Camping? Seriously?

I've been thinking about going camping recently, and even taking along some of the grand-kids, which should right-away prove that the deterioration process of my active brain cells is near completion. I used to go camping alot, especially when our kid's were young, when most every weekend, we would un-wind from the stresses of the work week and reward ourselves by going to Caldwell's pond and sleeping on rocks in an area with no restroom facilities and lot's of snakes, rather than stay home by the air-conditioner and television. If memory serves me right, (and it does), the first thing you have to do after ( you set your bank lines), is to start the tedious process of gathering dead and fallen wood from around the area, in order to make a camp-fire. If there appeared to be no dead wood which had already fallen, there was always plenty of dead trees, which could be fairly easily knocked down with your pickup after just a few hits. In a real pinch, you could actually pull the tree over with your truck and a log chain, but this method required sending one of your off-spring climbing up a tree with a chain in order to find a suitable place to hook it, which I thought could possibly be dangerous, forcing me to endorse the simpler "tree-bashing" method with the back bumper. In order to have a "real" campfire, it was necessary to have enough "reserve" trees laying close to your campsite that if they were stacked directly on top of each other, their height would be so great that the "Washington Monument" would pale in comparison. The actual lighting of your fire was really the only easy part, and could normally be done with just less than 5 gallons of high-octane gasoline, starting a fire that would probably be considered a "4 alarm" fire in many areas throughout the east coast, and could easily be seen for several miles. We never considered these fires to be "overkill" though, as everyone knows how much heat it can take to kill the bacteria prevaliant in a package of hot dogs and marshmallows, not to mention the dirty stick that we cooked them on. Besides the fire, snakes, and sleeping on rocks, Caldwell's pond was also "blessed" with more than it's fair share of insects, leeches, and snapping turtles, all of which would readily bite you, with or without your consent. There was always a small row boat available at Caldwell's pond, and apparently anybody could use it that wanted to, because we always did. We never knew just who actually owned the boat, but just assumed, (probably safely), that they had been taken by either some kind of wild animal or venomous snake, and if they were still alive, they would surely give us their blessings to use their boat, and there was really no way of getting information about it from other fishermen, as they always seemed to be leaving when they saw us pull in, many of them acting as though they were risking being late for an important appointment, if they didn't leave right away. Even the privacy policy was great at Caldwells pond, which was evident when you first came into the gate and saw the small sign on a fence post stating that it was a private pond, and that you should not enter. Every once in awhile, some "old" guy would drive into the pasture containing the pond and stare at my family for awhile, shake his head in apparent dis-belief, then drive away again without speaking to any of us. We never knew who this strange person was, but looking back, I'm going to guess that he may have been the actual land owner, and possibly Caldwell was his last name, but who really cared, as this was a close-knit community? Now that I'm older, I'd really just as soon stay home with the air-conditioner, television, kitchen, bedroom, and indoor toilet, but I also don't want my grandchildren to miss out on the chance to cheat death by going camping with grandpa, and believe it or not, Kristy and I, (along with the children who have suffered the least mental anguish), still refer to these camping trips as "the good old days"!