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- L.to R. - MrssHelen LeBlanc, Rev.J.M.Cano, Mra.Nore McGuire, Mrs.Jackie Tremblay and Mrs.Lorraine Huerd. Photo I.McCuaig STANDING COMMITTEES APPOINTED BY C.W.L. Standing committee convenors were named at the May meeting of the Catholic Women's League: Mrs. Ann Banning, spiritual - Mrs.Teresa Stortini, resolu- tions - Mrs.Lucette Chicoine, legislature. Mrs .Dora McGrath reported a grateful acknow- ledgement from Mission for postage stamps sent, an education committee project. Membership convenor Mrs. Kay Stefurak advised that dues will soon be col- lected. Mrs.Jackie Tremblay said the Brownies will put on a Cookie Sale and asked for support. Mrs. Mary Shack reported the Catholic Girls' Club have arranged a Daffodil Tea May 27, this year featuring a fashion show of Centennial gowns, with members wearing some and others worn by models from other congregations. There will be a bake table. The Living Rosary service and Crowning of the Blessed Virgin Mary will take place soon. This time Mary 'Loo Karns will be Queen with Betty McGuire and Colleen Cosgrove as bridesmaids and Kim Karns as Flower Girl. A donation was made to the Madonna House Lay Apostolite in Combermere, Ont. Plans were made to cater for a Fa ther & Son banquet on June 14 and for the St.John Ambulance dinner on June 22. ; Members wanting to sew during the summer for the Fall Bazaar are asked to contact Mrs.Penny Caccamo | Mrs.Norah McGuire, who presided, thanked the members who assisted in making capes for the girls choir. Following the meeting two films on family life-- "Phoebe" and "Making a Decision" were shown by Mrs.lrene Borutski, radio, TV & Film convenor. The Pot of Gold prize was won by Mrs. Joyce Eusebi. The lengthy meeting ended with a coffee hour. First trout-fishing trip of the year is like a good spring ton- ic. It cleanses you physically and spiritually. And leaves you exhausted. I had mine last Saturday. The important thing in going after speckled trout, of course, is the careful planning. There's no use to it at all if you just throw your fishing gear in the car, and go out to some stream where all the amateurs angle, and toss in a line. You're liable to come home with a creel full of fish if you go at it in this haphazard way. No. First of all, you select a fishing companion. This, to a real angler, is just a bit less important than choosing a mate for life. You want a de- pendable sort of chap -- the type who is going to have fresh worms for both of you, a good supply of hooks, maps with the sure-fire holes marked in red, and an infallible sense of direction in the bush. That's exactly what I lined up this year. Mind you, those keen types take a bit of man- aging. They're great in the bush, but they need an organi- zational mind to channel their energies. I had to get quite firm with him when he began muttering about 4 a.m. and hitting the stream at dawn. Dawn, indeed. I told him that is pure superstition. Only the very young, immature an- gler goes floundering off in the dark, fishes like a fool until noon, then is whacked for the day. Just about then, the wily, mature angler, forti- fied with a good breakfast, ar- rives and slaughters the trout, which are completely unpre- pared for the second wave -- the experts. Well, we got away about 10.30, after a couple of false starts. He forgot his lunch and we had to go around to his place. And when we got out to the County Line, I realized that because of his stupidity, I'd been upset and had forgot- ten my waders. But he had a beautiful spot picked out. You park the car just off the road, and walk up this hydro line to the stream. The stream was just in there past the fourth hydro tower, he thought. It was just past the 14th. And they're 100 yards apart, Smiley goes fishin' Not another angler in sight, I gloated. We cached the lunch and began working up the stream. I like that word we anglers use. "Working." You 'couldn't hire a man to do it for $80 an hour. Slash in. the face from an alder. Hole in the boot from a snag. Slide from a log and oh-oh-oh-oh as you hit that spring-fed water. Lose a boot in the mud. Scratch hands to a bloddy mess on jagged branches. ' But it's all worth it if the trout are biting. And, boy, were they biting! They were biting each other on the neck, nibbling each others' ears, and snapping each other in half, as far as I know. But they weren't biting worms. After an hour of torture that would have made the Gestapo green with envy, we arrived at the big pool above the beaver dam. The sure-fire hole. We fished. Hard. A big mal- lard hen popped into the pond, secure in the knowledge that it wasn't duck season, looked us over, cackled with laughter and took off. : We fished. Harder. A baby beaver surfaced, swam casually to within four feet, looked at each of us, and expressed his feelings by turning his rump in the air and submerging.. We fished. Desperately. Sud- denly there was a huge splosh, then a ker-plunk, ker-plunk, and a big buck deer splashed through the shallows and away, sneering over his shoul- der. That did it. We left. But there was no point, said my mate, in taking the long, tor- tuous trail back down the stream, through that heavy slash. So, with his infallible sense of direction, we swung around in a circle, by the high ground. The high ground turned out to be cedar based in mud, both so thick you had to crawl most of the time. The circle turned out to be the two long sides-of an isosceles triangle. Two hours later, we hit the hydro road right on the nose. Except that the nose had moved about a mile due east. My first trout trip of the season. And believe me -- I don't care if Mrs. Richard Bur- ton wants to go along next time -- it's my last. There have to be easier ways to get a coronary.