Free eBook — The Grapes of Dementia

My Journey of Love, Loss, Surrender, and Gratitude

Wren Wright
4 min readDec 19, 2022
I designed the cover, Donna Clement took the photo, and Luis H. Ruiz chose the font colors and sizes and placed the text where I told him to. I’m bossy that way.

Happy Holidays to all!

My holiday gift to each of you is a FREE download of my ebook, The Grapes of Dementia: My Journey of Love, Loss, Surrender, and Gratitude.

Keep scrolling to read a free excerpt.

You can download the book (you don’t need a Kindle to download it) for FREE through Friday, December 23, 2022, 11:59 p.m. Pacific Standard Time. But why wait? Do it now. And please share the info with anyone who might be interested.

It’s available worldwide on Amazon.




Please consider leaving a review after you’ve read it.

An excerpt from the book:

To the North

Driving north on the interstate, I listen to the soft, mesmerizing hum of tires on the dry highway. I move the visor to the side, shielding the afternoon sun and think of Alan. Nearly every time we got in the car, me behind the wheel, to head home from an event or outing, I’d ask, “Home James?” He’d reply, “Yes, and don’t spare the horses.”

I have a strong urge to continue driving north, with no intention whatsoever of sparing the horses. I simply want to keep on going, to drive away. It’s not that I have a physical destination in mind. Am I driving away from something? Toward somewhere? Toward something? Am I simply driving for the fun of it?

I check in with myself (myself is usually spot on about what I want) and find that no, none of that is true. None of it. I simply want to drive. Maybe it’s the stillness in the SUV that appeals to me. Maybe it’s the relaxing peacefulness that engulfs me in my private cocoon. I want more of it. I need more of it. The scenery passes before me, the white lines of the interstate point toward adventure, to places and people unknown, to something better than going to a home where my husband isn’t.

The dashboard, my ever-present guide, seems to support the plan. The speedometer shows 82 mph (completely legal on a stretch where the speed limit is 75, right?) and is eager and willing to keep going. The tachometer holds steady at 2,500 rpm and whispers to me to continue. The temperature gauge hangs just above the middle of C and H and confides its readiness for a long drive. The fuel level indicates nearly full, and I think seriously of taking a long, long drive.

All systems are go. My chariot with its motorized horsepower is ready to take me in any direction I point it. The idea of continuing my drive north seems delicious, sexy, perhaps even decadent. For hours I could remain in this moving sanctuary, my mind free to wander to its delight (not on Alan or the dementia that’s claiming him) while another part of me takes in the expanse of the blue sky peeking above the blanket of gray clouds threatening to unleash a brief snow shower, the mountains to my left, the hills beneath me, and the plains to my right. I am emancipated and boundless.

I think of nothing but emptiness. When I drive alone like this, my mind holds nothing. I am mobile and hollow. I am driving and driven by nothing. Yes, this is exactly what I need. To drive is to be here, in the present, with nothing else to occupy me. My chariot knows where to go. I can simply be, I can sit back, with eyes alert to the road and hands guiding the wheels, and be taken by motorized horses to wherever my spirit guides me. To rest in the clouds, to be held and embraced and kissed by their soft mistiness. I drive north, to the sky.

Driving for hours would be a welcome respite from my life with Alan and dementia. But I can’t figure out how to make it happen today. There are still appointments to keep, things to do, people to see. Life has a way of inserting itself into our dreams.

And so later, perhaps tomorrow or the next day, I’ll look at a map or check out the internet for places I might drive to, drive long to. I’ll drive to soothe and heal my spirit, to ease the pain of my aching soul, to honor this process of losing my husband, to honor him. And, as Alan has frequently suggested, I will not spare the horses.

Wren and Alan Wright. San Francisco, March 2009



Wren Wright

Writing mostly to heal myself from life; sharing in hopes you’ll find some of it helpful. Also books, personal development, and anything else I’m drawn to.