SATURDAY MORNING WITH CRANKY DON JOE | All We Wanted Was One Group Photo. Larry Turned It Into a Federal Operation.

By Cranky Don Joe 

My name is Cranky Don Joe. Cranky DJ to a lot of my neighbors. 

I have been in enough group photographs to know that nobody particularly enjoys taking them. People enjoy having them afterward. The taking is a separate ordeal involving somebody shouting instructions, somebody insisting they look terrible, and at least one person who disappears the moment everyone is ready. Under normal circumstances, the inconvenience lasts about two minutes. 

Unfortunately, our neighborhood picnic included Larry, a man who cannot watch six people stand together without deciding they need a committee, a seating chart, and a written explanation of where everybody's feet should go.

The trouble began last Saturday at our neighborhood's annual picnic. It was a pleasant afternoon, the sort of Minnesota day that makes people temporarily forget what February does to their heating bills. The hamburgers were coming off the grill, children were running around the park, and somebody had brought a potato salad good enough to make people suspicious about whether the recipe had been stolen from a church cookbook. Frank was explaining to anyone willing to listen why the Vikings would have a better season if the coaching staff would simply return his telephone calls. I had just settled into a folding chair with a hamburger when Margaret, who helps organize the picnic every year, suggested taking a group photograph for the neighborhood newsletter. We were all there, the weather was cooperating, and somebody had a phone with a camera that cost more than my first automobile. Margaret figured we could gather near the picnic shelter, smile for a moment, and get back to eating.

Then Larry heard her.

"Excellent idea," he said, setting down his paper plate. "But we should probably organize it properly." I watched Margaret's expression change. She had been organizing neighborhood activities for years and understood immediately that something unfortunate had happened. She had asked for a photograph and accidentally created a position Larry could appoint himself to. "Oh, I think we can just have everybody stand together," she said. "Of course," Larry replied. "But we need to think about composition." Frank leaned toward me and whispered that we were going to be there until Christmas.

Larry began counting the people in attendance. He counted forty-two, then forty-three, then forty-one because two children had moved behind the shelter while he was counting. He asked everybody to remain in one place while he established an accurate total. A woman carrying a tray of watermelon asked whether she was included. Larry wanted to know whether she intended to appear in the picture. She said she had intended to eat watermelon. He assured her that her plans could be accommodated. I don't know why he said we. Nobody had appointed him to anything. Margaret was already standing beside the shelter with her phone, looking increasingly like a woman who regretted mentioning photography in public.

Larry announced that we needed three rows. The tallest adults would stand in back, shorter adults would stand in front, and children would occupy the center. A man named George asked whether people could simply stand beside their families. Larry said absolutely, wherever practical. That phrase turned out to be important. Larry's understanding of practical had very little to do with anybody else's. He moved George away from his wife because George was too tall for the front row. He moved George's wife two places to the left because her yellow shirt was too close to another yellow shirt. He moved a teenager to the back because the teenager was standing on his toes to see over somebody's shoulder. Then he moved the teenager forward again after discovering that he was actually shorter than the woman he had been standing behind.

Frank watched this for several minutes before asking whether Larry was arranging a photograph or boarding an airplane. Larry explained that visual balance mattered. Frank suggested putting him next to the potato salad because he had been trying to balance his plate all afternoon. Larry ignored him and decided the front row needed chairs. There were only six folding chairs available near the shelter, so he sent two men to retrieve more from the storage shed. One returned with three chairs and a small table. The other came back carrying a stack of orange traffic cones left over from a previous neighborhood event. Larry examined the cones and announced that they might actually be useful. I told him that if he was planning to direct traffic, he should begin with the people trying to escape.

By this point, my hamburger had gone cold. I was still holding it because Larry had informed us that food should not be visible in the official photograph. Apparently, a neighborhood picnic photograph was not supposed to contain evidence that anybody had attended a picnic. Helen arrived from the dessert table and took one look at the arrangement. She asked Larry what he was doing. He told her he was coordinating the photograph. Helen reminded him that Margaret was going to take it. Larry explained that Margaret was still taking it and he was merely handling the setup. Helen surveyed the three rows, the folding chairs, the traffic cones, and the two men still waiting beside the storage shed before asking how long the whole business would take. Larry said just a few minutes. Helen looked at me and said that was exactly what he had said when he decided to reorganize their garage. I asked how that project had turned out. She said they were still looking for the Christmas decorations.

