There is a bridge in Portland called the Ross Island bridge. It’s a relatively nondescript bridge architecturally. It’s not very pedestrian friendly. Sure, there are some nice views, but nobody is writing home about the Ross Island Bridge.
But maybe they should be. Because tucked away at the west end of the bridge is one of the . . .
Before she died, my Nana wrote a memoir.
A true love labor, she spent months crafting her stories, working with a local writer to hone the tone of each memory. It was a work for end of life. For reflection. And for sharing of wisdom.
When she finished, she wanted it printed. A small run for friends and family.
She asked her daughter-in-law, . . .