March 1st is a day of singular grandeur. It is a day that is pressed between the icy breaths of February and the eventual warmth of April. The air is still brisk enough to warrant a jacket but lacks the icy teeth to demand a coat and a scarf. The snow has abandoned its campaign to conquer the world and appears content to defend its strongholds away from the sidewalks and roads where the green happy grass also begins to shake off its winter layers. People seem to be more pleasant around March 1st. I think this is because somehow they sense that the equinox is approaching, and soon the darkness of winter will be eaten away by more and more light each day. This idea excites us enough that we eventually push our clocks ahead and lose an hour of sleep so that in our excitement we can greet the day earlier. But despite all of this, to me, March 1st holds a more noteworthy quality. In Missouri, it is the first day of trout season and in my hometown in the Ozarks, Trout Day.

For the uninitiated, Trout Day originated when the local school district first decided to cancel class because too many students would skip to go fishing. Out of that small move, a local holiday was born. But, time has gone by and now most students don’t go fishing on their day off. I can hardly blame them. I never went fishing on Trout Day. The majority of the people I know didn’t go either. It was a day, in my mind that was too cold, too crowded, and started too early.

Any trek down to the small state park seven miles away reveals riverbanks swarming with dedicated anglers who arrive for the 6:30 starting gun. Chamber of Commerce members offer free coffee as dedicated fishers compete for the honor of catching the largest lunker in their division (men’s, women’s, or children’s). Winners get a trophy—again thanks to the Chamber of Commerce—a picture in the local papers, and bragging rights for the entire year. But competition is intense because of the crowded fishing field. It is not unheard of for fishers of fish to become fishers of men, and occasionally someone leaves with an accidental body piercing compliments of the innocuous-looking grandmother down the bend.

But despite mishaps, the day lives on. I have no doubt that even if the school board wised up to the fact that the majority of students don’t go fishing, Trout Day would never be excised from the books. It’s one of those local traditions in a small town that gleams with the tint of invincibility. Woe be to any public official who tries to remove Trout Day, because most likely the public outrage would in the end remove that official instead.

So, Trout Day continues to stand as a monument to fish and as an excuse for a day off—a small piece of idiosyncrasy that somehow gives me assurance. The strength of our local flavors lies in the fact that they aren’t preserved for use’s sake, but because they remind us that who we are partly depends on from where we’ve come.

Objectively speaking, most holidays are atrocious because they force us to do things we don’t want to do. For example, Presidents’ Day (the day formally known as Washington’s Birthday) is a holiday when all Americans are suppose to do their civic duty by buying linens and dwelling upon the achievements of Millard Fillmore. Columbus Day is a day to remember 1492—to paraphrase Vonnegut—the year sea pirates discovered a new continent. Thanksgiving is the time to eat cranberry-covered turkey and be nice to your family—all your family. But Trout Day is different. Trout Day requires nothing of us and can be legitimized only as a day to get off because it’s a nice day to go fishing. For this reason, Trout Day will forever be the grandest holiday of them all. It’s a day to put aside our attempts to gather the most dross or to write the Great Novel that will forever only be Sparknoted and tackle more meaningful pursuits, like fishing.

Today, you may run into me going to class or polishing papers or problem sets, but make no mistake: I’ll be having my holiday. It’s the beginning of March, the beginning of spring, and the beginning of Cambridge’s slow transition from the land of permanent darkness to a place where the sun sets after 4 p.m. On account of this, I find it the perfect day to slack off from my workaholic load and enjoy the loafing. Anyone’s welcome to join me. No fishing rods are required.



Steven T. Cupps ’09 is a biological anthropology concentrator in Lowell House. His column appears on alternate Thursdays.