Trules' Deceased Parents Come to Visit Him in Santa Fe

This is probably a bad idea - inviting my deceased parents to visit me and my Indonesian wife and son here in Santa Fe, New Mexico in 2024.

My Dad passed away in 2008 after a long slow fade from congestive heart failure, and he met Surya, my Sumatran wife, just once, up in Walnut Creek, California, where he lived in an “adult community”, when Surya barely spoke any English. He never met our adopted son, Exsel, who arrived in LA in 2015, also from Sumatra at 8 years old. My Mom died from a sudden stroke from which she never recovered in 1999, so she never met either my wife or son, although she lamented ‘til the day she died that I

never got the chance to share my life with anybody - or to become a father.

So besides showing my Mom and Dad the beautiful place I finally moved to after living 40 years in the LA desert, I wanted to especially show my mother how I “rectified” my lifelong pattern of bachelorhood, and made “her dream come true” (although I must admit, posthumously)

These are my parents, “GI Joe Trules”, from Brownsville, Brooklyn, and “Rockin’ Roz Rosenberg”, from Middle Village, Queens, as I affectionately call them whenever I put them in print. They met back in the outer boroughs of New Yawk during the late Depression, married just before WW2, spent most of the War together as my father supervised the maintenance and repair of flying C-47s, then moved to Levittown, Long Island, the first “suburb” in America, where they had me, little “Errie Trules” in 1947. That was their first mistake.

Kidding.

They were very different from each other. Although both first-born, and both first-generation East European and Ukrainian Jews, my father came from a much more dysfunctional family than my mother. Both of their parents were hard-working, blue-collar immigrants. My father’s father, Meyer, was a house painter, hard of hearing, rough around the edges, sometimes violent. My grandma, Anna, died just after I was born, so I never got to know her, but I heard that she was the object of Grandpa Meyer’s abuse, so I think that as a result of his upbringing, my father became a peacemaker and a caretaker. At least that was his role in our natal family. He always put his wife and children first and rarely thought about himself. He was generous to a fault, well-loved by all my friends, not self-reflective, and sublimated any inner demons that he still wrestled with into his subconscious and his nightmares (which he passed on to me, along with his high blood pressure and gout. Thanks, Dad.)

My mother, on the other hand, was seemingly more confident and self-assured, although I must say, not beyond believing in the conventional wisdom of the day about the “traditional role” of women in the 1950s home as housekeeper and mother. Her parents, Sally and Murray, were all-day-working grocery store owners who brought boxes and boxes of chicken soup and frozen hamburger out from Middle Village to Westbury, Long Island, to where the Trules moved in 1952.

Somehow, as marriages and matches often tend to complement one another, Roz was significantly more outgoing than Joe, a great storyteller, and I must say, she liked being the center of attention, of which she was always my father’s. As I myself am the firstborn and eldest son, I’m afraid that I may have inherited some of the self-centered narcissism, curly hair, big nose, and vivaciousness from my Mom. Roz was ambitious too, teaching herself Braille, folk guitar in the early 60s, going back to Queens College to get her degree after me and my younger sister, Alison, left the nest, and working as a social worker for Nassau County for years before she retired with a pension.

But my “problem” with my parents is an odd one, especially seen through the lens of today’s omnipresent therapies, 12-step programs, and ubiquitous teen angst, depression, and suicide ideation, so pervasive in our drug-assisted/addicted society. In the 50s and early 60s, before I went off to college, I didn’t know about any of this. Still, I was an angry m-fcking teenager. Why? I seemingly had every privilege and opportunity. Just like kids today, living in an American culture that is the most privileged and most technically advanced of any before it in the history of mankind, the privileges still… never guaranteed, or even brought… “happiness”, the most important value and stressed goal that my parents always wanted for me. And I mean always.

Are you happy, Eric? How do you feel? We just want you to be happy.

No, I’m not fucking happy. I lost all my elementary school friends when you put me in with “the smart kids” in 7th grade. I have no girlfriend. You never taught me about sex. You forced me to get the best grades in high school, but then sent me to the cheapest State college. And no, I won’t take in the fucking garbage cans! Can you just leave me the fuck alone?!

What an ungrateful fucking twit, eh?

