by Christopher Corbett
The end of the winter is still far away when rural New England begins the annual spectacle of unrehearsed, uncensored and too often unbelievable live entertainment that is the annual town meeting.
A town meeting is where all the business in a community is conducted in a daylong event that provides any legal resident with the constitutionally guaranteed right to make a fool of himself. Voters may still get a good hot lunch (cheap, or even free) courtesy of the Patrons of Husbandry or the Order of the Eastern Star, part of a principle understood since ancient Rome — bread and circuses.
The custom of town meeting is as old as New England, an unchanged constant for centuries. There were town meetings before the states were united. Although a couple of Maine towns have recently abandoned this tradition (abandoning tradition is never a good idea in Maine) most of the state?s 450 towns and villages still hold town meeting.
It is a style of government ideally suited to a community small enough to fit its voters into a hall belonging to the Odd Fellows or the Order of the Eastern Star on a cold March Saturday. Observers of the American scene hail these gatherings as examples of rural man at his best, democracy in its purest form. But as an observer of many a town meeting, I think that?s rather like citing big-time wrestling or roller derby as sport in its purest form.
Some few years ago, Hillary Clinton, who now has grander ambitions, told us that ?it takes a village.? If you?ve ever lived in a village, you know that?s ridiculous. But we?ll let that pass.
On closer examination, a town meeting most resembles another New England pastime: semiprofessional ice hockey. The action is fast and rough.
Rural New England supports a standing army of eccentrics who yearly fuel the town meeting. They assemble early at the back of the hall. From there, the unwarranted comment, catcall or hoot may be most successfully issued. No town or village is too small or too remote to have its own gallery of corner boys and gas station philosophers, fellows who regularly hold up the front of the Farmer?s Union or the bait and tackle: idlers, rogues, the shiftless, poachers, men known to the country sheriff.
Each town boasts its stars whose past performances have earned them certain notoriety. There are the armchair orators, retired judges of probate, born-again fiscal conservatives, defrocked ministers, advocates of holistic medicine, lawyers with lean practices, law students eager for attention, enthusiasts of that old-time religion, former state senators with time on their hands, former state senators? brothers, disc jockeys, deinstitutionalized mental patients, heavy drinkers, deep thinkers, hermits, unpublished poets, self-published poets, the man from the Maine Organic Farmers and Gardeners Association, retired state police sergeants from New Jersey who have moved here to give us the benefit of their wisdom, anti-vivisectionists, one-term congressmen, beekeepers, rednecks, Reds, vegans, objectivists, organic farmers, windmill salesmen and the odd Socialist. I actually lived in a county in Maine with such people.
Some speak in tongues, recognized or not by the chair, red-faced and leather-lunged. Others will strut the aisle, arms waving wildly, reveling in their time in the spotlight. Others tell pointless stories, parables to amaze and confuse. Some merely want to tell a joke or get a laugh. And each man in his time plays many parts. (Some actually quote the bard.)
Town meetings are presided over by a moderator, often a traditionally held post with preference given to former judges or the oldest lawyer in the county seat. It is an office best suited to those who may have missed a calling to the pulpit or an amateur production of Inherit the Wind:
The purpose of a town meeting, if that matters, is to hold local officials accountable and to anguish over every nickel spent. Every leaf-plugged storm drain, dead elm, mad dog and unplowed side road will be vividly recalled. Rural New Englanders — Maine, New Hampshire and Vermont, primarily — know how to hold a grudge. (New Hampshire?s motto is ?Live Free or Die? — that?s not Kumbaya.) Special vitriol is saved for the commissioner of roads, usually guilty only of failing to have psychic powers when it comes to maintaining the community?s byways. In my native state of Maine, ferocious rancor was also reserved in days gone by for the poor little man from the Maine Publicity Bureau, who yearly begged for funds to do that thing that residents of ?Vacationland? most loathe — promote Maine as a tourist resort.
A year?s worth of town business is painstakingly itemized on the warrant (a document like a racing form) and serious meeting goers follow this line by line. Complex issues, however, are usually avoided. They have little appeal to the average voter, who probably does not understand them anyway. They are more interested in the salaries of town employees, believing that anyone who works for the government can?t possibly be doing a day?s work and is, therefore, overpaid.
Town meetings attract the curious. Tourists, lost skiers, immigrants, visiting professors, graduate students, social scientists, the man from the Boston Globe and perhaps a photographer from the National Geographic Society find these gatherings enriching. They thrill to see the bumpkin in his lair.
When you do not actually have to live in a village, the rustic always seems enchanting (attention, Senator Clinton). Once in a rare while, a stirring moment will occur such as a motion that the bridges between Maine and New Hampshire be dynamited to keep the tourists out. I actually heard someone say that once, but in these nervous times, a man talking like that would wind up in the Kennebec County Jail or Guantanamo Bay. Of course, the man who made this suggestion was being facetious, but he felt better for making the suggestion, and such behavior is, at heart, what a town meeting is all about.
[b][i]Kind of like what off-topic used to be like back when it was called [u]Miscellaneous[/u] and it was easier to navigate your way around TR.[/i][/b]
[b]Dawg[/b] ]:)