SYRACUSE, N.Y. -- Early Wednesday morning, before they arrive, the cafe is quiet at the Wegmans on Taft Road. A mounted TV hums with breakfast commercials while early risers silently read the newspaper or eat a bagel before grocery shopping.

The noise level rises between 8 and 9 a.m. thanks to about 30 men, ages 70 and 84. They arrive one by one and push the Market Cafe tables together. Once every guy has his own red cup of joe, they sit down to chew the fat. The founders call it the Wegmans Coffee Club.

For two hours every Wednesday, this caffeinated crew of Central New York natives chatters away about family, sports, health and everything else. They complain about aches and pains. They bring old photos and press clippings to share. They flirt shamelessly with young female employees at Wegmans, who smile and flirt back.

Some of them stop by the cafe on their weekly grocery trip, while others drive all the way from Cicero or Weedsport to meet the gang.

Many retired more than a decade ago, but kept active in their churches or communities. They're hellbent on keeping in touch and staying out of the house.

"Ever since I retired, I made it a point to get up every morning and get out, have coffee, shoot the breeze," said Jake Mayer, 77. "That's how you keep your mind sharp."

Many of the friends have known each other for decades. Cliff Schug has known Nick Vaccaro since they were about 6 years old. He can remember Vaccaro's childhood phone number. In kindergarten, they had to share a blanket during nap time.

"I still got the blanket," said Schug, 77. "It's got moth holes in it."

Schug and Vaccaro started the club about 12 years ago "just to get the guys together." It started with a few old classmates and grew to include 25 to 30 regulars. Over the years, Vaccaro has seen more than 80 faces pass through.

'Automation has destroyed contact between people'

The collective wisdom and experiences of the club are astounding. Born and raised in the Syracuse area, they know the city better than anyone.

Many of them went to North High School, with some exceptions from Central High School and CBA. A few were in the Marines. Six of them were activated in the Air National Guard when the Berlin Wall went up in 1961.

A group of about 30 men, ages 70-84, meet every week at Wegmans to have coffee together and chat.

When they're not needling each other over golf or women, or reminiscing about the good ol' days, the guys unite over annoyance with today's technology.

"Automation has destroyed contact between people, and the closeness we used to have," said John Militi, 84. "At least we have it with this group."

The average age of the club, Schug says, is about 79. Militi is the oldest member, but he's one of the healthiest and most energetic in the group. He still goes by his nickname "Dart" because he was a fast runner.

"Healthwise, some of the fellas have had some problems," Militi said. "I've been lucky. But you know something, I take care of myself. Wasn't a drinker. Wasn't a smoker. I go to the gym once a week, do a little swimming."

'I'm a true Italian'

Learning their names, you'll see a trend: Aiello, Amato, Asterino, Barilla, Bilotti, Caliprico, Canestraro, Cannino, Capone, Capria, Capucelli, Cariseo, Cilurzo, Cirando, Corapi, Cutrone...

These men are Italian. Even the few German friends bend to the group's Italian behaviors and idiosyncrasies. They talk with their hands.

"There were a lot of Germans on the North Side, but I was primarily with my Italian buddies," Mayer said. "Most of my expressions are all Italian because that's the way I was brought up."

Each of them worked "some kind of respectable job," Mayer said, who worked in customer relations at Niagara Mohawk. One worked for Syracuse China, another for Colonial Airlines. A few worked factory jobs for General Electric or General Motors. Some did construction, some worked for the post office and some ran their own shops.

"I'm a true Italian; I believe God made women to stay home," said Bobby Mulpagano Sr. who worked for General Motors. "When my kid gets sick in school, I want his mother there. I don't want some babysitter."

The crew brings in reliable business for Wegmans, buying 30 coffee cups for $2-3 each, and sometimes a box of cookies or doughnut holes to share. Tony Nicoletti bakes a fresh loaf of banana bread at home and passes pieces around the table.

'A lot of my friends are dead'

Cliff Schug, 77, smiles as his buddy Don Cutrone makes a joke.

The years haven't been altogether kind. Every guy who doesn't face disease or chronic pain might have just lost a sibling, wife or good friend.

"We lost a lot of guys," said Dick Tortorelli, 77. "It's that age, between 70 and 85. You're sitting across from someone and the next week, they're not there."

But they don't dwell on death. It's always been a fact of life.

"A lot of my friends are dead," Mulpagano said. "I've lost friends who were cutting the grass and had heart attacks. And they looked great."

They joke about it, too. A handful of them act suspicious of a Wegmans cafe chair -- the seat facing the windows. Several guys sat there before passing away. On April 1, Mulpagano's son Bobby Jr. found himself in the cursed seat and quickly resigned himself to fate.

"I want my ashes to fill in all the potholes here in the parking lot," he joked, booming out two single laughs.

Around 11 a.m., the crowd thins. They're off to play golf, pick up groceries or meet other friends somewhere else. They pull the tables apart and make plans for next week.

They're retired, yes, but they're not bored.

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