Home to Big Stone Gap

I’ll confess I’ve never been smitten by Big Stone Gap’s folksy Blue Ridge charm. This time, I’m downright annoyed by it, especially since the various plots congeal worse than Jell-O salad on a hot day: Why does Ave’s hubby put another woman’s name on his deathbed to-do list? What’s town librarian Iva Lou hiding? Who’s the mysterious young man who keeps appearing in Cracker’s Neck Holler? Adriana Trigiani lards the book with pseudo-down-home wisdom: ”[Men’s] egos are like delicate eggshells, and yet physically, they have the brute strength of a bear.” Reading Home to Big Stone Gap is like eating a butterscotch pie in one sitting.

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