Emily King
Sep 6, 2018 · 5 min read

My grandmother, Roseanne Peery King, passed away this summer just days after I gave birth to my daughter. I couldn’t make the funeral in Utah, but I wrote these words that Dad shared at her service:

The everyday memories of Grandma Rosie are plentiful and vivid.

Waking up to a sunny March morning in Palm Desert — at the condo Grandma and Grandpa would rent each spring — wet grass between our toes as she and I would pick grapefruits off the trees, then I’d follow her into the kitchen to watch her cut and segment them in her blue silk robe and slippers.

Lunches at the Greenery, table 19, me with a Hedda Gobbler and Mormon Muffin, and Grandma with the day’s special (a Pink Lady!) she’d never finish, then, an exhausting afternoon of tidying and restocking the tables and card displays in the gift shop, walking what seemed like miles between all the gift departments and the stock room, stopping en-route for conversations with dozens of her customers and employees… finally taking a late afternoon break in the back room: Grandma with a mug of coffee, puffing on a long Virginia Slim; me with my haul of chocolate wafers and butterscotch hard-tack and salt-water taffy, triple the selection I’d originally chosen myself. “Don’t you want to try this too?” she’d say, as she’d grab an assortment from the shelves to fill my small hands with treats.

Then, of course, there were the several hundred Sunday dinners that Mom, Dad, Riley, and I shared with Rosie and Bob. We’d start with cocktails and cupboard hor d’oeuvres: Triscuits, cheese, mixed nuts, potato chips with onion dip. Then once the vodka tonics were emptied (for Riley and me: Tab or Diet Coke), she’d ask the evening’s defining question: “Emily, where should we go to dinner?” I always had an answer in mind, and she’d always grant my wish — a power she’d bestowed on me that my husband believes has spoiled me for life. Restaurant decided, we’d pile into the mini van and head to one of the few spots open in Ogden on Sunday: Berconi’s, Golden Dynasty, The Lion’s Den, Graycliff Lodge, or The Country Club.

BUT my favorite memories — the ones I keep replaying in these past few days — were our birthday parties, and the 17 or so we shared until I went off to college.

I was born Oct 22, 1982, a day before Rosie’s 60th birthday: both of us born as Libras and in the Year of the Dog. More similarities would unfold as I’d age: I have her smile, her laugh, her conviction, her personality, her taste for white (never red!) wine.

Just as I do now, Rosie loved a good gathering, with all of her family (and their families!) present — each holiday with its own set of rituals to be repeated every year, attendance mandatory for everyone: Easter brunch, grave decorating on Memorial Day, a Fourth-of-July barbecue, a fried-chicken picnic in late August, Thanksgiving dinner, and a beloved, if exhausting Christmas marathon of the night-before dinner, an opulent brunch, hours of afternoon present-opening, and an evening open house where family was supplemented by a coterie of her closest friends: The Dyes, the Dees, the Lunds, the Williams, the Goddards…and the list goes on.

Also critical on the holiday calendar were family birthdays, especially her own. I was lucky enough to enter the world at just the right time, so that my own day instantly became a requisite event in the King Family canon of celebrations.

Our party would start at 6 pm. Still light outside and not cold enough for a coat — the last few days of Utah’s gorgeous autumn before Daylight Savings and a bitter chill settled in — the family would start arriving at my parents’ house and I’d greet each member with a hug at the front door. Aunt Cathy would head to the kitchen to broil her famous stuffed mushrooms, Dad would pour drinks, Grandpa would sit quietly, hands on belly taking it all in. During the cocktail hour, I’d describe the play-by-play of my friend party the day before — Grandma yet again amused by and eager to hear what I’d say. She loved that I loved parties. Then we’d dive into the gifts: Grandma and I rotating to open our beautifully wrapped boxes. Soon time for dinner, we’d head to our favorite restaurant in Ogden, The Bavarian Chalet. A table for 20 or more, just for us. Bowls of beef consume, baskets of warm brown bread, platters of veal schnitzel and spatzle and fried potatoes, all waiting to be covered with a rich dark gravy I’ve yet to find the likes of since. We’d finish with a Baskin Robbins ice cream cake, with a wax 6 for grandma’s 60-year head start on me; individual candles for the additional years we’d shared together. This scene remains one of the dearest to me: a cozy room with matriarch and granddaughter, surrounded by everyone we loved, celebrating life and good fortune, together, over food.

My daughter, Vivian Rose, was born last Thursday, a mere 70 hrs before Rosie passed away. Grandma waited until we were settled back at home from the hospital, Vivian and I healthy and in good spirits after a very long labor.

Vivian means full-of-life and adventurous; Rose, a namesake for the outgoing, strong, and vivacious woman I was honored to call Grandma.

Like the two of us, Vivian was born in the Year of the Dog (a 1 in 1728 odd chance we’d all share the same sign). And for those who haven’t done the math, Vivian must have been conceived on or within days of my 35th, or Grandma’s 95th, birthday. As storytellers, we sometimes stretch to find meaning, but that the 3 of us would share signs, entrance and exit dates, a smile with an upturned lip, and a genuine love of life — Viv already seems pumped to be here! — well, I’m going to say that it all means something: if not a cosmic balancing of the world, a plan set in place, by Grandma, for generations of happy, ambitious, loving, and confident women to follow her lead and reap the most out of life.

Emily King

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