Today I got to experience my tax dollars hard at work.
Exactly one week ago I left a message at the Department of Transportation. Today my call was returned. Let me back up just a little bit. We live in a small town of about 2,400 people. That number may include some goats, I'm not sure. While we live on Main Street, it is not exactly a bustling village center. We do, however, get a fair number of folks driving by. Unfortunately we also get a fair number of nosy-
nellies (or
lookie-loos, if you will), and wanted just a wee bit of privacy, as our house is fairly close to the road. Additionally, a significant amount of trash ends up on our lawn, as the
Nellies and Loos are also litterbugs. Hence my idea for putting up a fence. Oh, sure, some nations are tearing down the walls. Myself, I'd prefer to put them back up.
Anyway, before I started drawing up the plans for a fence, I decided to contact our local code enforcement officer (who, I believe is also the code enforcement officer for about 5 other towns) to see how far back from the road I had to put the fence. You know, to allow plenty of room for the snow plows and all. I was thinking maybe 3 or 4 feet. So of course I thought he was all hopped up on the crack when he told me that the setback distance was 33 feet from the center of the road. He informed me that since I live on a state road, I have to call the Department of Transportation, but that they're probably going to tell me the same thing. Hooray. So I leave a message with the DOT, explaining what information I'm looking for, and eagerly await a call back.
That brings me to today. I got a call back from Ms. Authority (names have been changed to protect the innocent; but she did refer to herself as "Ms" -- who the hell does that???). I had to once again explain what information I needed, and why I needed it. She informed me that the general setback was 33 feet. "But that's going to put me in the middle of my front lawn," I informed her. She did not seem to see what the problem was. She asked where I lived, and said she'd look it up on the map. She informed me that some setbacks were 33 feet, and some were 50. Fifty feet would put the fence approximately in my living room. "Where do you live?" Little did I know what a time-co
nsuming question this would turn out to be. I told her my town, and said "I live on Main Street. It's right off the highway." Well, these would have been simple enough directions in a normal, sane universe. However, Ms. A informed me that the map showing right-of-ways was from 1940, before the highway was put in. I was stunned. Stunned and silent. She may as well have been looking at a map from when Maine was part of Massachusetts.
"It could take me awhile to find this," she warned. She kept naming roads. I'd heard of the roads, but could only say "that's nowhere near me." I asked if she could look it up online. No, she could not. I offered to fax her a map (I sensed that an email attachment might just send her over the edge). No.
Eventually Ms. A named off a road that at some point intersects with my road. "Yes! That's it!" I exclaimed, nearly choking on a grape (I needed some sort of sustenance during what I could only imagine would be a very long phone call). "Yeah, it looks like 33 feet. From the center of the road. Make sure to measure from the center of the road." Now, I'm pretty sure that when I'm in the middle of the road with a tape measure and get hit by a car, Brooke can sue the state for telling me to stand in the middle of the road to measure my setback distance. Order in the court!
You see, in Maine, "up to" is one word. Also, whenever you're going somewhere, you're headed "up." The actual direction you're headed in is of no importance. I remember one of my supervisors for my college job talking about how she was going "up to Rhode Island." If you have ever glanced at a map, you will know that Rhode Island is a good day's drive south. Anyway.