The children were becoming restless. One little boy had abandoned his assigned position and was chasing a butterfly. Another was eating a cookie that had somehow become larger than his face. A girl in a pink dress wanted to stand beside her grandmother, but Larry had placed the grandmother in the second row because of her height. The girl began to cry, and her grandmother stepped forward to comfort her. Larry asked whether they could please return to their designated positions. The grandmother gave him a look that should have ended the entire operation. He wisely moved them together.

For a moment, I thought we might finally take the photograph. Margaret raised her phone, everybody began facing forward, and Larry instructed us to smile naturally. Then he noticed the sunlight. He announced that the lighting was not ideal and explained that the sun was creating shadows across several faces. He suggested moving the entire group to the other side of the picnic shelter, where the light would be more even. Margaret told him the photograph looked fine, but Larry insisted that it could be better. There are few sentences more dangerous in a neighborhood gathering than it could be better, especially when spoken by a man who has never been satisfied with anything that was already working.

We moved. Forty-something people, several folding chairs, two coolers, a stroller, and one child who insisted on carrying a plastic dinosaur relocated across the lawn because Larry had decided the sun was interfering with his artistic vision. Unfortunately, the new location was directly beside a sprinkler head. Larry did not notice it at first. He was too busy repositioning chairs and explaining why the picnic shelter should appear slightly off-center in the background. He wanted the photograph to communicate a sense of community, continuity, and shared neighborhood identity. I told him that most of us would settle for a picture in which our heads were visible.

Just as Margaret raised the phone again, the sprinkler system activated. The first spray hit George directly in the back of his shirt. He jumped forward, knocking into the chair in front of him. A woman shrieked, two children began laughing, and the little boy with the dinosaur ran toward the water as though somebody had opened a free amusement park. Larry shouted for everyone to remain calm, although nobody was particularly alarmed until he started shouting. The sprinkler rotated and sprayed the entire front row. Helen grabbed her handbag and stepped out of the way. Frank lifted his paper plate above his head to protect the remains of his lunch. Margaret was laughing so hard she had to lower her phone.

Larry stood in the middle of the confusion, waving both arms and announcing that we needed to relocate immediately. I asked whether he had somewhere in mind or whether we were moving to Wisconsin. He said the sprinkler activation had been an unforeseen complication. Frank pointed out that sprinklers were generally unforeseen complications only when somebody decided to hold a photography session on top of them. We returned to the shelter, where several neighbors had already resumed eating. A few had gone home, and one family was packing because their youngest child needed a nap. Larry noticed the disappearing participants and announced that we were losing people. I told him people had been losing interest for the past forty minutes.

Larry asked everyone to regroup for one final attempt. Margaret, who deserved some sort of civic award for patience, agreed to try again. This time Larry insisted on using a tripod. He said holding a phone by hand introduced unnecessary movement and could compromise image quality. Margaret pointed out that her phone had a perfectly good camera, but Larry maintained that a tripod would produce a more professional result. He went to his car and returned carrying a small collapsible tripod, a phone mount, and a carrying case that suggested he had been preparing for an event of this magnitude since at least Thursday. Frank asked whether he had a permit for the equipment. Larry said no permit was required. Frank expressed relief, explaining that he had been worried they would have to call the governor.

Larry assembled the tripod on the grass and attached his phone. He adjusted the height, checked the angle, and walked backward several times to inspect the composition. He decided the camera needed to be slightly higher, so he extended the tripod legs. One leg sank into the soft ground, and the phone tilted sideways. Larry caught it before it fell and announced that the ground was uneven. I told him Minnesota had been uneven for several thousand years and that he was unlikely to correct the problem before supper. He found a flat piece of cardboard beneath the picnic table and placed it under the tripod leg. The arrangement appeared stable enough, although I would not have trusted it to support a sandwich.

Larry wanted to use the camera's timer so he could appear in the photograph. He explained that he would press the button, walk to the back row, and take his designated position between George and another tall neighbor. Margaret asked whether ten seconds would be enough. Larry assured her it would be plenty. He pressed the button and hurried toward the group. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that he had placed one of the traffic cones behind the tripod. He stepped around the cone, caught his shoe on the carrying-case strap, and stumbled into the back row just as the camera flashed. The photograph captured Larry with one arm extended, his mouth open, and an expression suggesting he had just discovered a snake in his trousers. Frank wanted to see it immediately. Larry declared the picture unacceptable. I told him I thought it was the most accurate photograph taken all afternoon. He deleted it, which was unfortunate because I would have paid good money for a copy.

