If you would like to share your travel photos with our readers too? All you have to do is take along a copy of The Wanderer (or your favorite aardvark) and submit your photos by email to:  support@wanderer.com or by mail to P.O. Box 102, Mattapoisett, MA 02739. You can also drop photos off at our office at 55 County Road (Route 6) in Mattapoisett. 

Joe and Susan Francisao Mattapoisett took along the Wanderer on their trip to San Sebastian, Spain.

Andrew Whalen of Mattapoisett recently went to willow creek California and visited the Big Foot museum. 

“They are prisoners of conscience … imprisoned because of their views … not because they are criminals,” Charlotte Purrington said as she sat quietly, studying the faces of people – those men, women and children who are suffering in jails or in oppressive countries – as she prepared to write another letter.

On January 18, the Mattapoisett Friends Meeting House was open to the public for a day of letter writing in support of those identified by Amnesty International in their annual ‘Write for Rights’ campaign. Purrington, along with several other members of the congregation, gathered to write letters to government officials, heads of state, even President Obama – letters intended to impress upon these leaders that the eyes of the world are watching, waiting, and hoping for justice.

Purrington, a former Peace Corps member, noted that several of the individuals or groups that Amnesty International has identified in their 2014/2015 letter writing campaign were simply expressing what others take for granted in open societies: freedom of speech. She also acknowledged that some of the cases that Amnesty has brought to public attention are not cases to which everyone will be sympathetic.

She pointed out the case of women and girls in El Salvador who have been sent to prison because they sought abortions after rape or because of dire health conditions.

Purrington also pointed out Murad Shtwewi, a Palestinian community leader who has been targeted and jailed for speaking out for Palestinian rights. Or Chelsea Manning, a United States Army soldier who tried to expose alleged human rights abuses by the U.S. military and has subsequently been found guilty of violations of espionage and imprisoned.

Purrington understands that these people might have a hard time gaining any support from some Americans, but she herself feels compelled to try to bring their stories to light by writing a letter in longhand that someone may read and understand.

Each year, Amnesty International identifies human rights cases around the world and reaches out to the global community to support their efforts in gaining freedom and justice for those who they believe are being oppressed. In this program, letters are written to heads of state, as well as to the identified persons and their families. Although digital communications are possible, the Friends believe that handwritten letters give humanity to the person being written about by the person writing the letter. They believe there is warmth in those types of communication versus the typed word.

The cases currently displayed on the Amnesty International website for this year’s campaign are: Murad Shtewi/Palestine; Raif Badawi/Saudi Arabia; Jorge Lazaro Nunes/Brazil; Liu Ping/China; Chelsea Manning/USA; Women – Girls/El Salvador; Rampyari Bai and Safreen Khan/Bhopal; Darrell Cammon and Anthony Holmes/USA; Moses Akatugba/Nigeria; Hadiya Pendleton/USA.

Those cases are as diverse as the names listed. Some are in prison, some are dead, some are struggling to bring equality, and others simply want people to be aware of causes that are negatively affecting lives. Some cases are about people who tried to speak out, others are about people who Amnesty believes were denied due process, and still others are cases that defy a distinct category.

On this day, in that quiet of the community room behind the Friends Meeting House, a handful of souls were trying to make an impact – one pen stroke at a time.

The Friends are reaching out in other ways. Deena Kinsky is traveling to Cuba on January 22 to meet the Friends in Cuba for the first time in decades. She hopes that she and her small group can establish lines of communication and help where needed. The immediate work at hand will be helping to paint the local Friends Meeting House in that tropical location.

“They told us to bring rollers and paint brushes because those are scarce,” Kinsky said. “Oh, and toilet paper also,” she added with a chuckle.

If you want more information on outreach programs with Amnesty International, go to http://www.amnestyusa.org.

By Marilou Newell

It comes through loud and clear, just as a voice easily crosses the water – the memory of a scent, of smell and all that it evokes.

How clearly I can recall the smell of fresh yeasty breads and pastries in that black panel truck of the Cushman Bakery as it pulled up to our house every Saturday morning. My Mother would send me out to the truck where the jolly uniformed driver would help me select the items I’d been dispatched to collect. There, lining the interior of the truck, were the boxes of chocolate éclairs, sugary cruellers, giant oatmeal cookies, or cupcakes with thick buttery frosting. There were pies, as well as soft, white, doughy rolls or black pumpernickel loaves. But that smell, that overwhelming scent of goodness accompanied by the resulting good mood in my mother’s kitchen, I can conjure up so richly still.

