William "Bill" Weakly

In loving memory of a man who could fix anything—except, perhaps, his own stubbornness.

Born in Lawrence, Kansas and raised in Topeka, Bill spent his life perfecting two things: his ability to remodel absolutely anything and his uncanny skill for delivering sarcastic one-liners at just the right moment. Diagnosed with a Glioblastoma in July of 2024, he fought like hell—with courage, grace, and the occasional wisecrack—until the very end.

He was married to his sweetheart, Lorie, since July 19th, 1980, a union that endured decades of home projects, two sons, and at least a million trips to the hardware store. He is survived by his wife, two sons (Taylor and Dylan), daughter-in-law (Savannah), and his brother Bob (married to Annie).

A retired civilian for the U.S. Coast Guard, Dad worked in retired pay but spent most of his off-the-clock hours as a human Swiss Army knife—fixing, building, remodeling, and always, always helping someone else. He had the rare gift of befriending anyone within five minutes—partly thanks to his hippie mane and partly because of his warm, easygoing energy.

His laid-back attitude belied a work ethic that would shame a drill sergeant. Even with cancer, he was still in his workshop, still tinkering, still improving the house long after we told him to sit down. If you ever needed a deck built, a faucet installed, or your walls knocked out for “better flow,” he was your guy. And don’t get us started on all his cars over the years. For those familiar with the Weakly household, nothing said ‘him’ quite like a bright red vehicle in the driveway.

He loved classic rock and Mexican food almost as much as he loved our annual family float down the Buffalo River. When he wasn’t invested in his home improvement projects, he found the simple joys in his black and white movies, doing puzzles with his wife, the Three Stooges on weekend mornings, and the countless family card nights. He was a competitor at everything he engaged in and remained a big kid at heart. He was the strongest man we knew—physically, emotionally, and in spirit. His memory was legendary; dates, details, stories—all cataloged like some kind of nostalgic superhero. And those stories? They were rich, vivid, and impossible to walk away from.

Above all, he was comfort. His presence filled rooms and soothed hearts. He provided not just for his family, but for anyone in need, opening his home and his heart without hesitation. He was a man you wanted on your side—quick with a joke, gentle with advice, and infallibly wise.

After a 13-month long journey, he finally found his peace and became “Comfortably Numb,” but for the rest of us, we will forever “Wish You Were Here.” If we listen closely, we might still hear him muttering, “Let me take care of that.”

A celebration of life will be held at a later date.