The trumpeter swan's song

When we took possession of Lithia Grocery in 1972, many things had to be done at once.

The Kubla Khan frozen TV dinners desperately needed to visit the dumpster, along with packages of Ritz dye, empty gallon jugs for potential Lithia Water storage and a prance of soap bars festooned with toothpick legs, laid out for my all-inclusive purchase. I never quite understood some of the inventory, but what does a rube from Santa Monica know about home-town values?However, I did take great pleasure in firing up some popcorn and walking toward Lithia Park. The popcorn machine re-incarnated as a central fixture in the Log Cabin Tavern, where the salted snacks seemed to make the Olympia beer even more welcome than normally expected. Many tens of thousands of customers munched on the treat over the years, while pitchers and glasses were poured and enjoyed long before the advent of pints on the Plaza.

Sitting on a favorite bench at the lower duck pond, I would share these munchies with the two trumpeter swans that, if you remember, adorned our City Seal for many years"¦symbolizing our cultural heritage and refined sensibilities. We ostracized the swans, then paid handsomely for the letter "A" to be Ashland's icon.

The two swans in question were white, though little is lost that one of our theatres was named the Black Swan. A stone's throw from Stratford upon Avon and the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, which inspired our present theaters through the imagination of Angus Bowmer with the brilliant designs of Dick Hayes, sits a pub with a double name. One side is called the Dirty Duck, which is known for its fine food and more modern styling, while the other is called the Black Swan, which is more authentic, if you enjoy running about in a cod piece. The possibility of actually meeting an actor there is so compelling that visitors nearly swoon at the prospect. Everyone ducks when a toast is proffered.

While seated at the lower duck pond I let my thoughts drift, trying to understand what made Ashland tick, a process that still engages me. I would toss a few kernels on the waters and the two large swans would paddle towards the chow, keeping one eye on me and the other on the snack. Most of the time a duck with pronounced flapping and web-foot water walking would beat the swans, which swam with more majesty, but less agility. I did my best to spread out the meal, then headed back to Lithia Grocery to ready for the lunch rush, which, at times, meant 50 people waiting in line on the sidewalk.

Years ago an off-leash predatory canine made short work of one of the swans. It was not delicious news to any of us. Trying to bring a new swan into the mix is not easy, as they, like doves, geese and the American bald eagle, mate for life and do not adapt easily to the loss of a soul-mate. They are territorial and aggressive, but I sure enjoyed their company while looking at the then clean waters. With the snap of a wrist I, with popcorn aplenty, kept the peace.

Ashland has had many swans, though we now sport zero. The last was backed over by a city dump truck. It was then that the icons of Ashland were forever banned from the pond, deemed as too dangerous and cantankerous for our refined guests. All the locals knew the deal and never tried to cuddle with a swan during mating season. The trumpet of a swan no longer signals triumph in the pond.

My other favorite pastime was sitting next to the Lithia Water fountain. People would drop by and chat, ideas were exchanged, ways found to bridge gaps of cooperation. The conversations were open to anyone and, surprisingly, after debating a subject we all went back to other tasks with a wave and a smile. Now that the city has moved the benches to discourage assemblage and discussion on the Plaza, our small-town problem solving has been refocused to the council chambers for a usually heated exchange. Spontaneity and humor are now seldom seen or heard, just like the trumpet of the swans.

(Lance was last seen splashing about in a kid's pool in the rain. You may give him a honk by pecking away at lance@journalist.com.)