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where i'm writing from by eli cranor Where I’m Writing From: Barber Shop
eli.cranor@gmail.com
July 16, 2023

Eli Cranor is the critically acclaimed author of Don’t Know Tough and Ozark Dogs.

Cranor can be reached using the “Contact” page at elicranor.com
and found on Twitter @elicranor


I’m writing from the barbershop.

I know what you’re thinking. What’s a bald guy doing in a barbershop? Well, I do have a beard, and my son still has hair, thank you very much.

This isn’t just any barbershop, though. It’s the same one I’ve been coming to since I was my son’s age. This is Chenowith’s Barbershop, owned and operated by father-son combo, Gerald and John Chenowith. Gerald’s 90-something, and John’s my age. John and I went to Caughman’s Corner together, the same pre-school where my son goes now.

I’ve been coming to Chenowith’s since those pre-school days. Most of the same pictures are on the walsxxxxl: framed photos of aircraft carriers and naval bases, along with a few family shots. There’s a rack in the corner with crumpled back issues of “Sports Illustrated,” “Field & Stream,” and the like.

The décor and the magazines aren’t what’ve kept me coming all these years, though. It’s the people. Gerald and John.

Just a minute ago, right when we first walked in, John was in the chair and Gerald was giving him a haircut. It was a beautiful moment, a sneak peek behind the curtain of a family business. The way Gerald folded his son’s left ear down as the clippers buzzed, the tenderness of a father's touch — that's what moved me most.

A moment later, the magic was gone. Like our presence had broken the spell. John brushed his chair out, my son climbed up, and we all started talking sports.

Barbershops are places where men come to talk. I’ll never forget being a boy and listening as my usually reserved father chatted it up with Gerald. This was a different kind of talk than what I’d heard between my parents around the dinner table. This was “man talk.” I remember feeling like I was being let in on some secret, some part of my dad's life I’d never witnessed until then.

My daughter is in the barbershop with us too. She has long blonde hair down past her hips. Sometimes, Gerald likes to joke that he’s going to give her a buzzcut like her daddy’s. She just grins.

My son is doing good in the chair, especially for a three-year-old. He’s got this haircut thing down. He loves the whole process: the silky black cape, the Paw Patrol on the TV, the sucker and bubblegum he gets at the end.

More than anything, though, my son loves his “groomer.” That’s what he calls John. His “groomer.” Don’t ask me where that came from, but John doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I think he kind of likes it, or at least he likes my son.

I mean, he’d have to like him to turn Paw Patrol on the TV even when there’s a golf match going today. He’d have to really, really like him to give him bubblegum and a sucker every time he comes in.

Right?

Or maybe John does that for all the kids that sit in his chair, just like Gerald did for me. And maybe that’s why, after all these years, we keep on coming back.


Don't Know Tough

don't  know tough
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In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension. Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul. Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs.

Ozark Dogs

ozark dogs
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In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town. After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.

Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it.

Previous columns:
Writing from a Nursing Home
Writing from a Firework Tent
Writing from a Boat
Writing from the Stars
Writing from the Pool
Writing from the Kitchen
Writing from Summer
Writing from Kindergarten
Writing from Mom
Writing from a Plane
Writing from Home
My second novel’s publication
A New Marriage Milestone
An Invitation to the Party
Writing from a Thunderstorm
Writing from a Soundbooth
Writing from “Jazz Beach"
Writing from the Sabbath
Writing from somewhere between Little Rock and Russellville
Writing from my back deck
Writing from the morning of my thirty-fifth year
Writing on the day of the college football National Championship
Writing from the space between breaths
Writing from 2022
Writing from the glow of a plastic Christmas tree
Writing on a rollercoaster of triumph and disaster
Writing from the drop-off line at my daughter’s elementary school


Writing with Thanksgiving on my mind
Writing from the crowd before the start of a Shovels & Rope show
Writing from the depths of a post-book-festival hangover
Writing from the Ron Robinson Theatre
Writing to you on Halloween Eve
Writing from my bed on a Saturday morning
Writing from my office with two darts clenched in my left hand
Writing from the shade of my favorite tree
Writing from my desk on a Tuesday morning
Writing from a pirate ship
Writing from the airport
Writing from the hospital
I'm writing from the water
Writing from my wife's Honda Pilot
Writing from my office

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