment usefulness matters. Mr. Cerutti taught us in 6th grade, but he also taught us again in 2025, without being there to do it. He reminded us what steady kindness looks like. What positive energy does in a room. How one good person can echo for decades. We did not get to say goodbye to him directly. But we got to say something else.We got to say, to the person who loved him most, that he mattered, and that he still does.

Best,

Jay Grosman

CEO & Founder

iAutoAgent.com

jay@iAutoAgent.com

314-596-2277 cell

636-614-3711 Office

"Your Automotive Easy Button"

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