My mother's grandfather was a small-town Georgia lawyer. In the 1930s, when money was as scarce as hen's teeth, his clients paid him in sacks of field-grown potatoes, with homemade sausage and an occasional caramel cake, his favorite compensation.

He towered over neighbors and friends. At six and a half feet, he was a larger-than-life presence, and, in time, he was approached by local politicians to run for Congress.

Meetings followed and porch-rocking conversations with his wife, Amanda, whom he called "Manse, Luv," like it was one word. The moment of truth came when he was told, if elected, he and his family would have to move to Washington.

Train travel in those days was too slow for back-and-forth home visits.

The tall man with the booming voice responded with a resounding, "No!" He had a passel of children, after all, and pet dogs following him around town. A goat and pony grazed in the field behind his house.

He took pride in his summer garden of prize tomatoes. He wasn't moving anywhere. End of discussion.

For men more worldly and adventurous, those elected to Congress who brought their families to Washington, close relationships were formed in and out of the Capitol building, regardless of party loyalties.

Those days of backyard cookouts and holiday sing-a-longs are remembered as neighborly gatherings, offering chances to talk over opposing views while munching on a burger.

Sen. Evan Bayh (D-Ill.), leaving the Senate because he is frustrated by and weary of colleagues' personal agendas and inflexible party line dogma, wrote recently of his father's time in the Senate, days when families of both political parties ate together, carving out a community away from their home districts.

"It is much harder to demonize someone when you know his family or have visited in his home," Bayh observed.

Is today's polarized Washington, drawing ire from the public, hamstrung by social interaction, lying fallow?

As February waned, The Washington Post dropped journalist Sally Quinn's column on the comings and goings of the city's social elite. Dinner parties in Georgetown, cocktails shared by powerful Senate and House names, who clinked their ice and flirted with compromise, are a thing of the past.

A "hostess with the mostest" cannot be called to mind unless she is Ms. Quinn, wife of the formidable Ben Bradlee, former editor of The Washington Post, friend of Jack Kennedy's and a player in the Watergate scandal. Yet, even Quinn appears to have misplaced her clout.

And Desiree Rogers, the White House social secretary and serious fashionista, resigned last week, either returning to Chicago of her own free will or ousted because she was so busy granting interviews on her gown of choice and greeting movers and shakers at a White House state dinner, she forgot to have an aide check the guest list, allowing interlopers face time with the president and vice president.

If possible, the duly elected now fly home every weekend to visit with constituents and to see their families. Congressmen in Washington share houses to cut down on costs and have a little kitchen space, but nobody is serving pigs in a blanket and martinis come Friday night.

In a twist of irony, we elect senators and representatives to go to Washington and debate policy and then we dare them to settle in, make themselves at home, for fear they will be struck blind by Beltway fever, branded as insiders, the kiss of death in a future campaign.

Evan Bayh recalled only two bipartisan gatherings of all members of Congress in his 12 years in the Senate. He suggested it would be a good idea to have monthly luncheons, forcing Republicans and Democrats to socialize.

These days, it's hard to imagine Harry Reid and Mitch McConnell sharing table space. Nancy Pelosi could pass homemade brownies around the room and do an Elvis impersonation and, odds are the perpetually tanned John Boehner would not crack a smile.

Judy Elliott is an award-winning columnist from Marietta.