Larry reset the timer, carefully cleared the area around the tripod, and walked through his route before pressing the button. He instructed everyone to remain still, look directly at the camera, and avoid unnecessary movement. Frank wanted to know whether breathing counted as unnecessary movement. Larry told him to cooperate. The second attempt went reasonably well until a dog named Baxter wandered into the front row. Baxter belonged to one of the families attending the picnic and had spent most of the afternoon investigating dropped food. He apparently concluded that forty people standing in one place represented an excellent opportunity to locate something edible.

Baxter approached Frank, who was holding a half-eaten hamburger. Frank offered him a small piece. Larry saw this and asked Frank not to feed the dog during the photograph. Frank explained that he was feeding the dog before the photograph, which he considered an important distinction. Larry complained that Baxter was distracting people. Frank replied that the dog was the only one there enjoying himself. Baxter wagged his tail and moved closer. His owner called him, but the dog had already discovered that Frank possessed food and was not interested in negotiating.

Larry decided to proceed anyway. He pressed the timer and hurried back to his position. As the final seconds counted down, Baxter jumped toward Frank's hamburger. Frank raised his arm, George turned to see what was happening, and three children burst into laughter. The camera flashed. Larry returned to inspect the result and complained that nobody was looking in the same direction. Frank examined the screen and said that was because the dog had been doing something interesting.

Larry announced that another attempt was necessary. Helen stepped forward and informed him that what everyone needed was lunch. Larry insisted they were almost finished. She reminded him that he had said the same thing before the sprinkler. He explained that group photography required patience. Helen replied that marriage required patience too, and hers was running low. Margaret offered to take the photograph herself, suggesting that Larry hand over his phone and join the others. He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable surrendering control of the equipment, but even he had begun to recognize that the crowd was no longer responding to his instructions with enthusiasm.

Margaret told everybody to gather close, stand where they were comfortable, and look toward the camera. It took approximately fifteen seconds. Larry immediately began adjusting people, asking George to move left, Frank to lower his cap, and Helen to change places with Margaret's sister. Helen told him to stand still. He continued explaining. Margaret raised the phone and asked whether everybody was ready. Most of us said yes. Larry was still talking when he stepped out of the back row to demonstrate where Frank should stand. Margaret took the photograph.

The result was excellent. Everyone was visible. Most people were smiling. Baxter was sitting near the front with his tongue hanging out. The children looked happy, the picnic shelter was in the background, and the afternoon sunlight gave the whole scene a pleasant warmth. There was only one problem. Larry was not in it. He was standing several feet outside the frame, pointing toward Frank's baseball cap. Frank studied the picture and pronounced it the best one yet. Larry insisted we needed another, but Helen refused. Margaret thought the photograph would work beautifully. When Larry protested that he had been excluded, Frank explained that he had simply been photographed in his natural habitat, standing outside the picture telling everybody else what to do.

We finally returned to the picnic tables. The hamburgers were gone, the potato salad had been reduced to a suspicious-looking spoonful, and somebody had already started folding chairs. Larry sat beside Helen and reviewed the photographs on his phone. He had taken thirty-seven. Of those, eleven contained people moving into position, six showed somebody blinking, four included Baxter in various stages of investigating Frank's lunch, and three were photographs of Larry's shoes. One captured the sprinkler in action. Another showed the entire group looking toward the camera while Larry stood in front of them with both arms raised. Frank asked whether Larry intended to submit the whole collection to the Smithsonian. Larry said he was selecting the best image for the newsletter. Helen suggested Margaret's photograph. Larry objected that he was missing from it. Frank said that was probably why everyone looked so relaxed.

A few days later, Margaret sent the neighborhood newsletter to everyone on the mailing list. The group photograph appeared prominently near the top. It was not one of Larry's carefully arranged compositions. It was a candid picture Helen had taken shortly before the whole ordeal began. I hadn't even known she had taken it. The photograph showed neighbors gathered around the picnic tables. George was laughing at something Frank had said. Two children were sharing a cookie. Margaret was standing beside the grill, smiling. Baxter was under a table hoping somebody would drop a hamburger. I was sitting in my folding chair with my lunch, looking considerably happier than I had looked at any point during Larry's photography operation.

