The Wanderer is actively seeking community journalists, student writers, and experienced photographers to join our team delivering news and stories of interest from Mattapoisett, Marion, and Rochester to the Tri-Town area.

As a community news correspondent, you will spend time attending the various meetings of a variety of town boards and committees, taking notes during these meetings, and writing a story about the meeting. Stories may require follow-up information gathering, fact checking, and further interviews.

Community journalism also includes attending some of the many activities, events, and fine arts performances in the three towns for stories, as well as putting together stories from interviews with the fascinating people in your neighborhood who are doing interesting things that the public should know about.

Do you know a high school student who enjoys writing and has a nose for news? Our student correspondents deliver the readers the scoop on what is happening at Old Rochester Regional High School, and we are also looking to add an Old Colony student correspondent to The Wanderer.

Photographers are often assigned weekend events to cover and may, at times, be required to gather names of subjects in the photos.

Writing experience is preferred, but not required. Photographers should be experienced and ready to use their own equipment. You should have your own transportation and be available for evening meetings. Accuracy is important, as well as a firm grasp of the English language and grammar. Pay is negotiable and could increase with experience.

If interested, or if you would like to hear more about the community journalist positions, student correspondent positions, or the photographer position, please email a letter of interest to News Editor Jean Perry at jean@wanderer.com or call 508-758-9055.

The sky over Marion Center last Saturday night was all aglow. The low-lying, rain-threatening – but thankfully just threatening – clouds were saturated with a hazy orange that emanated from the giant bonfire in the middle of the field beside the Town House. Strings of party lights lit up rows of wooden picnic tables from above and shined down onto the grown-ups sipping cocktails with their neighbors and the smiling faces of little kids eating Mr. Shire’s cotton candy at the Annual Marion Town Party. Everyone had a smile – even the bonfire was smiling.

Put on every year by the Marion Recreation Department and the Marion Firefighters Association, the Marion Town Party is a staple of summer in Marion. The Town Party Planning Committee, chaired by Chris Berg, does all the planning and executing for the Town Party, which is an ongoing tradition year after year. The event attracts about 250 people to the Center of Marion for the food, fun, bouncy houses for the kids, rock-climbing wall, games, and, of course, the giant bonfire that tops off the night. Proceeds from the event go directly to the Rec Department and the Firefighters Association to directly benefit the town in return.

Donna Hemphill helps out the committee every year, her role being more “behind-the-scenes,” as Hemphill put it. She said the party was very well attended, despite the rainy start to the day.

There were a few changes to the event this year, including the use of $1 tickets to use as “currency” at the food table instead of placing an order at the cash table and proceeding to the food table.

“By doing so, we streamlined the entire food service process,” said Hemphill. “It was great!”

This was also the second year the event had an ad booklet, and the first year corporate sponsors were solicited to help support the event.

The rain held off for the duration of the evening, and, although it took a little while to get it going, once it was lit, the bonfire was a sight to behold.

“Marion is a great community to be involved in,” said Hemphill. “I am not originally from Marion, but I love the sense of community and pride that friends and neighbors have about this town and its people. I am happy and grateful to be a part of such a fantastic event.”

By Jean Perry

Lots of things can be addictive. There are, of course, the most common like booze and drugs – legal and otherwise. There are food addicts, exercise addicts, and gambling is a big one for some people. I guess just about anything can become an addiction for someone somewhere on the planet. Mine is getting pedicures.

When I was a little girl, my mother taught me how to groom my nails. She was a big believer in teaching proper hygiene techniques at an early age and then vigorously monitoring the activity until achieved to perfection by her children. Every part of the body needed to be cared for in specific ways and that included keeping one’s nails neat and tidy at all times.

Before I learned how to trim my nails myself, it was a weekly torture to endure my mother’s treatments. She’d hoist my little arm underneath her large bicep, pinning it against her torso so escape was impossible. There was never any bloodletting, but the close croppings always left my fingers a bit sore at the quick. When it came to toenails, however, she was amazingly gentle by comparison.

She used the same wrestler’s hold on legs as she did on arms but was careful not to make a wrong move. She wasn’t risking an unintended or intentional kick to the jaw.

As I grew up, I practiced my nail technician skills on my mother’s hands and feet, always employing tender touches to please her after a day of cleaning and cooking for her brood. The application of floral scented lotions on her work-weary paws and claws gave her comfort.

From the hours I spent tending to her feet, I could have been certified in all 50 states as a professional by the time I was 15. Instead, I was her in-home unpaid handmaiden, if you will, happily toting basins of warm water into the living room where she would soak her feet while watching her favorite TV program and smoking a Winston.

For many years, keeping my toenails neat and tidy was good enough for me. Then I had my first pedicure.

I’d like to say that I was a teenager or young adult when I first experienced a professional pedicure, but that wouldn’t be the truth. Years ago, nail salons were foreign in our little patch. Big city hair salons may have offered this type of exotic service, but not our neighborhood hairdresser. Oh no, she cut hair, applied blue rinses to white hair, and gave the tightest permanent waves money could buy. But taking care of nails was done at home.

Today, our modern societies sport nail salons on every corner. Such evocative signage as “Paradise Nail Salon,” “Supreme Nail Emporium,” or “Hot Nails” dot the landscape and have become an industry unto itself. You can even go into your local big-box low-priced retailor and, before you buy toilet paper – 100 rolls for five dollars – you can get your nails lacquered. No, I was well into my adulthood before I could cost justify spending money on nails I could take care of myself. Call it Yankee thrift. But the reality is, I was as close to being a professional as one can get without graduating from beauty school.

Then something totally unexpected happened. The company for who I was working took a bunch of management types on a corporate retreat. Part of the program offered the females in our group day spa treatments. Cost was no object. We could select any of the numerous services from simple manicures to full body massages and, yes, pedicures.

It would be almost obscene for me to describe the pleasure I felt as I plunged by tired dogs into a fragrant pool of softly bubbling warm water, dressed in a plush terrycloth robe several sizes too large, surrounded by aroma therapy, dim lights, and non-verbal attendants. Oh, the rapture divine. In that hour, I became a pedicure addict. Cost be damned. I’d sell my costume jewelry at a yard sale to pay for this kind of legal euphoria. Thusly baptized in eucalyptus waters, I’ve never looked back.

In my mother’s later years, whenever I would visit her at the nursing home, we would often laugh at the money I spent having my feet professionally cared for. In her mind, it was criminal – in mine, it was therapy.

I never really stopped taking care of my mother’s feet. As she sat in her wheelchair, immobilized by illness, I gladly massaged her feet with lovely creamy lotion as she drifted in and out of wakefulness. She’d softly say, “That feels so good.” I’d say, “You taught me how to do this, Ma.” She’d reply, “It’s a good thing.”

By Marilou Newell