Lloyd Francis Taylor Jr

On Monday, April 13, 2026, the Dollar Store and Deseret Industries lost one of their most loyal and enthusiastic patrons when Lloyd F. Taylor Jr. “signed off” and left this earthly realm to join the ether.

Born April 16, 1943, in San Bernardino, California, Lloyd passed away just shy of his 83rd birthday. Though born in California, he spent most of his childhood in the farmlands of Washington, where he became a self-proclaimed “nerdy farmer boy”—often with pants a little too short—driving tractors, working irrigation ditches, and developing a lifelong love of tinkering and fixing things. By age nine, he was already driving himself to the bus stop in a 1932 Chevy.

At age 14, Lloyd discovered ham radios, a passion that would follow him throughout his life. He famously put up an antenna pole in the backyard (to the dismay of a few neighbors and possibly the telephone company) and from that point on, the sound of Morse code was a constant background music in his life. No vacation was complete without hauling along radio equipment and hearing strangers voices calling out their ham radio call signs.

Lloyd served his country faithfully in the United States Air Force from 1964 to 1968, including service during the Vietnam War, and continued in the Air National Guard, returning to active duty during the Kuwait conflict. While he never sought recognition, he was deeply proud of his service and cherished wearing his retired military hat around town, where he was often met with a “thank you for your service” from people passing by.

During his time in the military, Lloyd joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and remained a devoted member throughout his life.

He later moved to Utah, where he met the love of his life, Joann, while working at Primary Children’s Hospital. They were married on December 12, 1974 and raised eight unique, strong-willed children together.

Lloyd graduated from Weber State University in 1975 (after a well-timed reminder from Joann that he only needed to go sign a paper). He went on to work at Unisys and later L3, where he remained until his retirement.

A natural fixer and collector, Lloyd firmly believed nothing should be thrown away if it could possibly be repaired someday. He was known for both his resourcefulness and his quiet confidence in his abilities, and for years kept a sign at his desk that read, “Lloyd F. Taylor—If I don’t have it, you don’t need it.” His garage stood as both a workshop and a testament to that philosophy. Whether it was gadgets, tools, treasures from the Dollar Store and DI, or even the plastic microwave bowl from his breakfast, Lloyd saw potential in everything—and usually had a plan to make it work.

He loved simple things like peanut butter and crackers and he was always overjoyed to get socks and peanuts for Christmas. Lloyd loved his basset hound, “Gustopher”, affectionately saying that he knew “God had a sense of humor because he created basset hounds.” He had a way of finding joy in the ordinary and making those around him smile.

Lloyd lived a long and happy life filled with family, curiosity and service. He is survived by his beloved wife, Joann; his eight children, Jennifer (James) Goostrey, Ann (Alexander) Lobos, Jonathan (Beccy) Taylor, Jeffery (Audra) Taylor, Catherine (Jeremy) Henrichsen, Jason Taylor, Joshua Taylor, and Joseph Taylor; and a growing posterity of 18 grandchildren and 4 great-grandchildren who will carry on his legacy of curiosity, humor, and ingenuity.

A Celebration of Life will be held on what would have been his 83rd birthday, where family and friends will honor him with his favorite foods and a piece of cake - the party he always wanted - where he can finally be “roasted” without any comebacks. All who wish to attend are invited to come and share happy memories on Thursday, April 16th, from 5:00 to 8:00 p.m. at The Kinlands Event Center, 11887 S. 4000 W., Riverton, Utah.

Funeral services will be held Friday, April 17th at 10:30 a.m. at Larkin-Sunset Gardens, 1950 E. 10600 S., Sandy, Utah.

K7PV signing off . . .