ST. GEORGE—
Every morning, in a little corner of the universe at the intersection of Dixie Downs Drive and Sunset Boulevard, the scene plays out. Rain or shine. Summer, fall, spring and winter. Without fail.
A bunch of old guys – and also sometimes old gals – take the seats they've assigned themselves in the dining room of a fast food joint that didn't exist when they were born, and proceed to solve the world's problems.
It's not unique, this ritual. People of all ages do the same thing at cafes and coffee shops around the world.
But it's hard to imagine many matching the mixture of independence and togetherness found here.
The way the tables are situated, each person can have his or her own domain and still be a part of the group.
The perfect retirement plan.
And there's something else that makes this place one of its own kind. Barley 30 feet away, on the opposite side of the restaurant, is PlayPlace, where little kids tunnel through the maze and slide on the slides as their parents guard their Happy Meals.
In a town that caters heavily to both the young and the old, there are always plenty of kids at PlayPlace.
All the old guys have to do is look back 30 feet and it's them, a lifetime ago.
On a routine Tuesday morning, I ask the assembled McDonald's morning crowd if they look at the PlayPlace families with envy and wish that was them, doing it all over again.
Their answers come with bemused looks.
"For heaven's sake no; we feel sorry for them."
"We're happy; we grew up."
"Grandkids are better."
Their unfiltered honesty is full of wry humor. No one's running for office.
Nor is anyone worried about age. It's become a source of pride to tell how old you are. Jim Farmer and Mel Johnson are 77, Zack Russell is 88 and his wife Ruth is 91, Elden Mower is 90, Lee Larson is the kid of the group at 73 and Seth Larsen is 86. Today. Seth celebrated his birthday by getting up, strapping on his Velcro shoes, and walking the mile and a half to the golden arches.
"It's all downhill," he shrugs. "I'll hitch a ride back."
"We're the Low Battery Gang," says Lee Larson, who just got back from a trip to Maui with his wife and is making his second trip of the morning to McDonald's. He was also at the 6 a.m. shift to tell them about his Hawaiian vacation.
The top topic of the Low Battery Gang?
"Politics," they all shout out.
"We're Romney people here," adds Johnson.
"There used to be a lot of liberals, but all of a sudden they're kinda quiet," says Farmer.
For a moment, no one says anything.
I ask them the key to living this long and this happy.
"Stay away from the television"; "Every ad is designed to make you think you're sick so you'll buy what they're selling"; "Be concerned about your friends"; "Don't eat too much"; "I think this coffee has something to do with it."
At the front counter, Francisco Martinez, the restaurant's morning manager, can't say enough good about the old guys. "They can stay as long as they want and have as many refills as they want," he says.
And he's not saying that because of the revenue they bring in. Coffee at the senior citizen rate is 63 cents and drinks are a dollar. Refills are free.
"They're just good guys," says Francisco.
Back in the corner, the topic at McDonald's has turned to — McDonald's.
Mel Johnson is telling a story about growing up in San Bernardino, Calif., just down the street from a barbecue place owned by brothers Richard and Maurice McDonald. It was that restaurant that Ray Kroc cloned into the business that in 2012 serves 68 million people in 119 countries every day – present company included.
"I was 8 years old when my grandfather took me there," says Johnson. His math and his history add up. The McDonalds brothers started their restaurant in 1940. Mel would have been eight in 1943.
Sixty-nine years later, his grandfather is gone and he's one himself – and still going to McDonald's. With a table reserved every morning just for him.
Lee Benson's About Utah column runs Monday and Friday.
email: lbenson@desnews.com