By Faith Ellestad
The summer I turned nine, my parents seized the opportunity to buy a great big old house at an amazing bargain price. The catch was it had to be moved to a different lot, a process that was likely to take several weeks. Realizing four kids running around in a construction site all summer would make for some frayed nerves, Mom and Dad decided to take us on a month long trip from our home in the Chicago suburbs to San Diego, to visit Mom’s relatives and introduce us to the Pacific Ocean.
One warm humid day in late June, all six of us piled in to the old green Ford station wagon (no seat belts, no air conditioning), dropped our dog off with some friends, and with Dad at the wheel, set off briskly on our journey west. Brisk was Dad’s middle name. We kids were well acquainted with his favorite phrases including “time’s a wasting”, “Hit the deck” and the dreaded “The Clock is Ticking!” Apparently so was the speedometer as we whizzed past cornfield after cornfields with an occasional soybean field breaking the monotony. Sooner than you might think, we reached the Black Hills, where we paused for at least 20 minutes, to take in the grandeur of the natural formations and snap a few commemorative pictures, then set briskly off for Yellowstone National Park.
Unfortunately, between the two landmarks, my 5-year-old brother Thomas had spied a giant statue of a brontosaurus on a hill above the highway and he really, really wanted Dad to stop the car so he could examine it, but my already frazzled parents decided we needed to press on. Request denied. This did not sit well with my little brother, who began to sob, “But I wanted to see the diii-no- sooooar” and continued howling non-stop all the way to Yellowstone.
Luckily for the rest of us, just moments after we entered the park, grizzly bears appeared on the road, diverting Tom’s attention, and the brontosaurus tragedy evaporated along with his tears. He wasn’t the only one transfixed by the bears, though. My mother, ignoring the prominent warning signs, rolled her window down several inches and began waving a Kleenex at the bears, hoping to get a close-up snapshot. Fumbling for the camera, she dropped her Kleenex onto the road, and reflexively started opening her door to retrieve it. Perhaps it was the last Kleenex we owned, but after a loud, startled “Charlotte! Don’t!” from Dad, Mom decided it was best to let the bears have it.
We may have spent an hour at Yellowstone inciting the bears, viewing Old Faithful, which in my 9 year-old opinion, took an awfully long time between shows, admiring Morning Glory pool, and stopping at the visitor center for a quick bathroom break. Tour complete, we exited the park. Next on the agenda was a brief field trip to Obsidian Cliff. Mom and Dad wanted us to experience this giant black-glass-like rock formation up close, so we all scrambled out of the car to view it and gather a few obsidian samples, taking perhaps as long as ten full minutes. Then we were back on our way.
As a treat for our relatively benign behavior, we were promised a sit-down dinner in a hamburger place. Having long since devoured the bananas, pretzels and after-dinner mints we had packed at the start of the trip, we were hungry and excited. Arriving at the restaurant, Dad parked the car and got out to change into his good loafers. He scuffled around under the seat for a minute.
“Has anyone seen my other shoe?” he asked, and when no one answered, he repeated his question more sharply.
“Has anyone seen my other shoe?”
The small nervous voice of my older brother floated up from the back seat.
“Daddy, um, I think it fell out at Obsidian Rock”. The rest of us nodded in solemn agreement.
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?’ he actually shouted.
“ Now Jim…” my mother tried to calm him.
“Why didn’t anyone say anything?” he asked with some irritation.
“Well, Dad,” my older sister ventured, being brave, “you were in a hurry and we thought you might get mad.”
Dad was a pretty mellow guy, generally, but this was clearly his last straw. He got back into the car without a word, cranked the steering wheel around, and drove the thirty miles back to Obsidian Cliff in total silence. There was his shoe, right where it had landed. Mom got out, retrieved it, handed it wordlessly to Dad, and we returned, in uneasy silence, to the restaurant.
I, the child who despised long car trips, had rashly assumed the worst was over, but then we reached Death Valley. Since Dad was renown for his marathon drives, stopping only for the most urgent bathroom breaks, brisk viewings of natural wonders, and quick take-out meals, the trip through Death Valley would likely be non-stop.
