The pace that kills

BARNEY DOUGALL

Reporting upon some glittering functions which make suburban life so sophisticated

■ There is this to be said for life at Stonesthrow-from-the-Station: the social pace kills. Scarcely an evening passes without some glamourous occurrence, such as a ladies' bridge or a Volunteer Firemen's meeting, which we remember and recall for weeks afterward. Our surging world is volcanic in its excitement; it leaves us breathless in its wake. It is hilarious and breath-taking, vivid and colourful, the dernier cri of fashion: it is suburban.

Although we are forty-six minutes from New York (forty-four if you catch the 5:03 express) we do not consider this distance any handicap. On the contrary, we in the suburbs like to feel that our social existence can teach a thing or two to the so-called Smarter Set of Park Avenue and Mayfair. What literary salon in a fashionable pent-house can compare with those delightful and edifying gatherings at Miss Hoffstadter's on odd Monday afternoons? What cultured function in an exclusive corner of the Ritz oan approach our ultra-formal dinners at Mrs. Terwilliger's? What Beaux Arts Ball is equal to the hilarity and joy that reign unconfined when the Stonesthrow Yacht Club holds its annual masquerade ball?

Weary New Yorkers may talk of their Plaza, their Club Richman, their Tony's; but after all, one must live in Stonesthrow-fromthe-Station and study our various types of parties in order to appreciate what politesse a la mode really is. Our social activities are limitless in their maze of sophistication and present ample opportunity for the energetic suburbanites to leap, like so many mountain goats, from one function to another. Our boundless social resources are the root of that recognized superiority inherent in the suburban manner: to them we owe our distinction, our polish, our oft-observed poise. It is in an effort to demonstrate this glitter and allure of social life in suburbia that we have endeavoured to describe herein several of the more popular types of social function held in Stonesthrow-from-the-Station:

• The most popular of our suburban parties is that hilarious Stonesthrow version of the Bohemian soirée, the Informal Evening With Friends. We arrive in one happy group, swooping clamorously into the house like a flock of wild geese, chatting and laughing in anticipation. We swarm hastily into the living room, where we exchange happy retorts as we cavort gayly with someone else's wife, while someone plays I Gotta Have Yoo-hoo-hoo for dancing. These jocose remarks maintain the good spirits of the party and fortify our happy frame of mind. When, for example, two of us have exchanged wives for dancing and one calls "Who is that lady I see you with?" the rest of us cannot restrain a chuckle when the retort is flung back, "That is no lady, that is your wife." Or again, when the host explains that he oannot find the gin, there are gales of laughter as some lady offers the use of the alcohol in her car. When a wife explains that she calls her husband Bill because they met on the first of the month, the mirth grows downright maudlin.

Suburbanites have long since learned the words to such songs as Hinkey Dinkey Parlez Vous and Frankie and Johnnie, and we sing them lustily at these informal gatherings. There is always high amusement when one of the ladies asks with assumed innocence the meaning of a certain word or phrase, and the fact that very few of us could explain to her anyway merely makes these affairs all the more amusing.

Toward midnight the Life of the Party at last comes into his own. The Life of the Party usually has large ears and buck teeth, and he is at his best during these more intimate, informal parties. Wearing a lady's hat, his trousers rolled to the knee, and carrying a toy pop-gun, he demonstrates his own version of the wooden soldiers' dance, causing fits of laughter and complaints of side-aches. Overwhelmed by his reception he seizes a Spanish scarf from the piano, flinging a Ming vase the length of the room as he does so, and executes an imitation of Raquel Meller's violet song, re-writing the Spanish tongue in the bargain and provoking hysterical laughter from a small, dark-haired lady who thinks the Life of the Party is quite the funniest thing in years. When in addition he crumples his adopted head-gear in lieu of a flower-basket, she will stagger toward him, shaking with laughter, and point a trembling forearm in his direction, too weak to speak. The expression on his face when he discovers that the hat he has just ruined is his wife's most expensive one will cause the dark lady to pass completely out of the picture, followed very shortly by the Life of the Party.

