This group shares 'line of baloney' every morning at McDonalds in Northampton
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You will see them in the morning, but not exceptionally early. After a lifetime of dragging themselves out of bed at the crack of dawn, they're now retired; let someone else answer the damn alarm clock - arriving by 8:30-9 will do just fine.
"I used to get up at 6 o'clock," said Mario Simeone, 74, a retired salesman from Florence. "Not anymore."
It's a scene you may have witnessed while stopping for coffee and cruellers - a table in the back of the place taken up by a circle of white-haired gents in baseball caps and windbreakers, sipping black coffee and gnawing on the headlines of the day. You'll see them at the Crack of Dawn in South Hadley, or in the back room of the Corners Grocery in Worthington.
This is a story about the crew who hangs every morning at the McDonalds on King Street in Northampton. The staff there even pushes a couple of tables together in anticipation of their arrival. Not only do they sit in the same configuration each day, but "We've even got seats with our names on 'em," said Eddie Nartowicz, 88, of South Deerfield, turning his chair upside-down to show his initials.
They are all retired family men, some with World War II experience, most Hamp High or St. Mike's or Burgy High grads, going back to the mid-40s and early 50s.
On any given morn you'll find John Kouniotis, 85, and Ed Wingfield, 74, of Florence, Norm Cloutier, 78, of Easthampton, Tom Patrick, 66, of Hatfield, Roger Libiecki, 77, of Florence, Bob Dash, 76, of South Deerfield, and the Wade brothers, Don, 84, and Bob, 82, of Florence, who, in their earliest days as contractors, built 32 area streets and took part in naming them.
"Before World War II you had West Streets in Florence, Northampton and Leeds," said Bob.
"Fire station gets a call: 'There's a fire on West Street!' and hang up," said Kouniotis."You had trucks going to the wrong house." .
"After the war you had a lot of streets named after vets who died," said Bob Wade. "West Street (in Florence) became Ryan Road."
"Also known as Rum Road; there were stills around in those days," said Libiecki.
"This gonna be in the paper?" asked a guy going by with a tray.
"Yeah, right below the obits," said Simeone.
Kouniotis, of twinkling grin, appears to spill his hot coffee and everyone jumps in horror to get out of the way, their reflexes astoundingly acute.
"Happens every time," said Nartowicz. "Somebody pretends to spill his coffee and everybody jumps like a kangaroo. Fall for it every time."
Tom Patrick relates news about the nutrition-based weight loss program he's enrolled in at the V.A. "What we learned for 66 years - they reverse that," he said. "I go to the dentist now and they tell me 'Your gums have come back!'"
You sure you didn't change your toothpaste?" asked Bob Wade.
Simeone pulls out a black book and begins collecting money and marking down who's paid and who's shy for the lottery they play ever week as a group.
"Mario collects the money and we kiss his ring," said Nartowicz.
"No regular number, just whatever's big for that week," said Kouniotis.
"We're looking for new members," said Nartowicz, "as long as you got a line of baloney."
"You're in the Hall of Fame for that," said Cloutier.
Seeds sown
This all started 15 years ago when Nartowicz found Simeone sitting there by himself and sized him up as a guy you could chew the cud with. The two, as founding fathers of this august body, occupy the seats at the top of the table.
"When I kick the bucket, John's moving up," said Nartowicz.
Alas, there is some attrition involved. In recent times the group has lost Ernie Lambert, Hap Levy, Frank Kostek, George Cummings, Lester Serio. The vacant chair the columnist mistakenly sits in was once owned by ruddy-faced Ed "Shipwreck" Jaworski, 89, who died on 11/11/11. Jaworski's ship, the USS Kearny, was torpedoed on Oct. 17, 1941, before the U.S. had even entered the war, 11 men lost.
"When Shipwreck died we took his money and donated air conditioning for the American Legion in Hatfield," said Simeone.
Nartowicz was in the Air Force in WWII, most of it spent in Italy. Kouniotis, also a WWII vet, has been married 62 years to his wife Anita and calls his World War II duty in London, where he transferred captured submarine logs to microfilm, the time of his life.
The group's get-togethers are not limited. They all take their wives out for Christmas; last year they went to Fish Tales in Hatfield. But their daily excursions to King Street get them out of their wives' hair for a couple hours. "My wife loves it," said Simeone. "She's still sleeping."
The subject of the high school quarterback who scored the championship TD while raising his fist in triumph, only to have it called back for "unnecessary celebration" elicits debate.
"It IS against the rules," Kouniotis allowed.
"Rules," scoffed Simeone. "What if you won the lottery? You wouldn't jump up and down?"
"Touchdown celebrations were different then," said Simeone, who, like many at the table, played ball for the legendary and notoriously gruff Ed Buckley. "We crowded each other but never played to the crowd."
There are often two and three conversations going at once, with no one holding court for very long, and a discussion of the source for the best coupons weaving in and out with the virtues of Gingrich versus Romney and Obama not protecting the Dems and that he's probably a socialist anyway.
Patrick likes Hunstman for president. "He calls a spade a spade," he said.
The group is mostly Republican/Independent, with a couple of Dems mixed in.
"I think Obama gets a second term," said Bob Wade, "but World War III breaks out."
On the recent ballot question to retain or dump the Community Preservation Act, Simeone said: "If you put it in simple language and worded it differently, you might have had a different result. A lot of people thought 'No' meant getting rid of it. Say it like it is. No, we want it? Like hell we don't."
"That's it - I don't talk politics," said Kouniotis, who turns off his hearing aid and starts reading the paper, smiling through the whole thing. When he squints, Nartowicz reaches up in the hanging plant above the table and pulls out a pair of reading glasses, which his friend declines.
"I planted 'em when we first got here," said Simeone.
The casino question gets batted around with bets being taken for Holyoke over Palmer.
"It's a lost concept talking about casinos," said Patrick, a retired postal worker. "You gotta keep the Post Office going. It's the backbone of the nation."
"If we go to a five-day week it's over for the Post Office," he said. "With the processing plants down your first class will take three, four days. UPS'll take over. It'll create one hell of an unemployment wrath for Obama."
"When things get loud I quiet them down," said Joyce Boucher, 71, retired nurse and singer of songs, who, with her husband of 49 years, Walter, always sits down at the next table. She has great affection for the crew. "The biggest one is history # I learn something every day," she said.
Boucher knows that the memory that still ties Nartowicz up in knots is his carrying the dead off the field during the bloody Battle of Monte Cassino in '44.
"Did you ever go back?" asks Joyce Boucher
"I don't want to go back," said Nartowicz, shaking his head. "We lost 11,000 guys there."
But four years ago on a cruise to the Cayman Islands, Nartowicz met a Philadelphian who was a child in Caserta, Italy when Nartowicz fought there. They both remembered the GIs tossing candy to the kids as they yelled "Caramella!"
"I could have thrown you candy," Nartowicz told him.
"His father was one of the Italians who dug holes for the dead, but (the Americans) got killed so fast, you couldn't keep up."
"He gives me a big hug," said Eddie Nartowicz. 'Thanks for saving our lives from the Nazis.'"
One day last week, most of the crew took the bus to Foxwoods, an all-day affair, not much in the way of winnings.
"We got on the bus at 7 a.m. and got off it at 6 p.m.," said Simeone. "When we get back Eddie says, 'Drop me at the Y.' He goes swimming! The rest of us are bone-tired exhausted and he goes swimming. Gets home at nine."
"When you get to 88, your time is short," said Nartowicz. "When you die you'll be sleeping a long time."
