Marvin "Chuck" Charles Pullan

I was so sad to hear of Chucks passing away. He was such a caring, thoughtful friend. My condolences to Marie , Jeff, Sara and family. He will truly be missed. Rest in Peace Chuck.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes

The nerves sit ceremonious, like tombs

The stiff heart questions “was it He, that bore,”

And “yesterday, or centuries before?”

The feet, mechanical, go round

A wooden way

Of ground, or air, or ought

Regardless grown,

A quartz contentment, like a stone

This is the hour of lead

Remembered, if outlived,

As freezing persons, recollect the snow

First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

—Emily Dickinson

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Toward dawn the day Melody called about Chuck, I dreamed that Chuck, Gregg, and I were at a good Basque restaurant. We sat at a long, dark-wood table scattered with the remains of a meal. Gregg sat on the end, I sat at the corner on his left, and Chuck sat on my left. Gregg stroked his upper right cheek bone the way he would do when he was thinking, and he said to Chuck, “So I guess you’ll be flying home,” with his soft voice and twinkle in his eye, the way he would tease Chuck. I didn’t know how Chuck would take that, but he said, “Well, I guess you won’t be walking,” a little snarky and maybe slightly blustery but not out of meanness, just the way you torment friends. Just balancing the equation. I looked at Gregg, thinking about his missing leg. He didn’t mind. And I turned to Chuck and reached out, and we shook hands, and I said, “I’ll sure miss you.” I felt that weight in my chest and still do. I remember the feel of Chuck’s palm (such a detail as you seldom feel in a dream), and I was just glad to somehow be there between those two good friends. It was a good dream.

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And I lay back, thinking across the ocean of decades, until cast up on the far shore, I remembered that day in Mr. Halladay’s English class when he was called away to the office. While he was gone, we were to read a couple of poems in our literature books. We were seniors and ought to have been able to handle that. Then someone in class inadvertently broke wind, loudly, which in a classroom of teenagers is all you need for pandemonium, but we sort of barely held it together for a few moments until one of us discovered Dickinson’s haunting poem about death on the same spread of pages and metaphorized almost every part of the poem into some aspect of passing gas—and he shared his discovery with his neighbor: “After great pain, . . . / The stiff heart questions “was it he, that bore,” . . . / yesterday, or centuries before?” . . . / This is the hour of lead / Remembered, if outlived, . . . / First chill, then stupor, then the letting go”—and so on.

Soon we deconstructed every line of the poem, appropiating it to our current mood. One of those rare episodes of uncontrollable, gasping, watery-eyed mirth errupted throughout the room, spreading faster than we could explain the transformed poem to each other. Mr. Halladay returned, and when he figured out why we were laughing, his iron jaw set even harder. And he blazed away at us. I hadn’t yet figured out why we were laughing, but I felt guilty anyway. What we had done with that poem was a sacrilege to him, and he was right.

Nonetheless, over the years, I’ve shared the poem with a lot of English classes, including the foxfart episode to illustrate various points about literature and writing it. But mostly because it almost always recreates in my heart that five minutes of unbridled mirth.

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All of us who were in that classroom have become more intimately acquainted with shock and sorrow and death, a few of us on both sides of the veil. So the first estate of the poem has grown for us, its gravity binding us ever closer. Sitting here on a spring day, watching dawn rising over Cascade Mountain the morning of Chuck’s memorial service, I am glad of that spring day before lunch hour in a Grantsville High School English classroom, mere weeks before we leaped and tumbled out into the world—how those moments of mirth are as real now as they were then, how mirth and the joy of memory have intertwined with the poem’s first estate of shock and sorrow and love, making all those things meaningful and bearable, how all of those things together make grace that we can share together.

Chuck was my classmate He had a great personality and was very friendly

Chuck was a wonderful fun cousin. He was so very nice to me growing up, and I will miss him until the day we will be able to reunite with him. I hope that all of you will be filled with the peace that surpasses all understanding. Our prayers are will you.

We are so sad to hear of Chuck's sudden and unexpected passing. He will be sorely missed. He always had an infectious smile combined with a great sense of humor.

He had a natural ability to connect with anyone who crossed his path, and he always saw the good in others.

Undoubtedly he has a great mission to fulfill on the other side. We know he is God's loving hands. His light will continue to shine through those he touched here.

He was my neighbor growing up

What a GREAT GUY❗🙏

I LOVE the Pullan family ❣️

I have such great memories

The news of Chucks passing came as a great shock. It saddened me hear of the loss of a good friend. As co-workers at Harmons I have good memories of times together. Whether at work or on the golf course, even a few softball games between night crews of other Harmons Chuck was always up for the competition. He would always beat me at golf. Heart felt condolences to his wife Marie and to his family. May you rest in peace my friend.

Lani