"Lob a grenade."

That was the advice my brother gave me for having fun at a family reunion with the in-laws. He was speaking figuratively, of course, although at times, I could relate to the literal interpretation as well. But what he meant was, stir things up, then sit back and watch the fun.

It's just this kind of internecine guerilla warfare that makes family reunions fertile ground for growing tension. In fact, tension may be the primary byproduct of any family reunion.

I can remember being dragged to family reunions on my mother's side of the family years ago. They were always held in a hot, dusty room in the basement of a school in rural Ohio. My family knew only a few of the people there, and I had no real idea how I was related to any of the rest of them.

I suspect my mother fared better than my brother, sister and I did at these events. People knew her. We were the California cousins, and we were looked on with no small amount of suspicion.

I really have only two strong memories of these reunions. The first was someone declaring they had brought hard-boiled eggs for the potluck. I love hard-boiled eggs. But when I got to them at the buffet, they were purple. What kind of person brings purple eggs to a potluck? Maybe it's an Ohio thing.

The second memory is a brief exchange my grandfather had (on my behalf) with another relative. Afterward, I saw my grandfather in an entirely new light.

I don't remember what I did; I'm not even sure I knew then, but somehow I managed to offend one of my unknown relatives. She gave me the well-known comeuppance:

"What, were you born in a barn?"

To which my grandfather responded, "Yes, that's why he feels at home when he hears a jackass bray."

I was stunned. Grampa had lobbed a grenade to save me. That was 40-some years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. The one thing I don't remember is faces. I didn't know the people then, and there is no photographic record of any of those who attended, so their names and faces are forever lost to me. Today's family reunions are a different story.

We recently attended a reunion for my wife's family. There were many people I didn't know and nearly as many whom I hadn't seen in decades. But we definitely have a record of every face in attendance to look back on, because digital cameras were everywhere.

Looking at the photos now, there is no doubt we had too many people taking pictures. In almost every group shot, each person in the photo is looking in a different direction, presumably at a different camera. And, by the end of three days, so many pictures had been taken, people were beginning to sympathize with Paris Hilton.

The final photo was to be a group shot of the entire family. More than 50 people lined up — young, old and everyone in between. People jostled for position. Family cameras were passed to the front and soon, flashes were firing like we were standing on a red carpet.

Babies cried. Old men complained (fine, that was me). Kids squirmed. And then, it was over. Almost.

I lobbed a grenade. A small one. I pointed to the guy next to me and said, "Can we get one more? I think his eyes were closed."

— Contact Star columnist Bill Nash at bnash805@aol.com.