It was hot, hot, hot that day. The four of us kids were sticky and cranky. We began to whine about the heat, then to fight with each other, and finally to beg Dad to stop. We were so thirsty. We were dying. We couldn’t swallow. There wasn’t much he could do about it on that desolate stretch of desert highway, until miraculously, well into Death Valley, Mom spotted a sign advertising gas and cold drinks ahead. Dad promised to stop there and get us each a soda, a rare treat indeed.
At long last, we arrived at the advertised oasis. In the desert heat, Mom’s skirt had become one with the seat cover, and she had to literally peel it off the backs of her legs. Dad’s shirt was soaked with sweat from collar to waist. We kids unstuck ourselves from the back seats, leaped out of the car and raced into the gas station, desperate for our sodas.
While Mom paid the attendant, Dad selected six glass bottles from the cooler.
“Well, we were lucky to get here when we did,” he announced,” they were almost out!”
He handed each of us a dripping cold bottle of grape NEHI. Whoops of delight surrounded me. The other kids immediately began slurping their beverages and trying to out-burp each other. But I suddenly wasn’t feeling well. I handed mine back.
This had to be a joke. Everyone knew I hated grape. Grape juice, grape jelly, grape jellybeans, grape gum, I couldn’t stand them. Even the smell made me queasy.
This perceived flaw delighted my siblings, who loved to torture me by ramming grape gum into their mouths, chewing furiously, and breathing grape fumes at me to make me cry or tattle. I usually did both. Had Dad forgotten? Maybe he was teasing.
“Is that all they have? Grape?” I asked hesitantly,
“Yes, that’s all they have. It’s nice and cold. Try it.” No, he wasn’t kidding.
I could smell the grapeness effervescing from the open bottles. My stomach lurched and I shook my head. There was no way I could drink it, and I was so thirsty, tears began to roll down my cheeks. Finally, Dad recognized my real distress, and left to consult with the attendant. A few minutes later, he returned with a paper cup containing water of unknown purity and some rust-flecked ice that they had chipped off the inside of the beverage cooler. He handed me the cup with an apologetic little squeeze of my shoulder. One sip of that water was better than any soda. Cold, tasteless, except for a slight, delicious tang of rust, and best of all, no awful grape smell. Good to the last drop.
Happily refreshed, we returned to the car and Mom forbade the other kids to breathe on me. Dad, now attired in a fresh, dry shirt, completed the drive through Death Valley and reached San Diego in record time. At long last, settled into our cottage on Mission Beach, we could relax and enjoy our time playing on the beach and splashing in the ocean while our new house was readied for our return.
The trauma of the Death Valley Incident has diminished over time, but my dislike of things grape remains strong. I still can’t stand that grape-y flavor or smell, with one exception. Wine. Don’t ask. I don’t know. Cheers, though.
© 2024 Faith Ellestad
Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents. Now retired, she has the opportunity to share some personal stories, and in the process, discover more about herself. Faith and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law.
True Stories Well Told 
Exploring Memoir Writing with Jerry Waxler: A Conversation
In 2013, I interviewed Jerry Waxler, about his first book, Memoir Revolution. Recently we talked about his path since then, which has led to Jerry publishing his latest book. Read on to learn more!
SW: Jerry, let’s start with the basics. How did you get interested in memoir writing?
Jerry: When I was young, I had no idea memoirs even existed. In the ’90s, Mother began to read them and ask if I’d heard of any good ones, but I wasn’t reading them at the time. After I graduated with a master’s in counseling psychology in 1999, I was still trying to understand people beyond academic learning. I initially joined a writing group intending to write self-help content, hoping to communicate the insights I’d gained in my therapy training. But my writing felt abstract and detached. A mentor advised me to include more of myself, which was a challenge because I was shy and reluctant to talk about my personal life. He seemed to think it was a natural thing; I didn’t know how to do it.
