Rest in Peace: Andrew Puglise

Annamaria in mourning

My older brother passed away this past Friday evening.  Here is his official obituary:

Born in Paterson, New Jersey, 20^th November 1939 to Samuel F. Puglise and Anna Maria Pisacane Puglise, Andrew Puglise was educated at Our Lady of Lourdes School and Don Bosco Technology Academy.  After high school, he served for six years as a paratrooper in the U.S. Marine Corps, including a tour of duty in Japan aboard the U.S. aircraft carrier Coral Sea.  An early expert in computer technology in the business sector, he was an independent management consultant to clients such as Fidelity Investments, where he installed their first applications of mobile technology.  In Nashville, he consulted with Avo Aerostructures, the Rogers Group, and Service Merchandise, where he became the corporate CIO.

He was an enthusiast of trout fishing and golf, a passionate music lover, and a car aficionado.

He is survived by his beloved wife, Patricia Ball, his son Michael Puglise, daughter Linda Elizabeth Little, dear daughter-friend Robin Banner and her wife Diane Dunn; grandchildren—Christan Odum, Chelan Branham, Austin and Annamarie Puglise; great-grandson Riley Sweat; sister Patricia King and brother-in-law David Clark,  brother Paul Puglise and sister-in-law Kathleen Puglise, brother Mark Puglise, and several nieces and nephews, his sister-in-law Kay Hillyard and her husband Rick.

 

There is of course much, much more to his story than that.  I have been thinking of our early, early days.

Just sixteen months apart, we were raised as a two-kid unit.  “Andy and Patti, wash your hands and come to the table.”  “Andy and Patti, finish your oatmeal.  It’s time to leave for school.”  “Andy and Patti, brush your teeth.  It’s bedtime.”

When I was five and he was six, he took to cutting pictures of snakes out of National Geographic and hanging them over his bed in the room we shared.  I got nightmares.

On the other hand, my treasured wanderlust developed when we two lay on our tummies on the living room floor, turning the pages of the atlas and fantasizing about those faraway places with the strange-sounding names.  His curiosity about them evaporated once he developed his passion for golf.  Mine persists, and I would not have it if it weren’t for him.

We grew up in that lovely bygone era when kids played outside, largely unsupervised.  We swarmed through the neighborhood in packs, jumping backyard fences and stealing under-ripe fruit from other people’s trees, getting many tummy aches and spankings in the process.

On many a Sunday, we went for a ride out in the country in the family’s early-model Ford jalopy.  Our destination was the Dairy Barn—where a farmer had turned his roadside building into a place to get ice cream.  I savored my scoop of chocolate. Andy ate his cone fast and then, with the tippy end of it, stole some of mine.  One Sunday, the following exchanges took place in the car:

(On the way out of town.)

Me:  Mommy, Mommy, Andy is pulling my hair.

Mom:  Stop that.  Sit down and be quiet.

(On the way home.)

Me: Mommy, Mommy, Andy is stealing my ice cream.

Mom: Stop that.  Sit down and be quiet.

(Nearly home, as daddy slowly turns the corner onto our street, Andy leans on the door handle with his elbow.  The door swings open and Andy gently rolls out of the car.)

Me:  Mommy, Mommy, Andy fell out of the car.

Mom: Stop that. Sit down and be quiet.

Our greatest caper took place after our grandfather had died and our grandmother moved in with us.  Each evening before going to bed, Andy and I stood side by side at the bathroom sink, brushing our teeth.  Once grandma moved in, at night she left her false teeth on the shelf under the mirror in a glass of water.  They grossed us out.

When, at the age of six, I lost my front tooth, the tooth fairy left me a nickel.  That evening Andy and I thought what to do.  Neither of us wanted to fish the dentures out of the water with our fingers.  He dumped the glass in the sink.  I took a washcloth from the bathroom closet, picked up the teeth, and hid them in the back of a closet shelf.  We refilled the glass and dropped in the nickel, brushed our teeth, and went to bed.

Shouting awakened us the next morning.  Grandma was running around the apartment, with one hand masking her empty gums, exclaiming, “Where are my teeth?  Where are my teeth?”

It did not take long for mommy and daddy to burst into our room.  “Where did you put them?” Mommy demanded.

“The tooth fairy must have taken them?” we peeped, tentatively.  Our formidable grandmother glared at us over mommy’s shoulder—most seriously displeased.  We fessed up and took our punishment: no dessert for the next three days.

Looking back, I can now imagine our parents’ laughter once they were alone.

We didn't just look like The Little Rascals, we
were the little rascals.

   

And so it went.

And so it goes.  Those precious moments of our childhood that are coming to me now that he is gone.

He died far too soon.  It’s hard for me to imagine that this is the same planet without him on it.  But his death was beautiful.  He breathed his last with us holding hands in a circle—two holding hands with him.  His last days had kept us together long enough to forgive one another our sins.

I am writing this the next day.  This morning, of the 745 songs on my iPad, this below was the first one the shuffle played for me.

I listened to Dylan’s words and thought of Andy and how lucky I was to be with him when we were kids and how glad that, if this tragedy had to happen, at least I was with him when the deal went down.

A bottle of champagne for the first person who writes a
comment identifying what Andy is holding in his hands.

Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,

Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel.