This [Picture used for this memorial account] is my Grandma Weaver, the year I was born. She was 39. And a Beauty.

She passed away in the early morning hours  of February 5th, 2025. She was 93.

I remember her giving me airplane rides on her feet, lifting me into the air.

I remember her full-bodied laughter, the sound of which all the women in this family seem to share 🙋🏼‍♀️

She had pretty things in her house, like a wire and glass jade “plant” in her bathroom I wasn’t supposed to touch (but I did).

She was an AMAZING artist. Her pencil drawings were so realistic, and she loved working with watercolors. My mom told me grandma painted a mural in their living room when they were young, a scene from the musical, The South Pacific.

She was always beautiful to me - hair fixed, clothes just-so, until she graduated to her signature mumus.

She lived in Albuquerque for a short time, adorning herself with beautiful silver and turquoise jewelry she collected while she was there, wearing bold pieces boldly. Her homemade spaghetti sauce became spicy around that time too.

She always sent me $5 for my birthday with a card.

I borrowed her car one time I visited her when I was 18, ended up making her sick with worry because it happened to be a day of a big snow storm.

I remember,

She loved skin care products and supplements, giving herself foot soaks, and enjoyed a nightly glass of wine.

She loved numerology.

She didn’t go to church, though she considered herself a very spiritual person. She loved the book, Conversations with God.

She called my brothers “little shits” with a smile, meaning it as a term of endearment, the one and only time traveling to visit us (and I loved that, because they were).

When I asked her once for her best advice for living a good life, she said,

“Just Love.”

I can hold onto that.

Janice Irene Weaver

9/5/1931 - 2/5/2025

🙏🏼❤️