Friday, June 14
Every writer kids himself now and then with the thought that everybody reads his “stuff” and likes it. Just as he’s about to believe his own kidding, along comes someone who brings him back to reality. A good example of this occurred a few days ago. I was complimented by a friend and I felt mighty good about my success. Then I went into Patton Moore Dry Goods Company and was introduced to Mrs. Howard (Louise) Hatmaker, the bookkeeper. “Yes, I have read some of your writing but I don’t have much time for that,” she said very pleasantly.
Not knowing much about the North Fork of the Kentucky River, I asked last night during the heavy rain if floods ever bother us here. I was told that now and then Hazardites must sweep out from under high waters. Most mountain cities have to do that, because our woods have been denuded and our laws have not forced reforestation.
The American barber is a great institution. It can be classified just that because there is nothing else like it, unless it’s a woman’s beauty parlor. My head was sheared and clipped Saturday in the chair of Willard Evans of Shelton’s Barber Shop. Philip Wright did my shoes over. You can get all sides of local and world affairs from either the barbers or the customers. Whenever I feel that my knowledge is slipping, I head for the barbershop. Men don’t gossip in a barbershop like women do in a beauty parlor: the men seek enlightenment on potent developments. 1952