Then, in 2002, another mentor introduced me to memoir writing through a class, and that’s when it all clicked. Fortunately, I love writing and having that as a challenge was awesome for me. So, in addition to learning about memoirs, I had to learn about storytelling. As I continued to learn about memoirs and read them, it became clear that memoirs could offer self-development, psychological introspection, and a way to share deeply personal insights. The whole thing’s just been a blast ever since.
SW: So you really enjoy it and you want to share that pleasure with other people, show them “here’s a place to play.”
Jerry: That’s a great way to put it. Sarah. Play is not something that comes naturally to me in other areas of life, but through writing, especially memoirs, I find joy and creativity. For somebody with my kind of overactive mind and intellectual tendencies, writing is a form of play. It allows me to express emotions and stories that have shaped who I am. Sharing this pleasure with others, and helping them discover their own stories, is incredibly rewarding.
SW: How would you characterize your work life right now?
Jerry: I do counseling, I do memoir coaching, and I write articles and essays, and I facilitate memoir groups. I think memoir groups are awesome because they let people get a feeling for what it’s like to be together in a room, sharing. Someone tells you their story and this lovely, compassionate, empathetic room full of people are listening. There’s this circle of life, circle of love, that happens. Embracing all these modalities, teaching, coaching, counseling, group work, individual writing – has been a real journey in its own right, as I’ve been struggling to understand how they all connect. They’re all amazing opportunities to be helpful.
SW: You have a new book out—tell us about that.
Jerry: My latest book is called How I Learned to Love the World: My Epic Journey from Solving Equations to Healing Hearts with Therapy, Writing and Memoirs.(Published March 2024.) It’s a culmination of my experiences, reflecting on my journey from emotional immaturity, how I learned to using writing, memoirs and therapy to grow and mature.
SW: I’m seeing how intertwined writing and therapeutic goals are for you. How do you see the intersection of therapy and memoir writing?
Jerry: Therapy and memoir writing have a lot in common, particularly in the way they involve sharing and reflecting on deep personal experiences. But they’re also very different. When someone enters therapy, they usually have an immediate need—they’re in turmoil and seeking help right now. Memoir writing, however, allows for a retrospective look, which helps build emotional intelligence and self-understanding over time.
In memoir groups, people share their stories in a compassionate space, which can be therapeutic without being formal therapy. Writing allows you to piece together your past, making sense of your experiences in a coherent way. This process is incredibly valuable, whether or not you call it “therapy.” They’re not that dissimilar, because in both instances, it’s healing to be able to share your deepest experiences and feelings.
SW: How does memoir writing enhance emotional intelligence?
Jerry: Memoir writing forces you to engage deeply with your emotions and the emotions of others. When you write, you bring your whole self to the page—your thoughts, your physical reactions, your feelings. This builds emotional intelligence by increasing your awareness of your own emotions and enhancing your empathy towards others. As you write, you start seeing your past experiences from a new perspective, making you more comfortable with who you are.
SW: Grief is a significant topic in memoir writing. How do you see storytelling as part of the grieving process?
Jerry: Grieving is complex, but storytelling can play a crucial role in processing loss. Writing about someone you’ve lost helps you appreciate their place in your life and keeps their memory alive. Memoir writing builds resilience by allowing you to explore your grief and gradually find strength in those memories.
SW: Can writing about trauma or grief be too much, too soon?
Jerry: Absolutely. If someone is still in the intense throes of grief or trauma, it might be overwhelming to write about it in an organized way. Memoir writing is most powerful when there’s some emotional distance from the events being described. It’s often better to wait until you’re ready to reflect on those experiences rather than diving in too soon. Sometimes, writing about happier moments or focusing on lighter memories can help balance the process.
SW: Are there any memoirs you recommend?
Jerry: That’s always a tough question because there are so many! I look for memoirs with an upward slope—stories that move toward hope or resolution. Memoirs are hope machines, and they can expand our empathy and understanding of people whose lives are completely different from our own.
SW: Thanks, Jerry. This has been an insightful conversation. For readers who want to learn more about Jerry Waxler’s work, you can explore his blog and other writings at jerrywaxler.com.
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