At approximately 8:15 a.m. on May 1, 1976, I ate my most delicious, memorable and satisfying hot dog.

Yes, a.m., not p.m. That’s not a typo.

The occasion was the annual fishing derby at the Ghent Sportsman’s Club, but we never called it that — to us, it was simply the Rod and Gun. As the last weekend of April or first weekend of May approached, my father would fret about the stocking of the pond — if the fishwent in too late, they might not be hungry enough to be tempted by the worm-baited hooks. As kids, we anticipated it because it was a festive competition for everyone.

This was the seventies: Title IX was new, youth sports weren’t a multi-million dollar business and participation trophies didn’t exist. At the derby, prizes went to those who earned them and gender didn’t matter. Each hour was full of promise as the old men awarded trophies for the largest fish. If a kid didn’t win this hour, no worries, maybe the next 60 minutes would prove lucky.

But, to be honest, the best part came at registration. Each kid was handed an official entry button and two tickets — one for a can of soda and one for a hot dog. This was the seventies: the decade of Armour Hot Dogs and Oscar Mayer Wieners. Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet. Every kid could recite those jingles. Nothing was more ingrained in an American kid’s palate than a hot dog. Nitrates, sodium and fat content were not even considered. If it was summer, hot dogs were on the menu.

This was the seventies, so dinner was accompanied by milk. Breakfast would guarantee orange juice or better yet, Tang. Soda was a rare treat, and the ice-filled tubs at the derby held all the best: grape, orange, lemon-lime, root beer and cola. It didn’t matter if the brand was generic, a kid could have an entire can of soda and pick the flavor.

Fishing started at 7 a.m. At 8, the air horn rang out — signaling the end of the first hour of the contest. The younger children had inevitably fallen in the pond, become distracted by turtles, and now were chasing bullfrogs. Fish had been caught, measured and released. The first winners were announced.

And in the background, the grills were fired up. The morning was still cool, and the heavy dew on the grass dampened shoes and pants. Any discomfort was forgotten as the smell of cooking dogs wafted over the pond. Hungry kids temporarily abandoned their poles to inhale the charcoal-grilled dogs and a can of soda.

Did it get any better than that? A bronzed dog with bubbly, crispy skin in a fresh bun. All the condiments were there, but ketchup was the only one a kid would touch. The crisp pop of a soda can opening was the punctuation mark on a perfect spring morning. A Breakfast of Champions.

My children participated years later with varying degrees of success. The derby had evolved in the intervening decades — now offering door prizes and traditional breakfast food. Trophies were still reserved for the winners, but every kid went home with a tackle box, pole or some other treasure. And while all three fished, had fun and could cast their own lines, only my son, Quin, was truly hooked.

Quin loved the Ghent Fishing Derby. It generated a love for fishing in general. He loved fishing for rock bass off the two conjoined tiny islands in Franklin Falls Flow. Most of all, he loved fishing anywhere that we camped.

Fish Creek campground was the best. From the minute we set up camp at Fish Creek, the pole was out. The first time, Quin was 4, maybe 5, and all he wanted to do was fish. Sunrise in July is about 5:30 a.m., and young campers in pop-up trailers wake up that early as well. The problem was that quiet time didn’t end for another three and a half hours, not to mention that canvas walls did nothing to muffle sounds. So what could I do with a wide-awake child? Fish.

“Mom, I’m hungry,” Quin announced more loudly than he should.

“Shh, you will wake the neighbors.”

“I’m hungry,” he continued.

“Do you want a banana? Cereal?” I offered, hoping to achieve a quick solution.

“No, I want a hot dog.”

“Really?” A hot dog for breakfast? Nutritional blasphemy. Mother of the Year might be out of reach … forever.

“Really,” Quin answered firmly and again, too loudly.

In the interest of pursuing silence, the stove was lit, the buns gingerly located and the dog quickly fried in the cast iron pan. As the fog lifted off the water, the familiar smell wafted over the campsite.

So, with the dew-filled grass soaking his feet, my little boy sat in his camp chair at the edge of Square Pond. In one hand: a hot dog; in the other: his fishing pole, and in between: a smile.

Sometimes, when we are lucky, happiness can be that simple.