Review of "Where the Mountains Whisper" by Jenny Cafaro

Score: 95/100 (9.5 out 10)

Where the Mountains Whisper is a spirited, fierce, highly-inspired fictional memoir by Jenny Cafaro!

The book follows Flora Richardson, a Carolina nurse and mother who drives back into the Kentucky hills to secure her ex-husband Lewis’s signature, which is required by her publisher (so she can release a memoir about her Appalachian childhood and her sister, Vera). That deadline forces Flora to reopen old rooms and old wounds: poverty, abuse, addiction, and the suffocating hush of a church community that turns its back when she speaks the truth. Along the way, a steady friend, Scott, offers patient, non-controlling care as Flora fights to reclaim her voice and put her story and Vera’s into the world. The book braids present-day chapters with vivid, sense-rich flashbacks of “Coon Ridge,” building toward revelations, a long-sought signature, and a hard-won measure of peace.

We'll say this: we read this book as if it were non-fiction—as if these were real events, as if these characters were real people who actually existed.

And we wouldn't be surprised if, in one way or another, they did.

It's a skill to bring a work of fiction to life like this, in a way that truly suspends disbelief and gets readers to really buy into what's going on.
We were gripped and riveted by this book!

There are a variety of reasons we found this book so compelling.
First of all, it is beautifully and eloquently written.
Furthermore, this book really has a character, a personality, and a voice.

We read hundreds of book every year, and many of them either sound like something we've read dozens of times before or—conversely—go so overboard in being unconventional and experimental that they fall into the style-over-substance trap.

This book strikes a fine balance.

Yes, there's a unique and special style to this book, but it enhances the story and its characters rather than distracting and detracting from them.

The style is rich, authentic, and genuine, bringing the Appalachian speech—that unmistakable Appalachian twang—to life. And the book somehow accomplishes this without becoming difficult to read.

Instead of characters saying "I remember..." they say "I reckon..."

Rather than “I am not running from anything” we get “I ain’t runnin from nothin’”

Instead of “we scarfed down the last of the beans with bread” they say “we sopped them up with cornbread.”

"Valley" becomes "holler."

"Grandma" becomes "Granny."
"Pants" become "britches."

"You guys" becomes "y'all."

It's never too complicated or hard to understand, but it really breathes life into the book that already feels so lived in.

Even ignoring the plot for a moment, just reading these characters talk like this gives you a sense of how rugged and gritty these people are.

They ain't no porcelain dolls with spoons their mouths. They work, scrape, pray, and keep going.

Another thing we loved about this book is how, despite it often being about relatively mundane everyday things like making biscuits, folding warm laundry, checking on a neighbor down the holler, patching a soft tire in the driveway, or sitting quiet at the kitchen table after church, the pages still hum. Small chores carry quiet stakes. A supper scene reveals loyalty. A church foyer exposes pressure. A quick grocery run reopens an old hurt. The writing turns ordinary moments into windows on love, memory, and resolve, so you keep turning pages without needing fireworks.

We read so many sci-fi & fantasy books with all this spectacle, all these stakes, all this glitz and glamor. But there's something raw and real about a book like this.

There aren't big explosions, magic, or superpowers. Yet, there's still an epicness to it.

One of the best things about this book, as we alluded to before, is how eloquent and powerful the writing is.

Just read the pure tension and heart-pounding drama in this:

"Now, standin' beside the wrecked car, I
gathered what strength I had left. My legs sank into the cold dust, but I
stayed upright. I leaned on the hood and peered down the hill.
Yes. I could make it. The forest was dense—branches knotted overhead,
filterin' the snow. I'd have to reach the brook, cross the wetland, and climb
the far side to reach the cabin. Doable.
I snapped a cedar branch and stripped the dead needles. Sap oozed across
my hand. I dabbed it over the cuts on my forehead. It stung, but it worked.
The branch made a fine cane.
My legs shook, but I made it to the passenger door, pulled out my
backpack, and slung it over my shoulder. I searched under the seat and
across the floorboards.
No phone.
Panic cinched in my chest. No light. No signal. No way to call for help.
I stood there for a moment, listenin' to the wind rattle the trees, the cold
crawlin' into my bones."

Or how about:

"Some ghosts don’t haunt houses.
They live in people.
In silence.
In him.
Lewis."

And:

"They didn’t want truth—they wanted peace.
Even if it came at the cost of my voice.
They called it “divisive.”
I call it sacred.
They didn’t just remove me from a group.
They tried to write me out of my own life.
But here I am.
Bleeding ink across the pages.
Because this story ain’t just mine.
It’s Vera’s.
It’s Mama’s.
It’s every woman who sat small in the third pew, afraid to raise her voice,
and got swallowed by the hush.
So I wrote it louder.
Let my pew stay empty, I’ll preach it from the page."

Or:

"Outside, the wind screamed through the ridge like it had lost its mind, I
sat still, the smell ok burned rubber and oil seeping into my nose, My hands
wouldn’t let go ok the wheel, I was afraid to move, Afraid to breathe,
Somewhere out there in the trees, I swear I heard that cry again,
Mommy always said black panthers roamed these hills, silent as ghosts,
fast as lightning"

Or what about:

"This ain’t a clean ending. There’s no ribbon neat enough for a life like
mine.
But there is a bow—tied with grief and grace, stitched with memory and
hope.
And there’s a thread runnin’ through every chapter, every loss, every miracle."

Even a short little passage like "No pressure. No question. Just presence." hits like a bag of bricks.

The author also does a great job using similes, metaphors, and personification like:

“She chased scent like it was stitched in her soul.”

“Branches stretched high like they were clawing at heaven.”

“Vera lit a cigarette, the smoke curling upward like a foggy river.”

“The mountains standing still, watching our misfortune unfold.”

We also appreciated how the author appealed to the senses, especially smell. For example:

“the wind shifted, carryin’ that old blend of scorched coffee and coal smoke—sharp, dark, familiar.”

“And when December rolled in, with the smell of bacon drifting from Granny Whitman’s farmhouse, and frost clinging to the glass, even the coldfelt a little like magic.

“Cheap soap and cold mountain air—that smell told us it was bedtime.”

One final thing we'll talk about is how great the chemistry is between the characters. The chemistry and rapport between Flora and Vera is arguably the heart and soul of the book, but it's also worth mentioning how deeply we felt the bond between Flora and Tazz (who made her "feel seen" and "feel heard") and later with Scott. Flora also describes a particular bond she had with a goat named Butters, which is particularly touching.

Speaking of the goat, that brings us full-circle to who we think is the actual center of this book: Flora and Vera's dad. Their dad transformed from a loving father into a frightening person after a mining accident. Flora describes how she had "two daddies"--one before and one after the accident.

"Daddy was no hero. Not anymore. Every good deed he had done was null
and void in my mind.
He was a stranger with a monster’s voice.
A storm we couldn’t outrun.
And the worst part?
He was still my daddy"

It's heartbreaking and heartwrenching to read those lines. And a lot of this book seems to center on redemption and preserving the good memories that Flora shared with her family.

Check it out on Amazon!