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Show r ( (SdDmmcBmit ) . Review - Wednesday, October 19, 1983 - Page 2 J v Class reunion revives memories ( By MARCKLLA WALKER Iist Friday was my class reunion at BYU. I won't tell which you one it was but they only hold reunions on ten years and 25 years before they get into the higher numbers. You guess which one it was. I was asked to serve on the committee for the reunion. We began meeting together way last April. We spent the bulk of those early meetings discussing a few old memories. We finally decided that 1958 was a very g(xd year. (Oops, I let the year out of the bag.) Naturally, I was assigned to publicity. Everyone always assigns me to publicity and it would be nice to let someone else do it for a change. Carol Forester, also of Pleasant GroVe, and I were assigned to do the first letter notifying everyone in the class that we had a reunion upcoming and for them to set Oct. 14 aside for it. The alumni office at BYU does the bulk of the leg work so that really helps a great deal. When the second notification came out with ! WehadadLVri JeendoftW.L llit At the SSfv Ambassadors ,n W antic. ItMr the registration form and other information to fill out, the committee became concerned that so few responses were coming back. A telephone campaign showed that many people did not even know about the reunion and had not read any info about it. At first I though there had been a big oversight and these people had not received their letters. Maybe we better send out the invites all over again, I considered. Then, my brain flipped into place and I began to wonder if perhaps the people received the notice after all, saw a BYU envelope and knowing that alumni get requests for money all the time, just tossed it into the round file without opening it. I'd be willing to bet that that is what happened to a lot of them. Anyway, it turned out we had a good reunion with a good crowd. Barry McKay, if any of you remember him, he is brother to Gunn McKay, the former congressman", and Monroe McKay who is a judge, was the master of ceremonies. He had dug up all kinds of memories of those wonderful years at BYU. He told about the guy that ch loroformed acatandputitonthe keyboard for the carillon bells When the poor thing came to at 2 a.m. it ran up and down the keys and the bells played to the consternation of all those in charge. I remember that. And he told of someone stealing the victory bell just before the Utah State game. Wonder who took it? I remember that, too. I turned to my husband after I had spent quite some time looking at each face in the crowd. I told him Be careful witn phone solicitors More and more often citizens are being contacted by phone to support a fund raising project for some organization or another. There is a good reason for this. Most service organizations are asked to make charitable contributions each year. Most would like to be able to oblige and assist worthwhile charities. For some, the burdon of fund-raisin- g is detrimental in that it takes more time than they can afford to give. So the organization will hire a professional fund raising company to do it for them. This is perfectly legal. However, a public which is not familiar with how these businesses work, is often mislead by the approach of the caller. Often the person called is already favorably impressed with the organization being represented and so is sympathetic to a fundraising project they might sponsor. All people have their favorites among the groups which seek financial support from the public. One of the questions which should be raised when a person is called and asked to purchase a product or service is, "What percentage of this cost will actually go to the sponsoring group?" It may be startling to find that only a small percent of the profit goes to the sponsor. The remainder goes to pay the fundraiser and for the initial cost of the product or service. It is rather similar to organizations related to health research or services which carry on annual fund drives with much of the proceeds being gobbled up by overhead costs. Yet, a portion remains for the cause it was intended to help. Several residents of Pleasant Grove have recently discussed their concerns about this type of fund gathering saying they do not feel really good about donating money, even when they get a product or service in return, if the entire amount of profit is not going to be given to the sponsoring organization. Perhaps it would be good for the public, especially the senior citizens, to be made aware of the professional fund raising groups that now exist. Many sponsoring organizations feel that even a small percentage of the profits is worth it because they are spared the terrific amount of work involved in contacting numerous people. Whatever amount they raise is better than nothing. They can still do good with the money raised. The city leaders have cautioned residents to be careful of door-to-doo- r salesmen and be sure that they have a business license to do business in the city. There is not the same requirement, of course, for those doing business by telephone. Citizens should be encouraged to donate to funds of their choice. It might be well, however, to check out the offer and make sure that your support is going where you want it to. Supports John Frampton in November election Editor: We have known John Frampton for the past 20 years. When we first met John he delivered milk for the dairy in Provo. Thirteen years ago we bought our first home in Pleasant Grove. John and June were our neighbors there and we became good friends with the Frampton family. At the time we first moved here John was on the Police force, and one of the best officers we ever had. He has always been involved in the community. At the time he started the race track at the mouth of the canyon for the kids, Theron and I became very involved helping Johnny there and for several years after they moved the track down to the Rodeo Grounds. John Frampton is always there if there's anything to be done. At the race track he used to stay until one or two in the morning making sure everything was just right. And all of his time was donated there. No matter what endeavor Johnny might take, his wife June is always behind him and gives 100 percent to make sure John is able to fulfill that dream. During the spring this year when it was flooding John again spent many nights of donated time to make sure the homes up Fifth North weren't flooded. John Frampton again showed his interest in the community this summer. He was in charge of the great fireworks display we were all able to enjoy. letters to I the edlutov j what needs to be don, t We strongly urge Pl.Fc vte for John FM councilman. We nerf" know of all his efforts and know he could much better future t88 -T- heron, Dene Nay