As a rule, Marmons (family on my dad’s side) don’t want their picture taken. At Thanksgiving my Uncle Kenny would sneak up on unsuspecting relatives and capture moments with his polaroid camera. Waiting three minutes felt more like thirty, but the image finally came into focus, and we’d laugh at our faces in various stages of surprise. There was another rule in play, however; every five years we lifted the photograph ban for one event only – you guessed it – the family reunion (at a park, in July, with no shade, not even a sprinkler).

The predictability factor ran absurdly high at these things. We devoured all fourteen casseroles (mostly from the starch food group), one token salad, and at least five fruit and cream pies. Then, like cows heading for the barn, each generation shuffled over to the staged area and took its place in the customary lineup. First, the grandparents sat down in the woven green and white lawn chairs, you know, the ones with blazing hot metal arm rests. The adult children and spouses stood directly behind those chairs, in close proximity to their parents. Finally, the kids would plop down in front of their grandparents. Sitting cross-legged on itchy crab grass and anthills, the “young people” begged for no more than three tries with the camera timer. Truth be told, that’s all any of us could stand – then it was back to the picnic tables to scour for leftovers, ice down the grandparents’ scorched forearms, and head home.

One unforgettable year, my cousin lined up the lawn chairs – as always, we waited for the elders to take their place. Nobody moved, so we waited a tad longer. Awkward silence, a communal shifting of weight from one foot to the other – these were unfamiliar practices in a normally familiar routine. Without warning or expectation, something indescribably deep shifted – and all the adults knew it. Aunt Louise startled us out of our disbelief: “Oh my God, we’re the old people!” Just like that, our parents were now the grands and greats.

Exchanging knowing glances, our parents took their new place in the old green and white lawn chairs, and in our family. My sister, cousins, spouses and I slowly lined up behind our elders. The children sat down front, blissfully unaware of the seismic, generational transition in process. To ease the tension, Mom turned toward the back row and joked, “Don’t worry, you’ll be standing behind these chairs for a long time!” Everyone chuckled, but the expressions on the faces of rows two and three in that year’s photo looked more surprised than one of Uncle Kenny’s sneak-attack polaroid pictures.

I’m not saying where I fit in the family line-up now, but I am happy to report that we finally threw away those hideous lawn chairs 🙂