Steven "Steve" Rogers Graves

Steven Rogers Graves, aka “Peaches” aka “Zeke” aka “Steve,” left this earthly plane on March 9, 2026, though he continues to live on in stories and songs, tables and chairs, silver and sculpture. And love. If you knew Steve, you knew love. He was generous with his love and leaves behind that legacy in his children, his grandchildren, his family, and his many, many friends. Steve never knew a stranger. His favorite place was his front porch, where you could often find him smoking a cigarette and inviting neighbors and passersby to come and sit awhile. You couldn’t go anywhere with Steve without him stopping numerous times to say hello, striking up conversations, and collecting friendships along the way. Husband to two, father to four, son to four, brother to four, grandfather to six, great-grandfather to one and friend to many. Born January 21, 1953, in Maysville, KY to Betty Lou and Robert Gene, his cradle fashioned from a repurposed drawer. The story goes that his cousin Jane dropped him on his head as a baby, which may explain his later difficulty with remembering dates or finishing household projects. Steve spent his childhood on the family farm in Ewing, KY, with brief stints in Lexington and Louisville. By the time he was in second grade, his days were spent hunting and fishing with real guns, real hooks, and no adults. He loved to spend his days with his pony, chasing trains to catch Bazooka gum thrown by the railroad men, and stealing smokes from the old men that played poker every day in the coal warehouse. He was convinced he could fly and would build wings from tobacco sticks and feedbags, jumping off bales of hay until he jumped from the top of the barn and that was that. He moved to Cincinnati when he was in 6th grade, but he never stopped missing the farm. In middle and high school, he was baptized no less than 4 times (at different churches)- so much so that he began to think of church as where he went to bathe. At one point, he was an interpreter of tongues- proving that he either possessed the Divine Gift or the Gift of Bullsh*t. Either way, he soon found his way out of church and into the texts of beat poet, Gary Snyder, Zen Buddhism, and the Bhagavad Gita, teachings that stuck with him for the rest of his life. He had a habit of letting go of anger quickly, much to the annoyance of others up for a fight. Unless you were a bully. Steve couldn’t stand bullies or bigots and could often be seen yelling at people who hit their kids in public that if they wanted to hit someone, they could hit him! He once kicked a well-known Louisville business owner out of the woodshop in his retirement community for making racist and homophobic slurs. Steve had little tolerance for hatred and could get downright pissed about it when pushed to. With a deep moral objection to violence and the Vietnam war, Steve was a conscientious objector and spent two years working as an orderly in a Cincinnati psychiatric hospital. He spent his early twenties with his first wife, Marci and their son, Josh, in a truck with a camper built in the bed, traveling around the country selling handmade silver jewelry and scrimshaw. By his mid-twenties, he was settled back in Kentucky, building log cabins, and teaching guitar. By his late twenties, he was remarried to Karen with a new baby, Katy, enrolled at Morehead State and studying sculpture. He installed two sculptures on the campus, one of which remains today. After graduating with his BFA, he and his family moved to 44 acres outside of Athens, Ohio, where he studied towards an MFA at Ohio University, worked in a bronze foundry, and built furniture. And there was always music. Many late nights were spent with friends- playing guitar and singing songs. And then there were parties- including the NeanderBall, a three-day affair that included camping, swimming in the pond, swinging on tire swings, and guests clad in cave-dwelling attire. Steve returned to Cincinnati in the early 90s to be closer to his son, Josh, and stayed for 25 years, during which he held numerous positions including building set pieces for Kings Island, working as a general contractor, and owning a health food store, New World Foods, where he was well loved by the regulars for his tendency to treat the store like his front porch- focused more on the friendships and less on the sale. He seemed to have a general disdain for money. That, or he thought it grew on trees. Regardless, he didn’t like to keep it around, preferring to spend it on books, paint brushes, new tools, and good food. In his own words, “Enjoying whatever I was doing was always more important than making money at work and that’s why I never made much.” His favorite things cost very little: a good song, bear hugs, trading wisdom, telling tall tales, sharing food with loved ones, and laughing until his belly hurt. He followed his heart back to Kentucky, where he spent the last 15 years of his life- planting gardens, writing songs, painting, building furniture, and enjoying his grandchildren, June Apple and Wilder. He found a wonderful community of old and new friends back in Morehead and later, in Louisville. Steve was a deeply curious and intensely complicated. He could easily find common ground and then instantly play Devil’s Advocate. He lived almost entirely in the moment, often to the detriment of his plans (or other’s for that matter). He was incredibly warm, extraordinarily intelligent, immensely creative, extremely funny and he never took himself (or other people) too seriously. He laughed and cried easily, and one never had to guess how he felt. He had a deep and lasting friendship with his son-in-law, Amos, and was thrilled knowing that his daughter-in-law, Kerri, made his son so happy. He loved his children, Josh and Katy, so very deeply and was so, so proud of them while also never making them feel the burden of heavy expectations. He marveled at his grandchildren and loved to feed them (and himself) ice cream for breakfast. He loved his brothers and honored his parents. And most of all, he loved Karen, until the very end. “When I love, I live,” he once wrote. He loved us all and we were lucky to know it. And so, buoyed by the love that remains, he lives. In lieu of flowers, we ask that you honor Steve by blowing up your TV, moving to the country, planting a little garden, and eating a lot of peaches.