John Weaver: 1944 - 2025

We hate to tell you this: The world’s friendliest man has gone away.

You might have fallen in with John Weaver as a delinquent child; it could’ve been he who brewed the worst coffee of your life; he may have waived your library late fees; it’s possible he sold you a fantastically expensive home stereo system; maybe you were one of the passengers he was driving that time when a tire shot off the bus on the interstate and then started rolling back toward it ON FIRE, and John managed to safely maneuver the bus off the road, because he was (he really was) the best driver of any vehicle of any size in the world; perchance you were once his waitress and then, after he began spending most of his time in a wheelchair, he somehow charmed you into bringing food directly to his house—because John Weaver, with his jack-o-lantern grin, and voice like butterscotch pouring over a sundae, was someone for whom other people seemed inexplicably compelled to perform favors.  

Perhaps there was no mystery. The night before his death, John shared his trick for becoming one of the most popular humans on Earth: “I like people.” He enjoyed befriending strangers, especially when they were in a hurry. When people did favors for their new friend John, the sun shone on their hidden talents. They were revealed to be splendid bakers, skillful carpenters, and possessed of herculean physical strength (and patience). 

John liked to say (right before launching into the longest story anyone ever heard about anything) that everything was a story with him. His own story began in Philadelphia in March of 1944 and was already populated by two beloved characters: His brother, Tony, and his mother, Agnese. By the time another brother, Billy, arrived, John was old enough to help look after him. Once, on John’s watch (a term used loosely; in fact, John had fallen asleep) Billy crawled out a window and down into a gutter. But it was John who heroically ensured Billy was eventually rescued from that gutter (after he woke up and was informed that his little brother was in the gutter). 

John’s three great loves were his wife, Maureen (“the smartest person I ever met”), his daughter, Caity (“the most stupendous daughter in the world”), and music. When it came to music, John, who had no degree but was magnificently self-taught, might have been the smartest person many people ever met. He appreciated music with the unconditional affection of a parent. His favorite jobs were hobnobbing with future folk heroes (Joni Mitchell, Bonnie Raitt) at the 2nd Fret, and working as a music librarian at Penn. (After retiring from that position, John had to settle for recreating Penn’s vast sonic repository in miniature at his Harrisburg home. He estimated that he amassed a paltry few thousand recordings across vinyl, CD, and cassette—barely a fifth of the university’s collection.) His favorite genre was jazz. His favorite musician was Bob Dylan. His favorite song was “Gone Fishin’” by Louis Armstrong and Bing Crosby. He was a wonderful guitar player, bolstered by tips he sought (and received) straight from the mouth of Mississppi John Hurt.

What kind of father was John? The kind who would stroll into a toystore, announce, “I’m here to buy the softest bear in the world!” and not leave until he had procured that item. (It remains in the private collection of the Weaver family.) The kind who refused to tell his anxious child where he was driving her, to teach her that a little uncertainty sometimes leads to the Perseid meteor shower, or Hawk Mountain, or a banana split in the middle of the afternoon. The kind who answered phone calls from his daughter with the yelled question: “Is this the smartest and most beautiful girl in the world calling me?!?” and who endured a four-hour daily commute to secure her access to discounted college tuition. John was the kind of too-good-to-be-true father that only exists in movies, because, having grown up without one, movies are what John studied to learn how a dad should—could—be.

John’s eyes twinkled like the fuses of cherry bombs. He took the scenic route. They failed to make him stop being left-handed. He asked every person’s name and delighted in those names as if he had been given them as gifts. He relished making others laugh, though his own bass guffaws seemed to surprise him. He understood the value of paying more for the better chocolate. He never had any money, because he spent what little he acquired on music paraphernalia, donations to public arts organizations, and the better chocolate. He requested that his obituary emphasize the following: HE HAD FUN. He never could understand why everyone wasn’t from South Philadelphia. 

John Weaver would want it to be mentioned here that the cause of his death was the Philadelphia Eagles’ recent poor playing—that he would rather die than see anything like that again.

John’s story had a surprising final chapter. After Maureen’s unexpected death, he bravely moved across the country to a place he had never been: Santa Fe, NM. While John lamented the loss of decent cheesesteaks, the move was made more than worth it by the introduction of a new favorite character: his son-in-law, Taylor. Taylor and John became fast friends in New Mexico. Taylor often hung out solo with his wife’s father, listening to music and, without consciously choosing to, performing countless favors for him.

John is survived by his adoring daughter, his admiring son-in-law, his much-loved baby brother, some wonderful nieces and nephews, and roughly 500,000 close friends. (It can now be revealed who was his absolute best friend: Chip.) John did not believe in heaven, being content to collect his rewards on earth. He would have stayed longer if he could have. He loved getting to know you all.