The Land of Mango Sunsets by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

not intended for outsiders, right?”
    “Yes. Is that so terrible?”
    “Mom? Priscilla and I have been living together for two years. Get used to it. She’s family.”
    “These days playing house seems to be acceptable to the world, according to your father, at least.”
    “Playing house? Hmmph.”
    “Oh?” That’s nice. Thanks for the compliment.
    “Anyway, Priscilla and I have plans for dinner tonight. Maybe some other time.”
    “Well, dear? If you’d rather eat jerk chicken, that doesn’t make you a jerk.”
    It did not result in a chuckle and a promise of another date. He hung up on me.
    There you have the picture of my failure with Charlie and as a standup comedian, his general attitude of frosty nonchalance, and a sketch of the geographic location of my other son, about whom there just isn’t much to say. It seemed like the world always worked against our relationships and any return to affection.
    I knew it was well within my skills to exert some effort toward breaking down the walls between the boys and me. But I was too proud and so very hurt. When I thought about calling them, I would preconclude that it was too late. The damage was done.
    When thoughts of my loneliness skidded to the forefront of my disappointment, that was when I missed my mother the most. I didn’t want her to tell me where I had gone wrong, though. No. I wanted her to tell methat I had been right. But she would never say I was. I would go to the end of my days trying to please my mother and never somehow hit the mark. The root of the problem was my own stubbornness. I knew it and I hated myself for it. She told me I had unrealistic expectations of everyone. I disagreed. It seemed to me that I never asked for more than I gave.
    I dialed her number again. This time she answered.
    “Mother?”
    “Hello, Miriam. I was just going to call you back. I have been one very busy bee today. Law! It is so gorgeous here! Not a cloud in the sky!”
    “Well, that’s wonderful! It’s still dreary as the tomb here.”
    “I know. I saw your weather report on some morning show while I was having my morning tea. You know, you should really come—”
    “And that’s one reason I’m calling, actually. I want to try and get out of here for a few days.”
    “Come tomorrow!”
    “Oh, sure! I just wanted to know if you’re going to be around for the next few weeks.”
    “Unless I drop dead, I’ll be right here.”
    My mother wasn’t even close to dropping dead. With all the vitamins she took and all the organic food she ate? She was guaranteed to rival any celebrity from the Old Testament.
    “Okay, I’ll start looking for a good airfare. So, what’s keeping you so busy?”
    “Saving the planet.”
    “Somebody’s got to.”
    “Well, I got involved in a project to make disposable, biodegradable plates and so forth from potato starch. You just throw them in the compost heap and in six months they’re fertilizer.”
    “Well. How about that?”
    “Don’t be Miss Blasé Big City with me, Miriam Elizabeth Swanson.”
    “Sorry. I still have problems envisioning you eating from paper plates—”
    “Potato starch…”
    “Whatever. Anyway, here’s news. I have a new tenant. A gal from Birmingham. Liz Harper. Very nice.”
    “Lawsamercy, Miriam! What are you doing up there in Yankee land—running an ashram for wayward southerners? You’ve got that Kevin fellow from Atlanta and now…”
    I smiled at Miss Josie’s joke and in the next breath realized that my mother was in excellent humor nearly all the time. In fact, I couldn’t recall the last time she had been in a foul mood. When I was a child she spent every bit of energy she had to spare giving me lessons in polite behavior and in the art of appearing happy.
    “How do you do it, Miss Josie?”
    “What’s that, darlin’?”
    “Stay so upbeat.”
    “Me?” She paused for a moment. “Is this a serious question?”
    “Dead serious. Only because I’ve been on such a downer