John H. Fasy's Obituary
John H. Fasy passed away on Thursday, January 16th, 2020 at Virtual Hospital in Voorhees, NJ. Born in Philadelphia to Leonard and Helen Fasy, John was 70 years old. He was resident of Marlton. John was a graduate of Cardinal Dougherty, Class of 1967, where he was a proud member of the school’s renowned marching band, traveling with his classmates to perform for Princess Grace of Monaco.
John worked in marketing and business development for General Electric and BASF.
He was an avid fan of all Philadelphia sports teams – above all the Philadelphia Phillies – and was overjoyed when his daughters also developed a love of the game. He, his girls and his dad Leonard “Bud” Fasy spent many happy afternoons at Veteran’s Stadium watching the Phils together.
John spent every free moment of his daughters’ youth with them, coaching softball, basketball, and soccer and hosting throngs of teens at their Long Valley, NJ home to take pictures before each winter formal and prom.
In retirement, John took an interest in politics, volunteering for President Obama’s campaign and spending more time than his wife thought advisable watching MSNBC.
John is survived by his wife of 44 years, Helen, his two daughters Jessica (Vincent) Vukovich and Kristin (Andrew Ganick) Fasy, and his beloved grandchildren John, Hudson, Vivienne, Fasika, and Tessa.
A gathering of family and friends will be held Wednesday, January 22, from 10 a.m. to 11 a.m. at Givnish of Marlton, 398 East Main Street Marlton, NJ 08053.
His Memorial Service will follow at 11 a.m.
In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be made to The Obama Foundation, 5235 S. Harper Court, Suite 1140, Chicago, IL 60615.
To share your memories of John, please visit www.givnish.com
Helen Fasy’s eulogy:
I’m so grateful to all of you who came today to support us and to celebrate John. It means so much to me and my girls.
I’d like to start with the story of how we met.
John and I met at a bar in 1973. It was November, the leaves were changing, and Wanamaker’s had just put up the Christmas tree. I was 21 and a newly minted nurse, and felt VERY grown up.
I was sitting at the bar when, out the corner of my eye I saw a red sweater vest approaching me and internally rolled my eyes - what a square this guy must be! – I thought. But when John introduced himself I immediately liked his calm, kind voice.
He’s quite tall, I thought to myself. Hmm, that’s nice.
We got to talking.
He was working in politics, considering grad school in a year or so; he had his own place. I told him I was a nurse and had my own place, too.
Hmm, that’s nice, he said. He sidled a little closer to me in the crowded bar.
I like to cook,” I told him at one point. “Hmm,” he smiled, and that’s when he asked for my number.
Months later, after he’d confirmed I was in fact a good cook, and I’d confirmed that his closet contained other, less square items of the non-sweater-vest-variety, his friend told me that john turned to him as they left the bar and said “I’m gonna marry that girl.” And a year later, he did.
Looking back on John’s full life, when we traveled and laughed and grew together, and raised our girls and planned for a future that was full of promise, I realize I sometimes took for granted our easy, comfortable love. Over the past few years as his sickness worsened, his physical pain and the frustration that came with it made it hard to access the man I had loved for so long. But in the past few days I’ve sat with my girls, drinking tea, looking at old photos and holding space for remembering. And as the memories of a lifetime bubble to the surface I’d like to share a few simple, elegant truths about my husband.
John valued control, yet delighted in irreverence. He rarely had too much to drink, and I can count on one hand the times he raised his voice to his daughters. He placed his watch and wallet in the same place on his dresser for each of the 44 years that I knew him. Once he called me from a men’s league softball game and said “Hey Hel, it’s funny, I can’t really walk on my leg, I think I’ll get it checked out.” Turns out he’d broken it sliding into third and needed three pins in his knee and a plate the size of a shoe box. He must’ve been in terrible pain that day, but to him it was more important that he remain calm than to show it. As you can imagine, this measuredness either impressed or infuriated me depending on the situation.
But yes, he delighted in irreverence. My husband deeply appreciated an inappropriate joke or story. I think he let the girls watch Eddie Murphy’s “Delirious” when they were about nine, and laughed at George Carlin until he couldn’t breathe. He razzed his sons in law about sports and anybody who would listen about politics. As he and his buddies had done growing up on Ruscomb street, he loved to banter, and considred you one of the initiated if you could dish it out as well as you could take it.
John valued wonder.
Anybody who’s ever watched a Phillies game with John knows that he could be the worst kind of cynic, but deep down, he wanted to BELIEVE. In his teams, in politicians’ ability to change the world, in god, in the goodness of people. I observed his loves and hates calcify as he aged – he was, if possible, more devastated by a phillies loss at 70 than he had been at 40, but waxed ever more poetic about his love of the game. He vilified some politicians while idealizing others, wanting to believe that one man or woman could fix all of our country’s problems. He called himself a lapsed catholic, but he still prayed until the end, even if it wasn’t in church. He marveled at the beauty of nature, of music, and at the miracle of his grandchildren, positive that a higher power must be responsible. He wanted to believe.
John valued his family above all else. John’s greatest joy was in me and the girls. He loved to let me shine at parties, shaking his head and laughing while I danced and caroused. He stood by me through years of debilitating illness, putting my health and needs ahead of his without question or complaint. He loved our girls. On summer evenings he’d sit on the patio with them, carefully rubbing mink oil into their softball gloves, then did pop fly drills in the cul-de-sac with them until dark. He coached everything - even when the girls didn’t want to play, even when they’d rather be in debate club or getting their nails done. He admired the women they became, and was just gobsmacked by his grandchildren, whom he considered to be the most perfect humans on the planet.
Control and irreverence, and wonder, and family. John’s sickness and his death haven’t nullified these essential truths. Instead they live on in our daughters, in our collective memories, and in me.
To the boy in the red sweater vest, the man I built a life with, the father who gave me our girls and loved them so well, and the pop pop in awe of his grandchildren. I love you John.
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