Patrick Francis Purcell Obituary

We are sad to announce that on November 22, 2020, at the age of 80, Patrick Francis Purcell of Brownsville, Pennsylvania passed away. Family and friends are welcome to leave their condolences on this memorial page and share them with the family.

He was predeceased by : his parents, John JJ Purcell and Rose Genevieve Purcell (Rocks); and his sister Maranne Welch. He is survived by his children, Maurya Purcell, Jennifer Ranger (Michael), Peggy Podoloff (Jaysen), Molly Mack (Gregory), Jillian Lauranzano (Benjamin) and Nicholas Purcell (Stephanie); his grandchildren, Jocelyn, Ethan, Kilian, Harrison, Shelby, Roman, Finnian, Lucy, Bodi, Austin, Jack and Ben; his great grandchild Danny; his nephews, Mark Welch (Cheryl), Michael Welch; his nieces Mo Lynn (Kevin) and Molly Jesso (Jason); his grand nieces and nephews Meaghan, Connor, Maddie and Christopher Welch, Brendan, Genevieve and Sydney Lynn, and Nicholas, Luke, and Caroline Jesso, his close friends, Robbie Hetrick and Bobby Tarr.

The Unofficial Obituary of Pat Purcell "Hey Pat!" by Jen Purcell Ranger

For those of you who were lucky enough to know Pat Purcell, I’m sure we can all agree that he was a half-glass full kind of guy. Even after his accident, that made time his enemy, my father lived his final days to the fullest. He said, “Don’t feel sorry for me, Jen. Just get me a beer.”
My father took joy in everything he did. When we were kids, he was prone to whistling like all the time. Some days he’d wake us up early to sing him off to work: “He’s off to his job-da-dob-da-dob-da-dob-dob”.

Pat had a successful 25-year career at Pratt & Whitney and served in the Navy during Vietnam, but work was never his legacy. What made him proud and produced endless stories were his extracurricular adventures. We did a lot of cool shit as kids. He coached us in everything from baseball to cheerleading. He had us run laps for allowance and attend road races way before it was hip. We picked blackberries, spent Saturdays yard sale hunting for cheap jewelry and dress up clothes; we stalked warlocks and spent many nights camping at Salmon River, illegally of course.

Sometimes my father took joy in tormenting us, you know, just for kicks. Like the time he ordered us to eat cans of sauerkraut because it was dusting the shelves for too long. Or when he called Maurya and I home urgently to pick up dog puke that ended up being a rubber replicate. Pat would laugh during his never-ending retellings and exclaim, “I really enjoyed having you kids.”

In his fifties, my father took on new hobbies. He spent many weekends at bike shows selling pig rings and metal bathing suits. What money he made paid for his beer and his shenanigans, which of course was the true reason for the new pastime.

When his mom got sick, my father relocated back to Brownsville for good. That’s when he started growing flowers. Zinnias were his favorite. He garnished tables at his reunions every year (sometimes with gold fish swimming in the vase bases), and decorated many a-wedding table. One Easter he stood at the entrance to the church behind his house and passed out flowers to all the little old church ladies. They were thrilled.
My dad’s favorite life hobby, of course, was running the class reunions. For 24 years counting, Pat held four-day events every summer for hundreds of schoolmates. He loved everything about the production: sending out mailers, hunting down lost friends, spending quality time with his besties, and bossing Peggy about as she lugged chaffing pans and prepared the potatoes. “Don’t forget the parsley!”

You can always tell the integrity of a man by the loyalty of his friends. Boy, was my father a millionaire in that department. Up until the end, there was always someone stopping by, hanging out on his back patio, listening to him tell and (no doubt) retell his favorite stories. Friends were family to my father. He loved you all. That I believe was his proudest accomplishment.

​A few days ago, the priest from St. Peters (my dad’s church from childhood) stopped by to offer last rites. When the priest finished, my dad piped up and said, “Thank you Father. Now let’s go streaking.” (Even in the end, he never lost his sense of humor.)

My last night in town, Susan and I set up a fire-pit in the back yard. As I was stoking the wood, he offered up what I believe was his favorite life motto. “Sit down, Jen. Take time to enjoy life. Have a beer.”
And…so I did.