The hotels are staffed by local mountain people, and they have pride and
friendliness, clear down to the lowliest charwoman, that wouldn’t permit
them to do a shoddy job.
Tourists support almost every one of the 1300 people in Gatlinburg.
Nobody is out of work who wants to work. Even the people out in the
hills live off the tourists, through their weaving, basketry and
woodwork.
We have been in most of the “faddy” places and big tourist centers in
America. In not one of them have we seen the plums fall into the laps of
the old-time residents of the place. Gatlinburg is the only exception.
Why, it’s just as though fame and millions of people were suddenly to
descend upon our crossroads in Indiana. And instead of financiers from
Chicago grabbing everything, my Dad would put up a fine hotel, and Harry
Bales would build a three-story gift shoppe, and Doc Sturm would create
six big tourist courts, and Claud Lockeridge would own all restaurants,
filling stations and sight-seeing busses. And we’d all get richer than
hell.
Fame, please come to Indiana and make us farmers rich.