To get to the bookshop Joe and I made the long, pleasant walk through our neighborhood to the one next to ours. Up hills and through the honest-to-goodness woods of the Wissahickon, a forest within the city of Philadelphia. Over a bridge on busy Henry Avenue that’s over 170 feet high, where you can stand and look at those woods below, bend over a bit and rest the side of your face on the stone barrier because it’s not high at all, which makes the bridge dangerous, tantalizing.This is not far from where I used to live in Germantown, though it is the nearby Walnust Lane Bridge that has racked up the suicides.
I can assure Katie, who used to write a column for me when was the Inquirer's book editor, that she has no grounds for doubting herself or her talent.
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