You see, my “problem” with my parents was that… “they loved me too much!” I felt smothered by their love. I felt like a dog on an endless parental leash (umbilical cord) that I could never cut! I never had the emotional room, encouragement, or initiative - to discover who the hell I really was. I was just too busy pleasing them.

Finally, after college, I had to pack up all my things into a 1964 Pontiac Tempest named Wolfie, and drive myself away from New York, never to psychically return.

And now…. they’re coming to Santa Fe.

My deceased parents, Roz and Joe!

And I haven’t told Surya or Exsel…

…yet.

Not a good idea, eh?

But… believe it or not… it’s not a problem getting them here.

I call Warren Beatty, producer and director of the film, Heaven Can Wait (originally Here Comes Mr. Jordan, 1941), who tells me exactly how to teleport bodies and souls from the afterlife, back and forth to Santa Fe. With just a little help from a guardian angel, and her supervisor, Mr. Jordan, I can choose the exact day and time to have Roz and Joe arrive at the small, nearby Santa Fe Airport, as opposed to the usual Albuquerque Airport, over an hour away, which most out of towners have to really hassle with.

And - oh wow!

There they are. Roz and Joe! Walking right out of the only Gate at the tiny terminal.

They have their old rollaway dark denim blue suitcase, the one I thought was in my garage, here in Santa Fe. But no, that’s definitely the one, it has the same red ribbon tied to the side handle.

I rush up to hug them.

Shit! I wonder if they’ll vanish in my arms. Or if they’ll actually be corporeal?

Oh yeah! It’s… the latter!

Yes!

Hi, Mom! Hi Dad. It’s been a lonnnnng time. Welcome to Santa Fe.

Thanks for having us, my Mom says.

Now what? Do I take them home right away? It’s a Sunday. I told Surya and Exsel that I’d be back very soon for brunch.

I walk my parents over to our new car… well, new for us, our shiny blue 2017 Mazda CX-5 SUV. They’re walking pretty nimbly. Mr. Jordan has done an excellent job. I think he’s sent them back at an age younger than I am now. It’s weird. Maybe they’re 65 and 69, very healthy and spry.

Nice car, my father says. When did you get it?

Thanks, last year. We have three now. One for Surya, this is hers; one for me, a Toyota RAV4, and Surya’s old 2007 Matrix for Exsel.

I remember that RAV4. It’s black, right? It must be ancient by now, my Dad offers.

Yeah, good memory, but it still drives great. I replaced both the engine and the transmission.

Chit chat, chit chat. I’m driving over to “our new house”, a house they never expected me to own in my life.

I pull into the driveway and look over at my mother in the passenger seat. She’s wiping tears from her eyes. My Mom hardly ever cries.

What’s wrong, Mom?

Nothing.

Nothing, my ass. I know exactly what’s wrong. She’s… happy. And nervous. She’s looking at a handsome adobe house that her son owns. And she’s going to meet her son’s wife and son!!!!!!

We get out of the car and walk up the path to the carved wooden front door. I ring the bell.

Exsel opens the door in his self-embroidered cut-off jeans.

My father says, Hello young man. You must be Exsel.

I am. Who are you?

I’m Joe Trules, your Dad’s father. And this Roz Trules, his mother… my wife, and your grandmother.

Exsel looks at me, confused, and says the obvious.

I thought you were both dead.

Well, Eric arranged a short visit for us, just to meet you and Surya.

You mean you’re ‘Papa Joe’? Like the “red Papa Joe chair” we have in the bedroom upstairs?

My Mom is wiping more tears from her eyes.

Exsel says, “Did I say something wrong?”

No, no, man, I say. She’s just happy to finally meet you. You can call her ‘Mama Roz’.

Exsel walks out the front door a few steps to shake my Mom’s hand.

Hi, Mama Roz. Nice to me you.

Nice to meet you too, Exsel.

She smothers him in a hug. (Roz was never much of a hugger). Surya comes to the door.

What’s going on?

She recognizes my mother and father from my many photos, and she looks very disoriented.

My Dear, say hello to Papa Joe and Mama Roz. I know it’s a little weird, but they came a long way for a little brunch.

Wh-what?