And there was Larry. He was standing near the dessert table with a paper plate in his hand, laughing at something Helen had said. His shoulders were relaxed, his face was turned toward her, and for once he was not instructing anybody to move three inches to the left. It was a lovely photograph. Nobody had been arranged by height. Nobody had worried about matching shirt colors. The sun was wherever the sun happened to be. Several people were looking away from the camera, and the dog was almost entirely hidden beneath the table. The picture looked exactly like a neighborhood picnic.

Helen called me after the newsletter went out and asked whether I had seen the photograph. I told her it was wonderful. She said Larry was upset because he considered the composition informal. I asked whether that was a medical condition. She laughed and explained that Larry thought they should have used one of the official pictures. I asked which one, and she said the photograph Margaret had taken. I reminded her that Larry was missing from it. Helen said that was precisely the problem. I told her I could understand his disappointment. A man should not spend an entire afternoon organizing a photograph only to discover that the neighborhood's favorite picture was taken before he started organizing anything.

Helen said she had reminded him that the purpose of the picnic was to enjoy spending time together. Larry apparently replied that documenting the event was also important. She told him that was why she had taken the picture. He had no answer.

Later that evening, Frank stopped by with a printed copy of the newsletter photograph. He had enlarged it and put it in a cheap frame from the dollar store. I thanked him and placed it on the mantel. Frank studied the picture for a moment before telling me what he liked most about it. Nobody looked as though they were being held hostage.

He was right. I've looked at that photograph several times since then. It reminds me of a good afternoon with neighbors, a decent hamburger, and the kind of laughter that happens when nobody is trying too hard to manufacture it. I remember the sprinkler, the dog, and Larry's increasingly desperate efforts to produce the perfect picture. But the photograph itself reminds me of the picnic we were enjoying before the photography department took over.

There is nothing wrong with wanting a good photograph. Families should take them. Friends should preserve their memories. Neighborhoods should document their gatherings. Years from now, somebody may look at that picture and remember people who have moved away, children who have grown up, and conversations that would otherwise have been forgotten. I just don't think preserving a memory should require everybody involved to stop enjoying the experience.

Larry sees it differently. He called me yesterday to announce that he had been researching better methods for taking group photographs. He had discovered several online tutorials explaining camera angles, natural lighting, background selection, and something called the rule of thirds. I asked whether he was planning another picnic. He said he was preparing for next year because there was no reason we couldn't learn from the experience. I told him I thought we had learned plenty. He said he wanted to create a simple photography plan so the process would run more smoothly. When I asked how simple, he said it would be a one-page checklist. I reminded him that his last one-page checklist for Halloween had eventually become a neighborhood safety inspection. He said that was completely different.

Then Larry asked whether I would be willing to help test his proposed group arrangement before the next picnic. I asked how many people he needed. He said at least twelve. I asked what for, and he explained that he wanted to take a practice photograph. I told him I was busy. He asked when. I said next summer. Larry objected that I couldn't possibly know my schedule that far in advance. I told him I knew one thing about it: I would not be standing in a field while he explained where the sun was.

He laughed and said I was exaggerating. Then he mentioned that he was considering buying a drone.

I hung up.

About ten minutes later, Frank called to ask whether Larry had told me about the drone. I said he had, unfortunately. Frank explained that Larry wanted to take an aerial photograph of the entire neighborhood next year and had asked him to help practice. I was surprised when Frank said he had agreed. I asked why he would encourage such a terrible idea. Frank explained that he wanted to see what happened when Larry tried to arrange forty people from the sky. I told him that was a terrible idea. Frank agreed, then asked whether I still had a copy of the photograph with Larry standing outside the frame. I told him Larry had deleted it.

Frank said that was a shame because he had wanted to print it on a T-shirt. When I asked what the shirt would say, he answered without hesitation.

"PLEASE REMAIN STILL. MANAGEMENT IS NOT IN THE PICTURE."

I laughed so hard I nearly dropped the phone. And somewhere in the neighborhood, Larry is probably preparing a twelve-page drone safety manual for a photograph nobody has asked him to take.

Until next time,

Cranky DJ

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