Yesterday evening, my mom and I went camping with my brothers, my dad, and 150-odd boy scouts in the FREEZING cold.
30 degree weather, and get this: no campfires. None. Not allowed. Please just shoot me.
Camporees are always, always, ALWAYS orginazational disasters, but this--Please, people. NO CAMPFIRES?? GOD.

I was in shock all day.

Campfires are social experiences. You have not camped until you have sung American Pie around a campfire with fifty or so boys and their dads.

A campfire is where you go in the morning. You get nice and warm after being cold all night long. You toast some bread on a stick, and by the time you get back to your tent, the Alpha adult has made hot cocoa and eggs and you're all set.

A campfire is where you go for lunch. All the pyromaniacs gather around the smouldering remains of the breakfst fire and try to rekindle it during their free time, with moderate success: they use more than three matches, but it's big enough to satisfy their heat lust. Note: These guys mean well, but they like to kid around and insult you. They like to practice knot-tying in your hair. They like to set fire to your knitting. DO NOT TOUCH THEIR FIRES, OR EVEN LOOK AT THEM FUNNY. You will be immediately escorted from the premises, which is probably a good thing.

A campfire is where you go at the end of the day. You start to gather around during dinner, scrounging Hotdogs off your favorite families. You're there while everyone gets into their Class A's for flag lowering, and you get the best spot right before they all come flooding back for S'mores and singing. Bad, Bad Leroy Brown, Down By the Bay, Sweet Home Alabama, There Is a Bad Moon on the Rise, Help, Margarita Ville, all these have an equal place around a campfire. All you need is a guitar and someone who can play, and you're in business.

But take away the campfire and DISASTER.

We were sitting around a turkey roaster at 40 degrees, in our tents at 38, and in each other's tents at 32.
Reduced to a turkey roaster.
Unbeleiveable.

And you know that the only reason I even go camping is because I love my guys. I do. I love them. Really. That is why I sat shivering in my jeans, jacket, and sleeping bag trying to sleep last night on the rocky ground.

And when I got up, it was still freezing.

I went from Pack 500's campsite to Troop 5's (or, from my little-little brother's to my big-little brother's) to congratulate my absolute favorite Boyscout on getting tapped out for the Order of the Arrow, and to possibly find some deserving boys to keep me warm (wishful thinking--there are none, at least, that's what dad thinks.)
Someone needs to cut that grass; I walked across the field and soaked my shoes, socks, and jeans (only nine inches or so, so that's okay).

No campfires. GOD.

The organizers are obviously either really, really dumb, or cruel, sadistic fiends who are trying to kill me.