Far r John Frampton was raised ail his life in Pleasant Grove and has always been very interested in our community. He has served on the Auxiliary Police Force, the Ambulance, and also was been a police officer for many years. He is always there and more than willing to help with anything for the betterment of our community. John Frampton has always demonstrated his great leadership ability in all the things he does. He never has asked how many hours of his time are involved but only Jltafiant (grootjl00 ".PS !; I ' Smith Mali I PI'MintGrow.lmn . Publish) wrtl,!, NwWUnt' fflli Advertising 4 Circuit ;P'0 New- s- Publisher Brums-- Editors rt M.r, l IPi .,. Subscription pnct B iCfer.: far Second class (wiijiiiii J. Pleasant CrovtPaitft. iplo; Hoslnuslrr SmlmltiiHlit j Hcl BiuT.AmfNtinFKtli' tar ala I quit hunting when I killed Bambi's mom: f the editor's V column J In the end, I couldn't do it. Shooting was easy. You were far away. It was like killing by remote control just pull the trigger, and part of the animal blows up. But this business of slitting the doe's throat, this was personal. I had to touch the doe, and I could feel the blade ripping through skin, muscle, tendons and cartilage. I got about half way and turned the knife over to my friend who was more experienced in these things and who had fewer qualms about it. He finished the job, and I was relieved to see the animal die rather than suffer. He cleaned the animal as we made plans to split the venison. I muddled through, helping where I could. We took the carcass down the slope to the Scout and brought it home. A lot of people acted like I had done something great, having bagged my first deer. On the other hand, I felt like I had violated something that didn't deserve it, and in the process had violated myself. But I told no one not until now. And I went hunting again, one time about three years later. Butmy heart wasn't in it, and if I had seen a prospective target, I either would not have fired or I would have missed on purpose. As it was I didn't have to shoot at all. Now I don't condemn anyone who hunts, either for the sport or the meat as long as they do it in a sportsmanlike manner. But I'll stay home this season and every season. Because I don't want to take the chance of killing Bambi's father, too or anyone else's. the game to the adults, waiting patiently below. I don't think my father had any more love for hunting than I did, but he thought it was a way to spend a little time with me something he did too seldom, and he knew it. After opening day, most of my hunting was done with friends. The day I killed Bambi's mother, a friend and I were driving up the canyon after school in his Scout. We were 15. I wasn't paying any particular attention to the hills, I was just enjoying the ride, but my friend was more attentive. "There one is!" he shouted. I was astonished. We were still on the main canyon road quite far from our destination. And there was Bambi and his mother way out in the open almost 100 yards from the safety of the trees. And much closer than that to the road. My friend slammed on the brakes and frantically pulled over to the side of the road. We both jumped out of the Scout, our guns in hand. He took rapid aim and fired at the still stationary targets. He missed, and both deer leaped for the trees. They ran fast, but it was too far. I fired a booming shot, aiming directly for the doe's head. I was a good shot at stationary targets, but this deal of moving things threw me, and I blasted a hole the size of a grapefruit in the doe's flank. The concussion slammed the doe to the ground. Bambi ran to the trees and disappeared to safety. My friend was busy congratulating me. I was merely stunned, and at that moment I realized that this was something I had never really wanted to do. "C'mon," my friend said, tugging at my sleeve. "Let's go get it." It wasn't far up the mild slope, and when we reached the deer, she was still alive, but very damaged. She stared at me with brown eyes the size of a half dollar as she lay there shuddering, terrified and helpless. (Those eyes still haunt me from time to time.) "What do we do?" I asked. I had been hunting a number of times, but I had never before witnessed a kill. "You slit it's throat!" The "Stupid" was there, if only by imp' cation. "You mean I gotta cut it's throat open?" I was incredulous. "Of course. What do you think the knife is for?" I had forgotten I even carried a knife. I had certainly never used it, and I wasn't even sure it was sharp. I took the blade out, held the deer's head and tried to figure out how to go about slitting the animal's throat. By MARC HADDOCK It would probably be called the "Bambi Syndrome," this affliction I confront every fall as hunters don their vests and caps of bright orange and head for the hills. I don't know how many people are afflicted with it. Probably not very many, especially in Utah. I haven't always been. But I am now. So you'll understand if you don't see me tramping around the hills this Saturday decked out in hunter's orange and carrying one of those deer-killer- s we call a rifle. I'll probably be home trying to read a book while my kids crawl all over me. I used to hunt. Where I grew up, hunting was as much, if not more, a way of life as it is in Utah (after all, it was just across the border in Idaho). And I have no objections to others doing the hunting. I just can't bear the thought of me doing it. And it's not that I don't enjoy nature. But I like my nature in quiet doses not continually interrupted by sporadic blasts of death. I think I can probably trace the origin of my malady back to that day in 1966 when I killed Bambi's mother at least I'm pretty sure that's when it started. I'd been hunting for two years ever since I qualified for a hunting license. But I hadn't killed anything bigger than rabbits, a few of which I had vaporized with the oversized rifle my father had entrusted to me. (But then I was young, and not too smart. I liked to hear loud things, and was exhilarated by the sense of power of death the big gun gave me.) I was probably driven to the hills by peer pressure as much as anything else. I didn't like venison, so I wasn't killing for the meat! After all, my father owned a grocery store and was the butcher we always had all the meat we needed. But everybody went, so I did too. The opening day, at least for those two years, found me out with my father and two others, another adult and someone else my age. We young ones always had the task of going to the top of the ridge and working our way down to flush out WHAT'S A CATARACT? (Check one) 1. A growth on the eye. 2. A film over the eye. 3. A clouding of the eye's natural lens. If you checked (3), you're right. If you need to know more, call an ophthalmologist. 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