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Suburbia's clergymen tend to be most keenly aware of Suburbia's disappointments and Suburbia's promise. "Many people," complains Kansas City Rabbi Samuel Mayerberg, "mistake activity for usefulness." Says Dr. Donald S. Ewing, minister of Wayland's Trinitarian Congregational Church near Boston: ' Suburbia is gossipy. So many of the people are on approximately the same level economically and socially. They're scrambling for success. They tend to be new in the community and they're unstable and insecure. When they see someone else fail, in work or in a family relationship, they themselves feel a rung higher, and this is a great reason for gossip. I think socially we're flying apart—we don't meet heart to heart any more, we meet at cocktail parties in a superficial way. We value smartness rather than depth, shine rather than spirit. But I think people are sick of it; they want to get out of it."
In Chicago's suburban Elk Grove Village, busy Lutheran Minister Martin E. Marty, who writes for the Christian Century, and who devotes much of his time to patching up corroding marriages, sighs wearily: "We've all learned that Hell is portable. I think we're seeing a documentable rebellion going on against the postwar idea of mere belongingness and sociability. We all agree that Suburbia means America. It's not different, but it's typical. Solve Suburbia's problems and you solve America's problems."
Buddhas & Babies. The fact surrounding all the criticism and self-searching is that most suburbanites are having too good a time to realize that they ought to be unhappy with their condition.
At week's end, as they nursed their power mowers down the lawn, Suburbia's men paused here and there to enjoy a spell of nothing more salacious than wife-watching. Tanned, brief-clad women sprawled in their chaises and chatted about babies, Khrushchev, Japan and the P.T.A. In the patios, the amateur chefs prepared juicy sacrifices on the suburban Buddhas —the charcoal grills. Mint-flavored iced tea or tart martinis chilled thirsty throats, and from across hedgerows and fences came the cries of exultant youngsters and the yells and laughter of men and women engaged in a rough-and-tumble game of croquet or volleyball. (In Springfield Township, near Philadelphia, nine couples recently pounded through a rousing volleyball match; five of the women were pregnant, but no emergency deliveries were made that day.)
Thus the suburban counterpoint leaps forward in optimistic measure, creating a new framework for the American theme. True, as in every place, every suburban husband wishes he earned more money, every mother with young children wishes' she had more help, small boys wish there were fewer days of school, small girls wish there were fewer small boys, and babies all wish there was no such thing as strained spinach. Nevertheless, there is scarcely a man or woman living in all those hills and groves beyond the cities who does not sing with Martial: Rtis mihi dulce sub urbe est.