■ Another important suburban party is our local version of the formal dinner at the Ritz, which in Stonesthrow is given by Mrs. Terwilliger whenever Mr. Terwilliger presents her with a new evening dress. These parties begin very late, of course, and if your dress suit is slightly soiled from cranking a very cold engine, no one notices it. Such mishaps only serve to lend that personal touch to the party which is never found in the city.

The chief feature of interest at these formal dinners is the conversation. Naturally the cuisine, consisting mainly of bouncing squabs and broccoli, is of the best, so we never forget to compliment Mrs. Terwilliger again and again, whenever conversation lags, on its excellence. There is also much talk of Wall Street and Our Nation's soundness, of the sort which concludes with, "Well, it's a risky business, by George." The ladies converse about the problems of impending motherhood, the difficulty of obtaining trustworthy housemaids, catching the new cook stealing linen, and how curious it is that men hate evening clothes.

■ Every so often the host excuses himself from the party in order to adjust the radio which, as he so jocularly explains, has got a bad tube or something. By the time dinner is finished and someone suggests dancing the radio will have ceased functioning altogether, so the hostess mentions bridge. Once the cardtable has been fetched, with chocolates and cigarettes to make matters pleasant, and partners have been selected after many caustic remarks, it will be discovered that there are no cards in the house because Mrs. Terwilliger lent them the previous afternoon to the ladies' bridge society. So the guests seat themselves comfortably before the fire, where the men discuss Wall Street and conclude that "Well, it's a risky business, by George" and the ladies remark how curious it is that men hate evening clothes.

One of our quaintest and most charming parties at Stonesthrow is the old-fashioned barbecue, at which we revive the custom of roasting steak over an open grate in the host's rock-garden. We first foregather in the cool of the stone garage, joking merrily about the possibilities of burning the steak, and what a fortunate thing it is for us that we have already had a hearty luncheon at home. There is a white apron for everyone ("Good night! If you don't look just like Oscar at the butcher shop!") and a cook's cap which trails over the ears and into the eyes like an over-stuffed charlotte russe.

The male members of the party have a very easy time of it by the simple device of pretending not to be able to cook their own steak. Most of them make one valiant attempt in order to prove this inability, thereby burning their fingers, dropping the steak into-the glowing ashes, chafing the blackened bread, and spilling a bottle of chili sauce into the fire. They are invariably rescued by an attractive but tottering young lady who not onlyburns the steak and blackens the bread, but ruins her dress, rips her stockings and spoils her permanent wave in the attempt.

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But most conspicuous of all our suburban parties is the annual masquerade given by the Stonesthrow Yacht Club, for which each guest strives diligently to concoct an original costume. After weeks of experimenting with the lampshade, the tiger-skin rug from the living room, and Junior's cowboy outfit, he will set forth on the night of nights confident that he will win the Most Original Costume prize by appearing as a pirate.

Late in the evening the judges review the guests for the best costume, having promised their wives beforehand to keep the awards in the family. After a long, interminable promenade they finally decide upon the winning regalia (The Goddess of Liberty), the wearer of which is pompously presented with a silver flask in the form of a golf club. After the donation of the prize the conviviality begins to lag and the judges retire tactfully to the bar, having lost seven friends apiece.

There remains just one other suburban party which we have not described. Yet this affair is acknowledged in Stonesthrow to represent the summit of sophistication and The Thing To Do. Unlike the Informal Evening With Friends, the Dinner at Terwilliger's, the Barbecue, or the Yacht Masquerade, this party requires no particular preparation in advance. The arrangements are very simple. All that is necessary is to tumble into the car, head for the Post Road, and be at the Ritz or the Gay White Way in an hour. Sometimes, on a clear night, you can make it in forty-five minutes.