Phyllis Washburn, Marion resident and author, told the heartwarming, tender story of how she and her husband Ralph met a swan and began a journey they could not have anticipated. Their relationship with Sam the Swan has been captured forever in her book Good Morning Sam.

Washburn spoke on August 29 after the Marion Council on Aging luncheon as part of an ongoing series of after-lunch lectures sponsored by the COA at the Marion Music Hall.

The Washburns started out simply enjoying nature and observing the animals, quietly, gently along the salt marshes, coves and inlets on the shore of Sippican Harbor. Over time, Ralph and Phyllis Washburn would become the best friend a swan could ever have.

She said that in 1985, “Ralph was doing some work in the harbor and was told about the swan.” The swan had already been given the name Sam by the time Ralph met him and fed him crackers. Ralph said to his wife excitedly, “You’ve got to see this swan!”

The Washburns hadn’t planned to visit daily, but they were enchanted by the giant bird’s splendor and willingness to allow their advances. They began to bring him bread, slowly earning the mute swan’s trust. “We fed him bread occasionally, then twice a day, then got him to go up on the beach,” she said in a voice as soft as a whisper. Washburn said that she even baked cornbread for Sam. “It was Ralph’s favorite breakfast, too,” she added with humor.

During that first winter of what would become a 14-year adventure, “We coaxed him out of the water and fed him,” Washburn said. As time went by, the Washburns would find themselves feeding Sam twice a day everyday. “He’d always come back at mealtime,” she chuckled, and then added, “The fourteen years we spent with Sam were pure joy, on our part, and on his part, too, I think.”

Sam, they would learn, had a damaged wing and could not fly; therefore, since he was stuck in Sippican Harbor, Sam made his living from nature’s bounty and now through the generosity of two devoted humans.

“One winter he disappeared,” Washburn told the audience. “We called the police and asked them to keep an eye out because it was hunting season.” As fate would have it, the police were notified of a swan in the Weweantic River that appeared injured.

The intrepid couple sought him out calling to him. Lo and behold, the swan responded. For two weeks, the Washburns returned daily to the river feeding Sam and monitoring his condition. They were anxious to find a way to get him back into Sippican Harbor, as they knew the Weweantic often froze over in the winter. They were worried Sam would be frozen, too.

One day, when they went to the river to feed Sam, he was gone. “He had managed to get back to Marion,” Washburn sighed with relief as if it had happened yesterday.

Washburn describes their experience of befriending Sam as a “blessing,” one that they experienced because of their willingness to “meet nature where it is…”

Ralph, a photographer, took pictures of Sam and other swans that came in and out of his long life. Phyllis simply started out writing expanded captions for those pictures. She also kept a journal documenting their experiences with Sam. After a while, and with some encouragement, Phyllis began studying and writing at a Cape Cod writers group in Hyannis. After four years, she was prepared to write the story of Sam.

During her discussion, Washburn took her audience through the trials of protecting Sam during Hurricane Bob, providing shelter for him in their backyard when old age threatened to drown him, and welcoming the occasional female partner when Sam was fortunate enough to catch one’s eye for a season.

“[Sam’s] life ended in our backyard,” Washburn said wistfully. As difficult as that must have been, the Washburns always felt “it was a fantastic adventure.” With Sam gone, the female who had also come to live on their property as his partner was now alone. This female they had named Little One. After Sam’s passing, Little One “called and called for him.” To ease the lady’s sorrow, the Washburns got her a black duck for company. “The duck bossed her around,” Washburn remembered with a smile. Little One stayed with the Washburns for nine years.

Washburn said that she and Ralph “still look for swans in the harbor every spring.” She lamented, however, that due to the harbor being congested with boats, swans are now less likely to nest along the shores.

As her discussion drew to a close, Washburn shared that after Sam died, “I heard a swan and looked up but no swan was there. I think that was Sam telling us he was in God’s kingdom now and flying again.”

You can visit Washburn’s website at www.ourswans.com and watch their YouTube video titled “Mute Swans and Humans,” and order a copy of the book.

By Marilou Newell

It was surprising to see among her possessions a bicycle. Gardening supplies, antique furniture, lamps, chairs, side tables, boxes of bric-a-brac and a brand new bicycle stuffed into a large storage unit.

She had sold her beloved hundred-year-old farmhouse on the hill, had cast about for a place to land, and to her dismay eventually found herself in senior housing. The small studio apartment was far from adequate to re-home her restless soul, never mind her numerous belongings.

We had come to consolidate the bits and pieces of her tangible assets from two storage units down to one. She had to touch these pieces and talk about when, where, and how each had been added to the collection. She had to remember a life, her life.

My friend has been sick a long time. It will take her away sooner rather than later now. Her inner fortitude versus her physical wherewithal is why she is still standing, standing in this storage unit.

Things have become rather difficult of late. Added to her chronic health problems are intermittent infections that cripple her ambition to simply live another day. Yet, she fights on as only the tragically ill can do in a battle she will not survive.

And there is the bicycle. It is a brand new beauty for sure. I ask, “Who did you buy the bike for,” believing as I did that she couldn’t have purchased it for herself. My god, she couldn’t have thought riding a bike was possible with an oxygen tank.

“For myself, of course,” she replies with a not-too-friendly smirk that telegraphs how stupid I am for even asking the question. I say no more but think, “I know all about bikes.”

Dad had wanted a bike. Long past owning and operating a motor vehicle, he wanted a bike so he could get to his fishing boat, to the banks and grocery stores he owned, to his home where his new wife was waiting for him. The elaborate tapestry his brain had woven over the past few years was complex with finite details. He would ride and be mobile again. He and he alone would dictate his comings and goings, not a failing body or a well-meaning daughter.

I told him repeatedly that his knees weren’t capable of peddling a bike, but he knew otherwise. So strong was his confabulated belief system that his inability to walk unaided or dress himself meant nothing. When opportunity presented itself in the form of a grandson who could be manipulated to aid in his scheme, he jumped at the chance.

“Give me a ride to Benny’s, I need to get some supplies,” he told the unwitting co-conspirator. He even managed to spirit the checkbook out of its hiding place, getting his grandson to help him fill it out. Now he had a bike.

The next day, he pushed the bike to the fire station to pump air into the tires. The young firemen insisted he wear a helmet and produced one for him. A size or two too small, Dad placed the helmet on his head and pushed the bike back home.

Later that afternoon, I received a call at my office from one of Dad’s neighbors. The caller was concerned. Dad was sitting outside his home on a snowdrift wearing a bike helmet and holding onto a new bike. I said, “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

As I turned the corner, I could see him still sitting there. He was smiling. He may have been speaking to the people who regularly visited his imagination, maybe even his new wife.

“What are you doing, Dad,” I say as I walk towards him. I say, “You have to get up Dad.” I put my hand out, “Come in the house. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.” He responds, “OK, but I’m pretty tired from riding this bike.”

Once inside, I insist that he change out of his wet clothing, helping him to do so. He doesn’t know how they got wet. I tell him because he was sitting on the snow bank for at least an hour. “Nay, I was riding that bike,” he responds.

The bike became a symbol of our struggle between his unrelenting desire to be free and live a life of purposeful activities and my desire to try and keep him safe. I would eventually win the hollow victory.

Back to the present, my friend and I manage to consolidate her possessions – including her bike – into one unit.

Maybe for her that bicycle is her symbol of freedom. Maybe just owning it is enough. Maybe she imagines riding it with her beloved dogs looping along, young and strong and so alive in memory. Maybe she sees her husband waiting at a crossroad just up ahead, a crossroad she’s pedaling towards on a bicycle she rides in dreams.

By Marilou Newell