The short reason why N.H. and Maine are so different

In New Hampshire, you don’t pay a deposit on your bottles and cans. In Maine you do.

In New Hampshire, if you’re an adult, you don’t have to wear a seat belt. In Maine you do.

In New Hampshire you don’t have to pay an income tax. In Maine you do.

Still looking for a reason to live in the Pine Tree state?

I got one.

In Maine you can wear shorts to court. In New Hampshire you can’t.

I learned that out the hard way at Franklin District Court last Friday when I went to cover a criminal case.

I emptied my pockets of coins into the security screening box at the court entrance and smiled at the bailiff.

“You can’t go into the court like that,” he said stone-faced.

Like with my unkempt hair and scruffy beard, I thought?

“Whaddya mean,” I said innocently.

“You can’t wear shorts into the courtroom,” he said disdainfully. He pointed to a sign that said, “No shorts allowed in court.”

A lady sitting nearby shook her head ruefully. “Oh, too bad,” she said.

I passionately told the bailiff I had come all the way from Lebanon to see the court case because it involved one of our citizens.

“Lebanon, New Hampshire?” he cried out like they cry out “New York City” on that salsa commercial.

For the 2,854,312th time in my life I had to say “no, Lebanon, Maine,” in exasperation.  In point of fact, every time I have to say “no! Lebanon, Maine,” I say it more viciously to the unsuspecting subject of my vitriol. I suspect someday I may just scream it so loud and exasperated I burst a blood vessel in my head and collapse right there on the spot.

But anyways, I digress. 

Well, the bailiff now shrugs his shoulders and points behind him to a shelf on the wall where there appears to be a large wad of cloth rags.

“There’s a bunch of pants over there,” he says. “Guys that cleaned the building left ‘em. See if any of ‘em fit.”

I look at the green, dirty work pants in horror, but it’s only about 10 minutes till the court hearing begins.

The bailiff points to a small conference room. 

“Go try ‘em on in there,” he says.

The lady sitting nearby watches me go into the room, all the while shaking her head in silent sympathy.

I tried on one pair and they made me feel quite – how shall I say this - out of shape. I took them off and put my shorts back on. The pressure of the situation was taking its toll. I was sweaty and angry.

“They’re all like a 30 waist,” the bailiff said sympathetically as I came out. 

“Now what are you gonna do?” the lady asked.

I ignored her and asked the bailiff if there was a Salvation Army or Goodwill store around where I could buy a pair of pants that fit me for a buck or two.

For the first time the bailiff looked genuinely sympathetic. 

“Tell you what, go ask the clerk if she’ll let you in on an exception,” he said.

By now there’s about five minutes till the case starts.

I rush over to the clerk’s window and ask breathlessly, “I apologize, so sorry, from Lebanon … er Maine, that is. I didn’t know I couldn’t wear shorts. The case is about to start. I’ll sit in the back. Won’t stand up. No one’ll know I’m there. I just …”

“Hang on a second,” she says politely and walks out of the room.

Two minutes later the judge, himself, appears.

“I’m told you have shorts on?” he says incredulously.

“Yes, sir, your honor, sir,” I said. Oh the shame. Oh the shame. “They let you wear them in Maine,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“Well they may let you wear them in Maine, but we don’t here in New Hampshire,” he chided. “You look more like you're going to a beach than a courtroom. I’ll let you in this time.” His honor pauses. “But never again.”

“Thank you, your honor,” I bowed meekly and shrunk away.

The bailiff smiled benevolently. The lady who was sitting nearby nodded approvingly.

Duly reprimanded, I was allowed to enter the courtroom and get my story.

So New Hampshire may have the edge on bottle deposits and income tax, but Maine has the edge in courtroom comfort.