Personal Narrative : My Family's Hunting Camp

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I would begin my day by hazily stumbling out of my tall, king- sized bed and make my way over my fortress of beaded pillows, sequin pillows, and furry pillows to peek out of my bedroom window and glance across my yard to see if the single front porch light was on yet.
That dim porch light was the beacon to my very favorite place, my family’s hunting camp, where I would begin and end nearly every day of my childhood. Before the crack of dawn I would wait for the confirmation of light and my pawpaw to yell “come on over Haley, ain’t no coyote gonna get you with me standing here,” and then I would sprint to the camp steps, surveying the concrete path for snakes, listening closely for the howl of hungry coyotes, anticipating the buttery biscuits waiting for me inside. The front porch wrapped around the camp like a ring on your ringer. It was where all the club members congregated, fighting over the hanging cedar swing my great- grandfather built, frying deer blackstrap, frog legs, and catfish, or sharing a pot of freshly brewed community coffee and forgetting an empty coffee kettle on the burner. The camp always sat high on its pedestal of bricks, glowing with the warm sparks of the fire in the old, wood- burning iron stove, brimming with the excitement of a cool, fall day, welcoming hunters of what’s to come. The outer brown walls of the camp were plastered with deer antlers; some antlers had wide spreads, while others had tall, skinny mounts with holes where squirrels or

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