GATLINBURG, Tenn., Nov. 1, 1940—
Uncle Steve Whaley is probably the most engaging man in Gatlinburg. He has always lived here; always been a farmer and a trader.
He raised a big family here on the Little Pigeon River, in good mountain fashion. And then, in his middle years, the irresistible flood of human events rolled through the Great Smoky Mountains and tinged everybody’s life with change and Uncle Steve’s life changed too.
Today he is a power in these parts. He owns a big hotel, and lots of other things. He is a business magnate. He is the elder Morgan of his clan. His children are at the steering wheel, but I suspect that Uncle Steve drives relentlessly from the back seat.
We are staying in Uncle Steve’s hotel—the Riverside. It is managed by his son Dick. Uncle Steve just wanders around and about. Sometimes tourists stop out front and ask him if this is a good hotel. He’ll say, “Well, I’ve been staying here for quite a spell, and I like it all right.” He never tells them he owns it.
When Uncle Steve first was badgered into setting up a tourist camp, he swore to all the family that it would be the end of the Whaleys and all they’d slaved for and saved.
But in the first year it made so much money that Uncle Steve built a frame hotel, and this made so much money he built a big modern hotel, and it’s making so much money they’re putting on an addition this winter. It’s hard telling where the thing will stop.