If all things go as planned -- and when in the history of the world has that happened? -- as you read this close to three dozen of my relatives are gathering in a collection of rustic cabins by a beautiful mountain lake.

For two years, since the last time we all came together in one spot, we have been talking about this event, and for the past eight months or so planning has been going on in ever increasing intensity.

Every other year -- in odd-numbered years, which seems strangely appropriate -- the Aylworth family clan meets for "Aylapalooza," a reunion that can alternately appear to be a giant party or a gang fight. Preparing for one of these things is a logistical challenge on the scale of moving the Mongolian camel corps.



First we have to find a place that will both accommodate and tolerate a mob like ours.

We found the perfect site this time, in that it is owned by an absentee landlord -- a utility company to be precise -- and it is far enough away from residential areas so we won't have to deal with upset neighbors. We also need to find a place with enough beds to sleep this mob, and still not cost so much that we will have to sell three or four of the grandkids to cover the bill.

I really like my grandwidgets, and selling any of them would be distressing, and the various mothers involved might become genuinely perturbed by such a move.

Once a place has been identified, at a doable price, then we have to sell a cadre of very opinionated individuals that this location is wonderful, which is about as easy as selling vacuums door to door. Dates and times for Aylapalooza have to be negotiated with all of the delicacy of an international treaty.

This year adds a new level of intricacy because while we have 40 beds to serve 33 bottoms, those beds are spread eight to a cabin, over five cabins.

With nine families represented in the 33 bodies, figuring out who sleeps where, and who shares which cabin with whom, turns into one of those brain twisters where you have to ferry a fox, a goat, a goose, some grain and a Tasmanian devil across a creek in a boat that only carries three, and you have to get everybody and everything across the stream intact and, in our case, still talking to each other.

We will have people ranging from their mid-80s to others whose ages are counted in months. Finding ways to blend this mob into sleeping groups is only slightly more challenging than nuclear physics.

Let's talk about food: Thankfully the camp comes will a fully equipped kitchen and two refrigerators, so there are places to store and cook the grub, but the camp is located in an area where the nearest "big" city is 13 miles away and has one stoplight and a single grocery store. As a result we have to bring with us the provisions to make nearly 400 individual meals over four days.

In an effort to keep the little people and their allegedly adult parents amused, I purchased three dozen squirt guns, 240 crayons, a dozen coloring books, finger paints, a football, a basketball and three tennis balls. The camp doesn't have a tennis court, so I can't explain the tennis balls, but they seemed like a good idea at the time. In the final analysis, I have no idea how Aylapalooza III is going to play out. I know the people who call me Daddy are fiercely loyal to the family, but it is a loyalty that sometimes says, "Nobody can beat my brother -- or sister -- but me!"

At the same time I'm convinced the ones who make up the next generation will adore the opportunity to play with each other in this beautiful setting. In any event, I'm sure the planning for Aylapalooza IV will begin the day after this one ends.