This morning I went fishing in one of the nearby kettle ponds that were stocked with trout a few months ago by the Massachusetts Department of Fish and Game. The temperature had dropped during the night and as I got up the ground was crinkly white with frost. I put on a lot of layers, topped with an old Irish fisherman’s sweater that is usually too warm to wear, wound a scarf around my neck and pulled on a wool cap, and went out to the shed to grab my gear and make my way to the pond. I parked my jeep by the roadside pull-out as the sun was just coming up, walked the quarter-mile through the woods to the water’s edge, kicked off my boots and pulled on my waders and walked out into the pond. And froze. And caught no fish. And froze some more. And still no fish. If this were an isolated incident I might be tempted to go out again tomorrow, but over these past few weeks the days have been getting shorter, the weather getting colder, and I’ve been steadily catching less fish. Instead, I think I’ll spend tomorrow packing up my gear for the season. I’ll rinse off my lures and rub a little oil on the hooks so they don’t rust, wipe down my poles with mild soapy water, grease my reels and let out the drag so the springs can become unsprung, and organize my tackle boxes. I’ve already started making a list of lures and flies I want to buy over the next few months, I’ve begun searching Ebay for an off-shore rod for my NYC pier fishing, and I plan on watching a lot of fishing videos on YouTube this Winter to finally learn how to really fly fish. I’m already looking forward to Spring.
My father was 84 years old when he died and for most of those years he was an activist. He began his life as an activist in 1948 after he got out of the Army, went to college on the GI Bill, and got involved in protesting the then newly formed Apartheid regime in South Africa. In the 1950s he registered voters in the Southern United States, in the 60s, as a young minister, he helped organize the second Selma march, in the 70s he was a local secretary of the ACLU (whose work with the Black Panthers got our home phones tapped), in the 80s he blockaded munitions trains carrying weapons headed to Central America, in the 90 and into the new century he led interfaith peace protests in a small town in the Pacific Northwest where he retired. At his funeral, person after person stood up and testified to the inspiring example of a life of tireless activism, but I knew the secret of my father’s lifetime of commitment: he took breaks. Regularly. Growing up, I remember whole stretches of time when my father devoted himself to raising a family or working on his career or simply relaxing. As I grew into becoming an activist myself, I carried his lesson: breaks are as important as activity if you plan on being active for a long time.