John E. Franz

John always carried a little sparkle in his eye, as if he’d just found a secret worth sharing. Born that brisk winter of 1929, he grew into a man who loved puzzles in glass and light, the hush of a lab humming with possibility. When he discovered glyphosate in 1970, he laughed and said it felt like coaxing a shy plant to tell its truth. Yet what made him grin widest was coming home with pockets full of pencils and questions, ready to explain the world to us as if it were a story we could hold. He turned ordinary evenings into small celebrations, teasing out wonder from the everyday, and taught us that curiosity is a kind of love. Family was his favorite experiment, and he never tired of getting it right. With his wife he built a porch of patience and jokes, with his children he built rooms for mistakes and second chances, and with grandchildren he built forts of attention, kneeling to see the world at their height. He remembered birthdays like formulas and anniversaries like favorite songs. Meals at his table lingered, full of debate and honey, and no one left without a hug that felt like a promise to keep growing. His passions bloomed everywhere: watercolor skies on rainy afternoons, walks that turned into treasure hunts for stones and stories, and gardens where he whispered encouragement to tomatoes. He loved tools that fit like old friends and notebooks crowded with arrows and dreams. Helping neighbors fix stubborn faucets or coax reluctant roses gave him a joy that lit up rooms. John leaves soft footprints on thousands of hearts, proof that one steady, kind life can tilt the world toward good. We will miss his laugh, his listening, and the way he made science feel like love in motion. We carry him forward, tender and sure, grateful that he was ours.