Lori Jakiela is the author of seven books, most recently the memoir “They Write Your Name on a Grain of Rice: On Cancer, Love, and Living Even So” (Atticus Books). She lives in Trafford, the last stop in Pittsburgh’s Electric Valley. Her author website is https://lorijakiela.net.
To Keep Your Balance, You Must Keep Moving
My daughter Phelan was born in 2004. She knows Winona Ryder from the series Stranger Things. She thinks Johnny Depp’s Wino tattoo is because he has a drinking problem; who knows, not judging. Stranger Things is set in the 1980s. The kids in the show ride bikes with banana seats and handlebar tassels, just like …
After A Pitcher of Beer at Antlers Pub, I Believed I Was Brave
After A Pitcher of Beer at Antlers Pub, I Believed I Was Brave And walked with my friend Mike to the State Street Pier. Mike was funny, a good drinking buddy, and fearless. He pissed from the edge of the pier, then pole vaulted over the railing and landed hard with both feet, right on the lake below. …
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In the WomanCare Waiting Room, I Consider Flamingos
The pink robes at WomanCare smell like bleach. I wonder how many times they’ve been washed and reused. I wonder how many women have worn the robe I am wearing, how many of them were fine, how many were not fine, where they are now, if they have healed, if they are still here at …
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The Union Project
“Work is about a search for daily meaning as well as daily bread.” –Studs Terkel When my friend Sara asks me to work a catering gig, a hipster-ish wedding in a rehabbed church called The Union Project, I say, “I am so in,” and she says, “Really?” as if she expected me to say no. …
Vox Humana
I met the great oral historian and journalist Studs Terkel when I was 18 years old. I didn’t know much about Studs back then, only that he was a writer and a pretty famous one, and since I wanted to be a writer, too, it was probably a good idea to go see him. I …
You’re not the boss of me
The sweatshirt is off-pink. It has shoulder pads. “The shoulder pads make it slimming,” my mother says. “And it’s not pink. It’s burnt salmon.” We sit on my mother’s bed, two co-eds at a sleepover. My mother is just back from a vacation she wasn’t well enough to go on. She’s still dressed for the …
The Strange World of Elevens
The orderly’s name was Rich. He’d come to fill my mother’s water pitcher. Rich had eyebrows like steel wool and eyes that seemed focused anywhere but here. “My dad used to scrunch his face up all the time, just like that,” I said. “You shouldn’t frown so much.” “My wife tells me that, too,” he …
Suitcase, Unpacked
I knew my son before he was born. “That’s ridiculous,” my mother said. I was seven months pregnant and had just told her that my unborn son had a great sense of humor. “How in God’s name,” she said, “would you know that?” I knew because every time I tried to take a nap, he kneed me …
The Chair, the Blow-Dryer and the Bombshelter
The world, my father liked to say, is a dangerous place. “Just when you think you’re clear,” he’d say. “It sneaks up and bites you.” Which might explain how I ended up on the bathroom floor, my ankle twisted, my hairdryer whirring in the sink. There’d been no warning, other than the one on the hairdryer that …