Ross Wight Andersen

“And when the night is cloudy, there is still a light that shines on me, shine until tomorrow, let it be.”

Those words from his beloved Beatles’ “Let It Be” filled the room as Ross Wight Andersen passed peacefully on October 20, 2025, surrounded by his family. It was a fitting farewell for a man who spent his life believing, and proving, that it is possible to find light, even in the hardest moments.

A true child of the 1960s, he wore that generation’s best ideals proudly on his sleeve: equality, gentleness, and a quiet faith in the value of kindness and in the decency of others. Ross was many things across his seventy-six years – a son, brother, husband, father, grandfather, coach, storyteller, music lover, salesman, dreamer, and lifelong asker of why? He truly brought joy and light to every interaction, whether he was helping a neighbor, talking with a customer, or teasing one of his kids mid-conversation.

Born in Brigham City, Utah, on February 17, 1949, and raised in Trenton, Utah, Ross was the youngest of five children. Ross lost his mother, Bessie, early in his childhood, but her love for her “Rossy” was indelible. He grew up in the steady care of his dad, Clarence, and stepmom, Violet, enveloped by the warmth and watchful love of his older siblings.

His childhood was shaped by the hum of tractors in the fields, the mischief of small-town adventures, and later, the life-altering sounds of the British Invasion on his car radio. From those roots grew a man who loved people instinctively, a man who noticed them, listened to them, and made them feel heard.

Ross never lost his sense of wonder. His curiosity became a lifelong companion, leading him on his first big adventure to Denmark as a missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, where the remarkable photographs he took to chronicle his time among the Danish people commenced a lifelong love of photography. His camera taught him to look closely, to appreciate small details, and to find beauty in ordinary things, a habit that followed him through life.

As a student at Utah State University, Ross continued to pursue his love of photography and earned a degree in marketing, laying the foundation for a career that would combine his curiosity, creativity, and genuine care for people, a career spent helping families brighten their homes with a ready smile, and a knack for making even small decisions feel meaningful and for every person with whom he interacted feel important.

We remember him most vividly for the little rituals that defined our childhoods: the stacks of Saturday morning pancakes he flipped with a grin, his legendary Sunday afternoon chocolate chip cookies, and his silly stories featuring “Art the Cart,” a character as invented as he was beloved. We remember his uncanny Donald Duck voice, his robust laugh, and the way he turned even ordinary moments into opportunities for storytelling.

Ross was the kind of dad who coached every sport, always cheered the loudest, and once (to his own delight and our utter shock) won the “fastest dad” race at a neighborhood party.

He was a truly terrible fisherman, an equally lousy camper, a particularly clumsy swimmer, and an avid chess and gin rummy player of little renown, but he was an expert builder of non-conforming pinewood derby cars, and he somehow made all of those misadventures fun. Because he always tried, and in the trying, he taught us how to live.

The world threw at Ross more than his share of challenges. A stroke, Parkinson’s Disease, vision loss, and Pancreatic Cancer each arrived at his doorstep uninvited. Yet he met every one with his trademark shrug and knowing smile, and an inner resolve that didn’t falter. He never stopped trying, wondering, or finding humor in the moment.

He refused to let illness take his light. After his cancer diagnosis, he set out with us on an epic road trip to fulfill a dream to see his beloved Bob Dylan perform live, one long in the tooth idealist honoring another. It was a journey of laughter, stories, music, and love; a fitting final adventure.

He would want it noted here that the Beatles were superior to the Stones, that Zeppelin did indeed steal the riff for Stairway to Heaven from Spirit no matter what the courts later said, and that Arthur Lee and Love were by far the most underrated of all of the greats from his era. He was probably also slightly dismayed that it happened to be a McCartney song rather than a Lennon song from his Beatles playlist that accompanied his farewell, but his delight at having the fab four there with him and with us in the moment he said “so long” was enough.

Ross is survived by his wife, Li, who he loved dearly and who cared steadfastly for him; his five children Aaron, Amy, Adam, Adrienne, Ashley, and their spouses; sixteen grandchildren who lit up his life; and his big sisters Arlene, Beth, and Jan. He was preceded in death by his parents, Clarence and Bessie, his stepmother Violet, his brother Jay and sister-in-law Elaine, and brother-in-law Raymond Kupfer. He is also notably survived by his enduring love and advocacy for Oreo shakes and real Coca Cola.

Ross will be remembered not for the things he owned or achieved, but for how he made people feel: lighter, happier, more hopeful. He believed goodness was still possible in this world, and he proved it every day he lived.

And now, even when the night is cloudy, his light still shines on.

In lieu of flowers, please buy yourself an Oreo shake.

Memories and condolences may be shared and expressed at www.allenmortuaries.com.