I’ll explain a little later. Do you want to go to Tomastia’s to show them some great New Mexican food?

Yeah!, Exsel erupts, completely unfazed by this teleportation of the undead.

Well, hold on, I say. First Papa Joe and Mama Roz have to come in for a little tour.

I walk everyone into the living room at the bottom of the stairs. Cassius, the dog, gives a few friendly barks.

Can you believe it, this is our house?

To be honest, my father says, not in a million years.

Well, it’s all my lovely wife’s doing, I smile proudly. It’s the American Dream, right, and Surya always wanted to own a house. It just took me 23 years to finally agree.

There are so many art prints on the walls from their former home in Walnut Creek: a signed Erte original, beautifully framed pieces they got on trips to Portugal, France, Italy… many other places. Ceramic sculptures from China and Japan, one cremation urn holding my father’s ashes; ceremonial wood carvings from Africa, one fertility shaman with an erect penis. My Mom can’t stop sniffling and guffawing simultaneously.

We take them through the kitchen out to the backyard and show them all the garden planters, the Indonesian bale (baLAY/gazebo), the hot tub…

You didn’t bring that all the way from Los Angeles, did you?, my father says, remembering the Jacuzzi we had down below the deck in LA.

No, we couldn’t hoist it back over the house, the eucalyptus tree fell through the roof in a storm. But do you remember Lisa, my costumer friend from New York? She and her husband, Ben, live nearby and they gave us theirs. We just had to have 7 Guatemalans haul it over. It was like a 3-ring circus.

We all laugh together. Even Surya and Exsel.

After a short driving tour of beautiful Old Town Santa Fe, the historic Plaza, the St. Francis Basilica Cathedral, La Fonda Hotel, and the Railyard, we’ve now been at Tomasita’s for a while. Long enough for me to down three quick margaritas, one more than my limit. (I think I need it today.)

Surya’s on her third Chardonnay, definitely at her limit, my Mom and Dad are sharing a bottle of Chilean red, and Exsel is scarfing down his standard steak quesadilla.

You know, I say, I don’t know if I ever apologized to you when I disappeared so suddenly right after college. I know you must have been worried as hell when I didn’t contact you for so many months. Because I know now that I’m a father myself that I must have caused you a lot of pain.

You did, my father says honestly. But you came back to us slowly, when you moved back to New York after I retired.

When you were a clown, my mother chimes in. We really appreciated that.

Exsel’s embarrassed that I was clown, right Little Man?

Nah, it’s ok. If your parents think so.

Hey, so far, this Mr. Jordan thing is working out pretty good, wouldn’t you say?

But you see, the “problem” I still have with “family”, so says my clinical social worker sister, Alison, who earns her living as a therapist, is that,

You have a strong attachment and need for your family, but whenever you get close, you feel an even stronger need to run away.

Damn right! I just feel all that old pressure to please, to conform… washing over me again, no matter how old I get… like I’m still a failure for not getting married sooner, for not having become “a doctuh”, or “a lawyuh”, like I was “supposed to”, like all my other high school Jewish friends became. I feel guilty for “running away” from the crib/hood/home I was born into, and for exploding so angrily, so violently, so completely… down the path of the counterculture - that stood against everything my parents and their generation believed in: money, security, materialism, caution, conformity, career, government, repression, safety, patriotism, home ownership, marriage, parenthood, the whole megillah (Yiddish for “everything”)!

And over all these years, every time I’d force myself back to a family function… a cousin’s wedding, my mother’s 60th birthday party, my father’s retirement celebration, my sister’s daughter’s Bat Mitzvah, I’d instantly be grilled with questions from conservative Jewish right field,

So how are you, Boobie? Have you found a nice girl yet? Are you still doing all that arts stuff? When are you going to settle down? So…when’s the wedding? You know there’s a lovely house for sale right down the street……

You get the drift.

And before I knew it, even against my better judgment, almost against my own will, I’d be out the door, running away from my own family… again… and again.

