Annamaria Rhodes

Anna Maria Rhodes (“Annie”) April 10, 1957 – August 7, 2026 Anna Maria Rhodes, age 69, passed away on August 7, 2026, following complications of chronic lymphocytic leukemia. She leaves behind a world considerably quieter, a family immeasurably richer for having loved her, and several shelves of pocketbooks and costume jewelry that may require their own estate plan. Annie is survived by Arthur Rhodes, her beloved husband and steadfast companion; their son, Kristain Rhodes; her adored grandchildren, Arabelle and Alexander; and her siblings Mary Anne, Christopher, Patricia, Joanne, Tony, and Richard. Annie and Arthur married on August 4, 1974. She died just three days after they celebrated 52 years of marriage, a lifetime of devotion, laughter, movies, Broadway shows, and the thousand ordinary acts of care through which lasting love reveals itself. Taking care of Arthur was not merely something Annie did; it was part of the language of her heart. She was generous and loving, with a heart of gold and, by the affectionate testimony of those who knew her best, “a delightful twist of crazy.” She was spontaneous enough to venture out during a blizzard for a foot massage, because apparently neither snow nor common sense could stand between Annie and a good time. She was known to carry a small bottle of hot sauce in her pocketbook, prepared for the possibility that life, or lunch, might arrive insufficiently seasoned. With her beautiful strawberry-red hair, naturally straight, though she spent years trying to persuade it otherwise, Annie possessed a style entirely her own. Even as a girl in bell-bottoms, flower-power fashions, and dangling earrings, she looked ready for the cover of Seventeen. As an adult, her outfits, jacket, jewelry, and pocketbook were thoughtfully matched. She was elegant, colorful, and never under-accessorized. Friday mornings belonged to music, played loudly and without apology. Phil Collins and Richard Marx regularly filled the house, and one imagines that wherever Annie has gone, the volume has already been adjusted upward. She loved wine, shopping, movies with Arthur, Broadway performances, and finding yet another pocketbook that was somehow entirely different from all the pocketbooks already at home. Her greatest joy was her family. Annie loved Kristian wholly and unconditionally and was immensely proud of him. Arabelle and Alexander were among the brightest lights of her life. She delighted in making gift baskets for them, each one assembled with the generosity and attention that made her gifts feel like tangible pieces of her love. Annie also had a profound affection for animals and shared her life with many beloved dogs and cats. They could usually be found lying upon her, beside her, or as close to her as physically possible. Animals are said to know the goodness of a person before the rest of us do; Annie’s animals never appeared to have the slightest doubt. Her friends remember a woman who was kindhearted, funny, protective, smart, fierce, social, and extraordinarily generous. From childhood conversations in a tiny “clubhouse” beneath an unfinished staircase, to lunches of Lipton noodle soup poured over potato chips, to years of friendship renewed over breakfast and talks by Silver Lake, Annie made ordinary moments unforgettable. She introduced a young niece to the hospitality business and, demonstrated exactly what it meant to be “such a boss.” She lit up rooms, made people feel safe, gave freely, and never permitted distance or passing years to diminish a friendship that mattered. Like a bright flame against the evening, Annie brought warmth, color, and joyful commotion wherever she went. Though leukemia claimed her body, it could not diminish the love she gave or the memories she planted in those fortunate enough to know her. Annie’s family will miss her laughter, her fierce devotion, her beautiful eccentricities, and the unmistakable way she made life feel larger. To borrow the spirit of Shakespeare: when we count the clock that tells the time, we know that beauty must one day fade - but love, committed to memory, may live beyond the reach of time. And so Annie remains: in every song played too loudly, every perfectly matched handbag, every animal resting trustfully beside a kind soul, and every gift assembled with more love than the basket could possibly hold.

Annamaria Rhodes

April 10, 1957 - August 7, 2026