I’m sorry to report that my friend and confidant Ann Graves has passed. She was 86.
Her diabolical adversary, acute myeloid leukemia, finally beat her down, but not without a fight.
Ann had been diagnosed with the disease back in August of 2022. At that time I promised to be her man Friday and was available 24/7 for any sort of punishment and torture that she deemed necessary. She took me up on it. But to my great surprise the two of us became the closest of friends and our time together was far from torturous. (Except for that time with the cat o’ nine tails. But I probably had it coming.)
Back in 1999 I started playing jazz with Professor John Graves and, together, we soon became a force of nature: musically we could read each other like a book. I considered him a mentor ‒ and my surrogate father ‒ for which he reciprocated. Of course Ann was part of the bargain: sort of a two-for-one deal I suppose. We both orbited John with his considerable gravitational pull tugging at our hearts. I broke down and joined their beloved Pagosa Universalist Unitarian Fellowship (PUUF) where John played piano every Sunday and I tried my best to be a little more spiritual. It certainly made me a better man.
Ann and John.
I had met John’s son Kim and his lovely family. And then Phil Swearngin entered the picture. Phil was the Professor’s favorite student at the the University of Central Missouri. He and I became close friends and now, along with Kim, consider ourselves “brothers from other mothers.” We were all family. But then John started fading. Phil and I produced a tribute to the great one and named it Sentimental Journey. We staged the show at the Pagosa Springs Center for the Arts and it played for a packed house of fans and admirers. Luckily we filmed a DVD of the event which is dear to our hearts, and it shall hopefully live on in posterity.
John finally left us all to fend for ourselves. We presented a jazz memorial for the Professor and it was quite the send off. There surrounded by the big band was John’s piano, a tip jar and a glass of red wine ‒ sans piano man. A fitting gesture for an amazing human being.
After John’s passing Phil and I pampered Annie. She soldiered on as a merry widow glad to have spent those many years with the love of her life. I did work for Ann and, for one thing, built the flagstone walkway in front of the Graves’ charming custom built home. She was leading a genteel life with her loving daughter, her best friend Bonnie, her indefatigable dog Daisy, extended family and many cherished friends and neighbors — contented and happy.
Ann with Taylor Graves.
And then cancer raised its ugly head. Phil and I realized what we had to do for poor Annie: to comfort her and to be a loving presence throughout her remaining days. She had gone into hospice only a month after her dire prognosis in September of 2022. She knew that her days were numbered but Annie was taking it all in stride. She was cheerfully philosophical and brave and never let on that she was afraid; no sorrow or self-pity for this girl! She was slowly dying. But with dignity and grace.
I could still make her laugh (and we all know what good medicine that is). I would take her to the City Market where she gathered her favorite weekly victuals: all of it comfort food. And toward the end — when she weakened — she manned an electric cart and wreaked havoc in the aisles like a one-woman demolition derby. I took her for rides in her trusty Honda, we did all her errands, visited the library where she’d select dozens of large print books at each visit, and then we’d end up at the Subway for take home sandwiches. And then Phil started the Tuesday Taco extravaganza care of Santy’s. Phil and I always looked forward to Tuesdays with Annie. I suppose we’ll keep up the tradition in honor of the grand dame.
From left, standing, Taylor, Ann and Davis Graves. Seated Sandi and Kim.
All the while Annie and I kept up a running conversation. For the length of her illness we discovered who we were, politically, spiritually, every which way but right wing. Were we secular humanists? Probably. Her late husband was a brilliant intellectual (Bertrand Russell was a friend) but Ann proved to me, once and for all, that she was every bit his equal. Hand in hand they globe trotted, mingled with exalted luminaries, spread their humorous brand of joy and cherished their precious time together. They both were very fortunate to have found one another!
Ann had complained about her worsening arthritis and other ongoing ailments, but now it seemed that her red blood cells had forsaken her. Her organs were shutting down and the poor girl was now experiencing some real pain. So far she had beaten the odds, but now it was time to venture on.
Hospice brought a hospital bed to the house – usually a precursor to the end. She climbed into that bed and had them park her close to the picture windows. The Continental Divide, in all its glory, stretched out in front of her. Literally… a view to die for.
Late in the evening ‒ Saturday, January the 13 ‒ our dear Annie slipped into the mythological Ether leaving us poor mortals to carry on without her. I only have love and great appreciation for having known such a vivacious woman.
She was truly one-of-a-kind!