In keeping with the theme of food is the smell of pizza baking in large ovens on a summer’s evening when the seasonal pizza take-out window would be open in our tiny village. That flavorful smell would drift on the breezes and reach our noses as we sat on the porch listening to Ma’s records while eavesdropping a bit on the next-door neighbor’s heated conversation. For five cents, you could get a big, thick, cheesy slice. If we had the money, I’d do the running.

There was Besse’s Fish Market, long gone now, but remembered for that scrumptious odor of frying clams, fish, and French fries. A pint of clams and fried potatoes today is viewed as a dangerous meal choice, but back then it was the preferred choice when Dad’s wallet was thick. All the way home, as the grease soaked through the thin cardboard boxes and paper bags, my legs sprinted and I’d arrive on our doorstep winded, but so very happy.

Saltwater taffy being pulled by the electric taffy machines displayed in the window of the seaside shack known as “Kenny’s” was as mesmerizing to watch as the hot candy smell was mouthwatering as it oozed out from the cracked walls. They also made flavored popcorn bars in harlequin colors no kid could resist.

When you entered the fresh fruit and vegetable stall owned by a person simply called the “Greek Grocer,” the first thing you’d smell was the enormous juicy watermelon slices sitting in a tray of ice – another five-cent treat offering cool refreshment on a humid day, but now just a lip-smacking memory to be recalled 64 years later.

There were other smells from village streets that were less pleasant, but nonetheless memorable, such as walking by Sammy Queen’s barroom or the Union Villa. The mixture of spilled beer, cigarettes, and sweat linger in the mind by way of the nose. A blind person wouldn’t fail to know their position if standing near one of these venues; the sounds from within would add to the knowledge, for if you were a regular at one bar ‘where everybody knew your name,’ you wouldn’t frequent the other. Your stool was always waiting.

Suntan lotion and seaweed, even the heat rising up from the pavement on a hot summer’s day, are memories seated deep within my mind. It’s the smell of being young with a body that obeyed every command like running full-out into the cold ocean water or diving off the raft. Yes, feeling the eel-grass tickle your torso as you opened your eyes underwater looking up towards the surface and feeling so very good about it all because living was forever and always and fun.

Nothing felt better or smelled more of comfort than the talcum powder received as a Christmas gift, applied after a warm, luxurious Saturday night bath. Born into an age when daily showers or baths were unknown, those weekend soaks were a treat.

As a small child, bath time was playtime, with warm water reaching high to the collarbone. As I matured, it was the pleasure of easing into the steaming water, lying back as the household sounds ebbed away, floating legs as if in the ocean – oh, the simple joy of cleanliness and privacy. The bath was always followed by a dusting of talcum powder from a Bakelite container which held a fluffy, pink, powder puff. The silky smoothness of the puff and the delicately scented powder are a powerful childhood memory that all would be well, in spite of threats otherwise present.

Avon lipstick – bright red and thick with a perfumed fragrance you won’t find today in cosmetics – was a favorite of mine. Sometimes for fun my Mother would dab a tiny bit on my lips and show me how to blot it leaving a kiss outline on the tissue. The smell would linger on my mouth for hours as I pretended this or that fantasy, longing for the day when my pocketbook would hold my very own lipstick. Such things a child believes are important for a time.

I clearly recall bacon crackling in the pan announcing Dad was up, fueling his body for the day of work ahead and that soon he’d be calling from the bottom of the stairs that it was time to “Giddy UP!” I’d prepare the coffee and toast for Ma and deliver it to her bedside to encourage her to join the world of the living, if just for the day. Coming home from school later that day, the smell still hung heavy in the bedroom.

Fresh laundry … nothing smells better than fresh laundry that has been dried in the great out-of-doors. One of the few chores I didn’t protest against as a kid was hanging the laundry out and bringing it back in at the end of the day. The backyard was a spider’s web of clotheslines strung high above my head requiring tippy-toes. I’d pull the line down and pin the items in that precise way Ma taught me. Those rules of laundry management were a trademarked skill she only seemed to possess. At the end of the day, I’d bury my face deep into the folds of soft sheets and towels breathing deeply, so very deeply, filling my lungs as if my life depended on that smell of clean air, ocean, and home.

(In memory of Priscilla Lorraine Billard Newell (1923-2014), whose love of Onset was the narrative of her life.)

By Marilou Newell