Andrew Soltis was a beloved husband, cherished father, and an especially unique Pops. He died on September 3, 2026, after a brief illness.

Born and raised in South Amboy, New Jersey, Andy was the son of a seamstress and a tailor, neither of whom rubbed off on him in the form of style or talent. While he could sew a badge onto a sleeve or backpack, he often needed help in shopping for gifts to give his wife.

And he loved her so.

They met while working at a pet store when he was 18 and she was only 15. A pure 1970s scandal—he was Catholic; she was Jewish—they ran away to Mississippi to get married a year after meeting, a move which almost sparked an interstate manhunt…but didn’t.

Their shared love of animals meant there was always a dog or a cat in the house—often more than one—and elaborate fish tank setups. They had their children young, and while they never had much, they always had enough.

Andy’s work ethic was pure. He once told his wife that although they might not have it all, there would always be food on the table. There was. He told his daughter once that even if times were tough, he would always provide. “Wherever I need to work to make sure we have what we need, I will.” And he did.

Andy’s love of his wife was matched only by his love for his children and, later, his grandchildren. He was a father who showed up to swim meets and diving competitions, soccer games (which he hated), and endless school plays, concerts, and band competitions. He was tough at times. His eldest son will never forget mowing the grass at 8 a.m. after an overnight misbehavior, and his daughter’s best friend will always remember having to help rake leaves the morning after a sleepover. He believed in pitching in, being present, and being kind. When the world asked him to become an ally, he did, firmly supporting love and humanity in all its many colorful forms.

Andy was well known for his love of classic horror movies. The entire Universal monster collection can be found in models he built in his later years, and Frankenstein’s monster was permanently tattooed on his leg.

Speaking of tattoos, you can find a network of stories about the things he loved inked into his skin by his tattoo artist son: sunshine and water creatures, animals, a dog named Chicken, and a skeleton falling off a bike. Ask his family about that one. Trust us.

Andy had been living on extra time for a very long time. His first heart attack came when he was 34 years old, and from then on, he knew there was a good chance that his heart would be what took him. He also knew this: every year beyond that first heart attack was a gift. He loved having those extra years.

Andy and his wife moved to Charleston in 2004, where they bought their first house and were delighted to become a huge part of their grandson Dylan’s life. Here, Andy spent his years playing with horses and going fishing until he found his last great passion: pickleball.

His heart may have been the thing that finally stopped him, just as he suspected it would, but, ironically, the thing that gave out in the end was the same thing he spent his whole life giving so freely to everyone else. Andy had a huge heart.

Andy was predeceased by his parents, Stephen and Helen, his brother George, and his sister Dorothy. His brother Steven lives in Anaheim, California.

He is survived by his wife, Wendy Soltis; his sons, Jonathan Soltis of Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, and Daniel Soltis of Charleston, South Carolina; and his daughter, Leah Moore of Charleston, South Carolina. He is also survived by his daughter-in-law, Colette; his son-in-law, Tony; and his grandchildren, Joshua, Kira, Jenna, and Dylan.

He brought so much love and laughter into this world. Every time you hear a terrible joke or see a scary movie—it seems particularly fitting that he left this world in the same season as Pennywise the Dancing Clown (Tim Curry)—please think of him and smile.

He’d like that.

In lieu of flowers, please consider a donation to Charleston Animal Society.