Rural Maine devoured by millions of tiny black spiders

Urban myth is that deal where somebody makes something up – the more unbelievable the better – and tells it to somebody who tells it to somebody else until, before you can say “albino alligators,” nobody wants to hang out in the sewers anymore.

A few recent examples of this phenomenon of rumor run amok are that a leading manufacturer of personal hygiene products is a front for Satan, that Bill Clinton has a squad of hitmen who go around rubbing out anybody who causes him trouble (except, apparently, for half of the United States Congress, the entire Fox network and Linda Tripp), that forwarding an e-mail to 50 friends will get you (there are alternate forms) big money from Microsoft, a Disney vacation or a date with a Victoria’s Secret model.

My personal favorite is the one where a major brand of soft drink contains microscopic eggs that, once exposed to the warm environment of the digestive system, hatch and cause the unwitting consumer to be devoured from within by millions of tiny black spiders. Or maybe you heard the cockroach version.

The “urban” part comers from the fact that absurd, malicious and unfounded gossip always sounds better if coming from numerous strangers and cities offer lots of opportunity for eavesdropping and the spreading of mass delusions. Much of Maine, though not nearly populated enough to qualify as urban, does a pretty fair with what might be called the rural myth.

These rural myths are based on the idea that “they” (the city slickers from Portland and points south) are utterly committed to ruining the lives of “us,” the residents of the real Maine. A common theme running through these fantasies is that the nefarious work of these neo-socialist, quasi-U.N., one-world faux Mainers is being done by an outfit called LURC. Yep, the Land Use Regulation Commission.

LURC is, as you may know, the planning board for Maine’s unorganized territories, the UTs, the areas of land not within municipal boundaries and thus without local government. Though small (a staff of only 27, including seven commissioners appointed by the governor and confirmed by the Senate), LURC is an important state agency (part of the Department of Conservation, actually) because more than half of Maine, about 10.5 million acres, is UT. Although only 12,000 people are scattered throughout these remote regions, the issues about land use – and the conflicts between landowners – are every bit as a big as anything the Big City can come up with.

(A brief word about planning boards in general. As a reporter for 10 years in three counties, covering dozens of small towns, I contend that planning boards do the most thankless and difficult of all the jobs it takes to run a community; the successful planning board member has an amazing ability to deal with irate citizens and mind-numbing detail simultaneously, not to mention having a high tolerance for personal abuse. Whether it’s a poor town arguing about whether a guy ought to be able to run a small-engine repair out of his garage or a rich town in a fury about tennis court lights, emotions always are over the top. It is not by accident that several small towns willingly turn this most thankless and difficult aspect of self-governance over to LURC.)

LURC is 30 years old this year. It’s spent much of that time defending itself against the charge that it is the leading, if not sole, cause of the economic decline of rural Maine. In recent years, at least one day of the legislative session is designated “Kill LURC Day,” a day devoted to tall tales of rural myth.

This session, it was Tuesday, so I dropped in on the Agriculture, Conservation and Forestry Committee to see what the black helicopters brought. The major bill before the committee was to, in fact, kill LURC and to turn rural planning over to the Department of Environmental Protection. Testimony in favor largely consisted of embellished versions familiar rural myth. Testimony in opposition largely consisted of verifiable fact. Here’s a sampling.

Myth: The LURC commissioners are just a bunch of brie-stuffed, Chablis-soaked Portlanders telling Real Mainers how to live. Fact: Not one of the seven is from anywhere near Babylon on the Bay. They are from such Real Maine places as Woodland, Millinocket, Newry, Rangeley Plantation, Monhegan Island. The urbanite of the bunch is from Waterville. One is from a place so small and remote it’s called T17R5.

Myth: LURC staff delights in tormenting those under their jurisdiction by making them do silly things just for the heck of it, like the couple who wanted the committee to believe LURC limits their restaurant to using less than 180 gallons of water a day merely to make them spend a fortune on paper plates. Fact: The restaurant has a woefully inadequate septic system and LURC staff has bent over backwards to help these people stay in business until they can fix it.

Myth: LURC socks people with enormous fines as part of a vast conspiracy to lock up the land. Fact: LURC fines for violations of the rules and regs are usually quite modest – often in the $50 to $100 – but they do add up if not paid. Those who told the committee this year’s horror story of a camp owner who can’t sell because he owes LURC $5,000 forgot to tell the committee that’s 15 years worth of accumulated fines for repeated and uncorrected violations and that LURC has offered to settle for half.

And, incidentally, it does not take 28 permits to get LURC’s OK to put in an outhouse at your camp. Or 32, as some myth-makers tell it. All it takes is one. Provided the tiny black spiders don’t get you first.

Bruce Kyle is the assistant editorial page editor for the Bangor Daily News.