Until… almost the end of my parents’ lives, when, living in LA… I’d voluntarily… drive up to Walnut Creek (where both my parents and my sister’s family now lived)… every Thanksgiving Holiday - to have Turkey Dinner with the whole mishpocha (Yiddish for extended family). Sometimes the visits would be pleasant enough, other times they would be full of angst (mostly now between my sister and myself), but at this point, I was certainly aware that both of my parents were approaching the end of their lives, so… I made every effort to… be kind, loving, attentive to their needs, and… most of all, to be grateful… to the parents who I was blessed with… who… loved me so much… which by then I knew, was a hellova lot more than most kids on the planet are graced with in life.

We’ve walked off some of the alcohol and New Mexican rice and beans, and along the way, we’ve taken in the beauty and charm of Santa Fe, about which I tell my parents,

You know I’ve traveled to a lot of countries, and to a lot of beautiful cities, but even though Santa Fe is tiny compared to the great cities of the world, at least population-wise, just 85,000, when you see the Central Plaza and St. Francis Cathedral lit up by the golden arc lights at night with the 17th-century sloping Spanish adobe Casa Sena building right across the street, I don’t think any city in the world compares to its beauty besides New York, Paris, Rome, Moscow, and probably some of the European jewel-lit cities. Certainly not LA. And here, in Santa Fe, after 8 or 9 p.m., from October to May, there’s not another soul walking around all of downtown, other than me, all by myself, after a jazz show on a Thursday night at Club Legato inside the Casa Sena Building courtyard. The town is absolutely peaceful. And fantastic!

My mother and father are walking next to me, my wife, and son, and they’re… smiling.

My Mom says, It looks like you ended up in the right place, Eric.

I smile back at her and nod my head sheepishly.

We drive back to “the house”.

Roz and Joe come back inside. We sit on the two living room couches and light a fire. A real one, in a wood-burning fireplace, with sweet-smelling and crackling “pinon” logs. Everyone seems a bit more comfortable than earlier.

Don’t ask me how. Sometimes the suspension of disbelief is the best option under extraordinary circumstances. And then again, maybe my 3rd-world wife and son, coming from recently animate-worshipping, cannibal-practicing Batak Sumatra, just may be superior at suspending disbelief - than we Substack-reading, oh-so rational, Westerners.

The doorbell rings.

I get up to get it.

Excuse me, sir, sorry to interrupt. But it’s time to go.

It’s Mr. Jordan himself. A guardian angel at his side.

I’m confused.

Don’t I have to drive Joe and Roz back to the airport?

No, sir. We’ll take care of everything from here. I hope you enjoyed your visit.

I did. Most assuredly. We did. All of us.

Excellent. I’ll be sure to let Mr. Beatty know.

My parents get up. A little too obediently. Like they know they’ve been given a special gift and they don’t want to appear ungrateful.

We all hug and kiss, like the family we never quite were.

Mr. Jordan is waiting patiently at the door, and all of a sudden a great mist washes over the front yard and street in front of Twin Yuccas Lane. It’s so thick that we can’t even see the houses across the street anymore.

My parents join Mr. Jordan and start walking down the long, long front path, between the white river stones on the right and the red wood chips on the left. By the time they reach the black asphalt of the street itself, we can’t actually see them anymore. It’s as if…. they vaporize into the ghostly mists of thin air… and drift back off to from where they came…………….

WHOOOOOF.

The three of us… me, Surya, and Exsel… look at each other… perhaps each with our own thoughts and feelings… and we go slowly back into the house… just as the ghostly mist lifts and… disappears.

What can I say? They call this ”The Land of Enchantment”. I can’t argue with the moniker. Strange and beautiful things happen here, 7200 feet high up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, on the indigenous land of the Anasazi. Where locals and warriors still worship the sun, the moon, the wolves, hawks, eagles and coyotes, where the magic of Mother Earth (Pacha Mama) and Father Sky still have a great power over us simple, but simultaneously over-complicated, humans.

Reality? That’s a matter of perspective, I’d say. My mother always wanted me to get married and to become a father. I imagine my father, the same. And of course, they wanted to live long enough to see it. Well, that’s the power of art, is it not? It can imagine, heal, and even change the actual history of us clay-footed, earth-bound humans. It can even re-order and alter time itself.

Inarguably.

Otherwise, what’s the purpose of our craft?

What’s the power of words, the endurance of literature?

You tell me……………..

Magically yours,

— Enchanted Trules

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