Until World War II, Maine was a collection of self-sufficient, self-governing communities, not vulnerable to much of anything.

My memory is that the Legislature met for six weeks every other year. I may be wrong; if I am, someone will correct me.

I skipped Cony a lot and went to the State House when I did. In all those visits, I never met another soul, not a secretary, not a janitor, not anyone.

The Capitol stood in solitary splendor with nary another building in the vicinity. Thus, of course, there was zero red tape. Alexis de Tocqueville wrote — page 102 of my paperback copy — that as soon as legislatures became red-tape mills, it was all over.

The tiger who enters the zoo soon loses his tigerness, his very tiger soul and becomes a domesticated pussycat.

Citizens who turn their lives over to Big Brother for the sake of central heating lose their very souls and become zombies recoiling from the smell of cow manure and helpless when the power is off. It breaks my heart.

The sign at the entrance to the turnpike should read: “Welcome. Come join us; your trash is already here. Bring your hand lotion. There are no calluses in Maine. Everyone smells pretty up here.”

Victor Lister


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