What a curious sight the six or so of us must make, standing at the doorstep of the Dollar Tree in Whitinsville every morning just before the store opens.

People unfamiliar with the scene who are driving past on their way to Shaw’s or Koopman’s (or maybe McDonald’s, for their morning coffee and a breakfast sandwich) must do a double take, or say to themselves “what are all those old guys up to? What are they waiting for?”

The newspaper, for one American greenback—a third of its regular price—that’s what.

The composition of the group has not changed much over the years. Near as I can determine, all of us are in our seventies, or older.

Buzzy is usually the first to arrive, always pulling into the same parking spot, like a parishioner claiming the pew he is accustomed to occupying Sundays in church. All of us do the same.

Buzzy wears sunglasses to protect his eyes when there is a glare because he recently had cataract surgery. Possessed of an agreeable disposition, he is prone to saying, when the weatherman’s forecast is off the mark, “how would you like to make six figures and be wrong half the time?”

John is the “elder statesman” in his light vinyl jacket and Harvey Industries cap. He is ninety-one going on ninety-two. He touches a stanchion in the parking lot as he walks toward the store from his truck, presumably for good luck.

Frank’s thick white hair is combed straight back. He became the talker of the group after Butch suffered a mishap, underwent rehabilitation, and decided not to come around anymore. Frank drops names of people he knows, wondering if we know them too. Or he will complain about such things as Uxbridge raising property taxes on two-family houses “and we were supposed to get something out of it, but haven’t.”

Frank can be counted on to keep the dialogue going. On a recent Monday morning, noticing a man flying a kite-like contraption powered by a gasoline engine across the sky west to east, toward Mendon and Milford, he said “look at that! Remember, Romasco used to do that!” There were nods of affirmation from those who recalled just such a sight.

“Yeah, and once he ran into some high-tension wires and zap!” John said.

“Dead?”

“No, not dead,” John replied.

Pablo is still masking up although the rest of stopped wearing them as soon as the sign that they were required for entrance to the store was removed. Pablo is typically in a cheerful mood and liable to break into a rendition of “You Are My Sunshine” or “Good Morning, Vietnam.”

Dick wears brown cotton garden gloves even on a forty-degree spring day with the sun flooding the stoop and warming our creaking bones. His car brakes mysteriously started giving out on him a month or so ago. He would have to pull off the road for fear of hitting something. He subsequently traded up to a new vehicle.

Jack is an off-and-on presence. He worked for National Grid, I think, and so pays close attention to construction projects and road work and detours. He will say in amazement “have you noticed how many trees they’re taking down around here?” 

As for myself, I am unofficial co-captain of this strange band of brothers, with Buzzy, as two founding members of the group. When I am not engaged in the innocuous but often entertaining chit chat that develops between us I am probably thinking about the books from Richard Whittaker’s private collection that I purchase on a regular basis from Deb Horan at Booklovers’ Gourmet in Webster. I am always trying to grow my own ever-expanding personal library, like Thomas Jefferson did.

I do not know much about Mr. Whittaker but at Ms. Horan’s store I typically gravitate to the back room, where the biographies and classics and historical fiction are shelved. I know I will probably find a book previously owned by Richard Whittaker, whose taste matched mine. I latched onto two more of Mr. Whittaker’s books recently. The first was Gerald Clarke’s account of the life of Truman Capote. A week or so later I discovered a hardcover copy of In Cold Blood—Mr. Capote’s most famous work. Both books, as usual, contained Richard Whittaker’s signature just inside the cover, in a flowing, graceful script.

I consider any book owned by Richard Whittaker to be worth the price. In Cold Blood cost me more than I am used to paying but on the copyright page I saw what I look for as a pre-condition of purchase whenever possible: FIRST PRINTING. That the book and its dust jacket are in near-perfect condition clinched the deal.

I don’t mention my visits to Booklovers’ Gourmet to the others as we wait for the newspaper. There is more pressing subject matter to discuss: the weather; the Red Sox; presidential politics; the war in Ukraine; and of course our aches and pains and medical appointments.

We don’t contribute much of significance to the public discourse.

But, as Buzzy likes to say, “at least we have fun.”

Contact Rod Lee at [email protected].