Revision

I focused on ideas and sentence fluency in my revision. For Ideas, I added and deleted a couple of sentences and added a whole new paragraph. For sentence fluency, I made lots of new punctuation changes such as making two sentences where there was one. I think the ideas made the essay more personal and added a funny scene. I think that the sentence fluency made the sentences more smooth and less awkward.

Arcole Time

            Dust kicks up behind me as I ride into the camp on the four-wheeler after a Friday afternoon hunt. I immediately smell chicken frying in the camp. I put my gun and bag up in my dad’s truck, take my dusty boots off, and head inside. A few old men are sitting around the poker table, sipping strong smelling scotch and laughing at a joke told by Mr. Sammy. It is not often that these men all get together to play poker anymore, so I smile for them a little bit. After I shake each of their hands, I head to the room I sleep in to change out of my four layers of camo. I grab a piece of Ms. Mary’s warm and crispy fried chicken and hug Ms. Mary right before she leaves. Ms. Mary has been cooking at Arcole for years. She has skin like black coffee and is always smiling. I do not know what we would do without her.

Once I have my piece of chicken, I head out to the recently redone back porch. Mr. Spike greets me with a firm handshake, but I can feel the age in his weakening grip. He asks me how I’m doing. “Doing fine Mr. Spike, how ‘bout yourself?” He then tediously tells me all about his beautiful place on Lake Dixie Springs, for about the 1000^th time. I nod along and laugh at the appropriate times as he sips his alcoholic concoction from a Styrofoam cup. He proceeds tells me why his grandson couldn’t make it for the afternoon hunt. He goes off for another drink, and this is my chance to escape. I love Mr. Spike and all, but he is a lot to handle, and I don't want to spend my first evening at the camp this year listening to the story of his seven deer he has killed with neck shots at this camp. He has been telling that tale since he stopped hunting and picked up drinking.

 As I make my way back inside some men, including my father, are playing poker. I look around the camp for a second and see all the mounted deer, the seven or so different colored and different style chairs around the poker table, and the 50 bottles of hot sauce on the table and can’t help but feel a little bit at home. I see the glossy wooden sign made for my grandfather after his death. He started this club in 1987, and he ran it well until the day he died on August 21, 2013. He seldom missed a weekend during the hunting season, even when he was battling cancer. I ask my dad if he will spot me ten bucks so that I can join in the poker game. I play for an hour or so, winning about 10 or 15 dollars, and then we take a break so that everyone can eat dinner if they haven’t already done so. I grab another piece of mouthwatering fried chicken and head into the old TV room.

The TV room has one of those old TV’s that looks like it weighs a thousand pounds and has a poor, pixelated image. Despite its quirks, it works well enough for college football. Mr. Dwayne sits in a recliner, his plump belly showing through his camo shirt. He lies there with his feet up and snores so loud I think the whole camp is shaking. He is so lazy that he has his muddy rubber boots on as he sleeps. After watching for a couple of minutes, I head to my dad’s truck to grab a bottle of water and Paul and Taylor roll up in Taylor’s old Yukon. They both get out in their jeans and cowboy boots and greet me sarcastically with a, “Well, hey Jack!” I help them unload their bags and Yeti ice chest and then my younger brother, William, and I talk with them for a little while about where they plan to hunt. “I reckon I’ll hunt in the kitchen!” Paul says jokingly. I can never get a legitimate response out of them when it comes to hunting spots.

Paul and Taylor both Live in Baton Rouge. Paul is a senior at U-High and Taylor is just starting at LA Tech, so he lives in Ruston now. I have been going to the camp with them for about seven or eight years now. Paul is a big, goofy guy who seldom goes through a deer season without getting I some sort type of trouble. Taylor is sarcastic and fun to be around. I usually hang out with them on the porch while the rest of the camp is asleep. We often sleep in the hammocks outside and sometimes they cook their special cheese fries with spicy ranch. They’re not exactly guys I look up to, but they’re surely enjoyable to be around.

While they head inside to eat their share of fried chicken, I walk back out to the back porch to see Mr. Andrew. We converse about where he has been bow hunting and the latest in major league baseball for a few minutes. As the conversation begins to slow down,  Mr. Spike’s son and grandson pull up in a shiny red Ford F-150. I greet the former, Mr. Hank, with my best handshake and then Thad with a high-five. Thad and I are the same age, and we have been friends for years. He lives in Madison, Mississippi, but we have always maintained good contact. Thad and I  go out into the camp yard to toss his football around. All I can see is the clean white laces against the dark night's sky. Every time I receive the ball, I feel pain in my fingers, stiff from the cold night air. A wild throw from Thad leads me toward the back of the yard where I see the rusty old rig of a swing that Thad broke his wrist on years ago. After we throw for about 10 minutes, Thad and I jog inside to grab a piece of my grandmother’s delicious rum cake. It is disappearing fast, as usual.

Rosie’s rum cake is always a big deal at Arcole. Its strong, sweet taste always causes it to be completely devoured by the time Saturday morning rolls around. She used to make one every weekend when my grandfather was still with us, but now she makes one every once in a while. She loves for people to enjoy her exceptional food. I am lucky enough to not just have it at the camp, but for family gatherings as well.. My dad told her he’s sure everyone would be grateful for a rum cake on opening weekend of deer season, so she made one.

I walk out to back porch one more time to go see Colonel Mayer, who has just arrived. It was a long haul from Indiana, at least he says. I chuckle a little as I remember one of my first memories of the Colonel. Once, when I was about 11 or 12, I walked in to see a scene that looked like it was from a different era. The power was out at the camp, so there were no lights. My dad, my brother, and I had just gotten up to the camp because it was Christmas break. Colonel Mayer was sitting in the camp in an old poker chair, drinking scotch and smoking a cigar. He had his stormy crusher hat on with a Civil War book in hand. I did not know Colonel Mayer very well then, so I initially thought, “Who’s this dinosaur?” I eventually came to know Colonel Mayer as an old-fashioned man who could teach me a thing or two about life.

Once I devour my piece of perfectly moist and flavorful cake, I look at my phone for the first time that night. It is already 10:00. I’d like to stay up longer, but my tired eyes tell me that I’ll hit the sack in about a half hour or else I’ll be sleeping in the deer stand the next morning. Although I do enjoy staying up late with Paul and Taylor and falling asleep in my hammock, I want to get a good night's sleep for the first morning of the season. I still have 30 minutes, so I dig in my pocket for the wad of green bills I left for poker after the game earlier. I sit down in a hefty green rolling chair. I'd bet you if I whack the old thing, dust flies everywhere. That's Arcole for you. Nothing there is clean unless you clean it, you have to learn to take care of yourself. If you want something done, your mom isn't there to do it for you. I’ve spent 100 weekends there and every single time I leave I feel like I’ve learned something new about being a man. Don’t get me wrong, we have it good there, but we do it for ourselves. I’ve learned how to cook, clean, hunt (obviously), drive, and plenty of other important things. After enjoying the last few hands of poker, I call it a night. I sneak into our room to not wake my dad and crawl into my sleeping bag. My dreams are full of the next day of Arcole time as I doze off.