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Conspiracy theories never really die
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Ralph, who runs a roadside nursery business on the Maine island where Nancy and I spend time, is a conspiracy theorist of the first order. He’s also something of a hypochondriac. “My arthritis is killing me,” he says, rubbing his knees and wrists and shoulders all at the same time, which leaves him looking sort of like an old, awkward white man trying to dance to reggae music.