Sharing toasted rye, memories, with friends

Just over a year ago an old friend died.

Phil and I went to high school together, played some baseball, drove to Bolder because we heard the coeds at C.U. were accommodating (they were not, at least to a pair of rubes from Iowa).  

The two of us, in one way or another, managed to misspend a significant portion of our youth.  

He married, moved west, and for a couple of decades our paths rarely crossed.  

Then, a few years ago, Phil began making regular trips to Iowa to attend matters regarding his aging mother.  

He called one morning.  I invited him and his wife for breakfast.  
The four of us went to Stanton's Swedish restaurant and a tradition of sorts began.  

We passed on rolled-up pancakes and potato sausage but Phil, recalling a long-gone grandmother, asked for the home-made Swedish rye, toasted.  

“Try it,” he said.  “It's good for the memory.”  

From then on, when Susie had it, this was our choice.    

There were mornings during the next few years when the four of us consumed the better part of a loaf.

We sipped coffee and talked of better times, school days, old cars, the basketball tournament we’d have won but for a bad call and a few dozen missed shots.  

Those were warm, pleasant occasions and we lingered, savoring memories and home-made rye bread, toasted.    

Then cancer caught up with Phil. He fought it for a few months, through surgery and chemo and heartbreak, and finally decided the time had come to give it up.  

My wife and I don't eat out much, practically never in the morning, so when Phil passed away the toasted rye era came to an end.   

Until, that is, last week.  My sister, a flight attendant who lives in Memphis, came to watch a high school football game and attend a family reunion.           

Rene's job causes her to sometimes deal with unpleasantness.  A few months ago she was on a flight that made an abrupt and unscheduled landing because of a bomb threat.  

She is irked by passengers who mimic her when she's giving the obligatory safety instructions.  

She once had to deal with an inconsiderate old codger who expired between Newark and London.  

But the job has perks.  Layovers in Paris are nice.  Knowing the system and flying free is another.  

She and friends once took a standby hop to Heathrow, had tea and crumpets, then flew home.  

She's had pasta in Rome, schnitzel in Munich, snails in a French bistro. Her job has let her enjoy exquisite food in far-away places.         

With this in mind I treated her to breakfast at the little Swedish restaurant. I told her of being there with Phil, insisted her order include the home-made rye, toasted.  

I had hope, I suppose, that she'd make comparisons to something she'd had in Stockholm. She did not. She further disappointed me by not eating the crust.   

We did, however, have a fine visit.   

Over a second cup of coffee we relived childhood experiences and better times and a basketball tournament that might have been.

And on the way to the airport she commented that Phil was right.  

Homemade Swedish rye, toasted, is good for the memory.     

Roy Marshall is a local historian and columnist for the Red Oak Express. He can be contacted at news@redoakexpress.com.