It's early Friday morning, the second weekend in April. Temperatures are in the 30s, and the wind is whipping the overnight dusting of snow into tiny white tornadoes that blow across the driveway.

I am snuggled in my bed, trying not to wake up, wondering when my husband, Steve, will turn off the closet light, which is shining in my face.

Plopping a pillow over my head to block out light and sound, I still can hear Steve banging about the house, getting ready for the family's annual "bachelor" campout.

He is clad in bib overalls — the kind his father wore when farming — and an old John Deere hat. Finally, he is ready for his big trip; when he bends over the bed to kiss me good-bye, I feel his clean-shaven face and breath in his freshly showered scent. The next time I see him — after three days in the outdoors — he will be grizzled and smelling of smoke — and will not have been near a shower, shaver or toothbrush.

By the front door are a his weekend supplies: a sleeping bag and pillow, an old lawn chair, a cooler filled with red meat and beer, and a tray full of tobacco products, even though he doesn't usually smoke.

Each spring, for almost 30 years now, the men in my family — brothers, brothers-in-law, and nephews over the age of 18, about two dozen in all — gather for a weekend of male bonding, usually on my oldest brother's land in Ohio.

There, in a barn heated by a wood stove and lit by power from a 12-volt car battery, the men spend their time, eating and drinking, playing poker, and sitting around the stove swapping stories. In an election year, conversation is always lively, says Steve, because it's often brother against brother when it comes to which side of the aisle they cast their vote.

The campers come from as far away as Alabama and Illinois and eastern Pennsylvania, to live for three days with no electricity or running water and to sleep in the barn loft or in tents. The younger campers, more agile than some of my sexagenarian brothers, often sleep in the back seats of their cars.

If the weather cooperates — and it rarely does for these early spring rendezvous — the men move their activities outside by a fire ring. Then fishing or paddling a small rowboat around the pond is added to their daytime activities.

Also part of their annual get-together is a Saturday night awards ceremony, where individuals are recognized as Rookie of the Year and Camper of the Year, gag honors without tangible reward that few remember at the campout the following year. New campers — nephews who've turned 18 or nephews-in-law who've just joined the family — are welcomed into the group, after giving the requisite skit or speech, no easy feat for these young men as they try to hold the attention of their aging uncles.

Now it is late Sunday night, and I'm still awake, listening to the sound of Steve's car as it descends our gravel driveway. He is again banging about the house, unloading the cooler and draping his wet sleeping bag over the couch.

Before long he is in the bedroom, a smoky, unwashed presence. I hear the water running in the bathroom, as he showers and shaves and brushes his teeth.

"I had a great time," he tells me as he slips into bed — and back into a more restrictive marital existence.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.