Ann Rigby, a story

"You don't take pictures of the bad times, you only take them of the good times." - Dan Rigby

I always have these weird fantasies where someone is going to call me out of nowhere to speak and fill time. So anytime I'm at an event, while you're talking to me and probably passing on valuable information, I'm day dreaming about what I would say if I had to get in front of a room of people and win them over. 

Unfortunately, two people I knew have passed away in recent weeks. Even though these are somber events, I still had a story in my back pocket. (I don't take a break for sadness, for happiness, for exhaustion, keep that in mind next time you need someone to fill a speech role) Since I didn't get to share them during the services, I'll share them via my blog over the next week or two.

The first memorial was a Zoom call, that was for Ann Rigby.

Ann hovered in the background of a lot of Story family events when I was a kid. Just sort of one of the many faces I would see a few times a year, generally share a good time with, but I never really knew how Ann was related to me or how she fit into the picture. She was just a vague person at family events with other great uncles and aunts and second cousins. 

The first time I visited my dad in Arizona, we had made plans to get lunch with Ann and Dan after we hiked. 

On the way across the valley, my dad recalled stories of how Ann was one of the first people to see me as a child, he talked about 20 or so times she came by our houses in St. Louis, and the dozens of times she made sure he was fed since he was out in Arizona. So Ann played a much larger role in my life than I had never known.

So, two out of shape adults, who hadn't been on a difficult hike in 15 years, decided to try and hike Camelback Mountain which backed up to the Rigby house. 

We hiked about half the trail to the true top (there's a soul crushing fake top you climb to only to see the second hump of the camel's back) when a barefooted 24 year old male flew past us. 

He wasn't out of breath (we were), he wasn't sweating that bad (we were), he had abs that glistened in the sun (we didn't), and he wasn't using the rope to get up the steep part of the path. (we were)

Out of breath and seeing another steep incline ahead of us, we all of a sudden got incredibly hungry and decided to turn back for lunch.

So we get back to the house, and Ann is doing her Ann thing where she would ask you a question, but never really wanted to have the small talk.

A normal conversation with someone else would go something like, “What do you do?” “Oh I teach underprivileged kids.” “Oh, that’s neat, where at?”

But Anne didn’t need the “Oh that’s neat, where at part?” She just had intuition to sort of read that stuff from your aura or soul or whatever it was she would look into. 

It was like Ann knew all the small talk answers already. Not that she had been told or keeping tabs, but she could read you. 

So instead of her just asking more of those questions, she would skip ahead and start asking you details of your life you were pretty sure you never told her. I’ll never forget, she put her hands on my forearm, and leaned in, and “ohhh, I know you're great at that. Those kids must love you.”

I hadn't told her any stories at this point, but when she said the kids must love me, I believed that she believed that. (In an alternate universe, she is probably a very successful con-woman)

We talked about the school and the kids I had taught and the award they gave me. 

Ann was engaged, she was telling me how proud she was, how I must have been such an amazing connection and mentor for those kids. I felt special beyond belief. 

We left the Rigbys and I eventually returned to St. Louis. 

...then a few months later, just as the visit was sort of fading to the back of my memories a little bit, a letter showed up in the mail. And it was just this fantastic letter from Ann just again praising me for what I did, telling me even if I’m not doing it anymore, she’s sure I’m making an impression on the world.

And those letters continued for a couple years. And I started looking forward to getting the next letter telling me how great of a person I must be. The ego was being fed from a resource that was so sincere.

And to this day, Ann might be the last person to send me a letter in the mail.