The Continuing Saga of Billy McGillicutty

The following story has nothing to do with Christianity, forgive me; rather, it is a campfire tale. That said – You have been warned – here’s the unabridged version of an impromptu yarn spun on our recent camping trip to Huntsville State Park. (Hover over the pics for captions; click to enlarge).

My son and I arrived ahead of the girls due to a middle school concert last Thursday evening. As we went to set up the tent, I spotted what looked like part of a root sticking out of the ground. I kicked it – repeatedly, because it budged. Eventually I succeeded in uprooting a very old wooden tent peg with a piece of canvas still tied around it. I threw it to the side, thinking no more of it.

There were tornado warnings to the south of us, thunder and lightning all around. This coupled with the approach of dusk hastened our set-up endeavors. We’d bought some firewood, which we prudently stacked under the picnic table to keep it dry. As I hastened to find some small fire-starter sticks, my eyes once again landed on the old tent peg. I picked it up only to realize it was soaked, through and through – not even good for kindling.

In the end, we had a good trip: the kids rode their bikes, we canoed, hiked, and all the other good things that camping offers.

I’d already told the kids on our final evening that we would not have a fire the next morning because, due to all the rain they’d had in Huntsville earlier in the week, it’d take too long to get a fire going – especially when we’d be breaking camp after breakfast.

Undeterred and somewhat forgetful, my 9-year old son walked straight to the fire pit immediately after rising on Saturday and began arranging twigs and such. I reminded him of the fire-less plan …

“What? No more s’mores? But, Dad!”

Okay. So, I caved.

In our struggle to burn stuff that would cooperate, I noticed the old tent peg and threw it in among the fledgling flames. Later, the kids noticed that the peg was not burning – no matter the increased heat of the campfire.

Boy: “Dad? Why won’t that stick burn?”

Dad: “Because … that’s the stick of Billy McGillicutty who’s buried beneath that very spot where our fire now burns.”

Boy: “Da-a-a-a-ad!”

Dad: “It’s true. Little Billy McGillicutty never had any friends and his parents didn’t seem to love him. They loved to camp; but him, they ignored. Then one day he befriended that piece of wood … that tent peg. He ran around everywhere talking to that piece of wood. It’s sad what happened. Really.

Girl: “Are you making this up?”

Boy: “Dad … what happened to him?”

Dad: “Well … you know how I told you that he would run around with that tent peg? Well, his mom would yell at him telling him not to run with that stob in his hands or he’d put his eye out. His dad? Well, his dad had been drinking and yelled – ‘Boy! Bring me back my tent peg or I’ll kill you!’”

Boy: “What happened?”

Dad: “He killed him.”

Girl: “Dad. Really. Are you making this up?”

Dad: “The locals say Billy made a pact with that old stick. He told the tent peg that they were inseparable – he would never leave that piece of wood. And some say that Billy McGillicutty believed that the peg promised to never leave him …

He’s buried right there on that spot where the fire now burns. And that old tent peg resurfaces from time to time and, although many campers think to burn it during their holidays, it always disappoints … it never burns. It just silently guards the body of its buddy, Billy McGillicutty.

They say the mother went crazy when her son’s life was cut short. She was sent to the state mental hospital … his dad was sent to prison. Years later, upon her release, the first place she came to was right here, to this very spot. Seems Billy’s pop was sprung on the same day. She never heard it coming … the husband, the fury, the axe.

The old peg, thus, guards her grave here, too.”

There was a long pause. My eyes were squinting due to the fire’s smoke … finally:

Girl: “Dad, did you just make that up?”

Dad: “Yep.”

Boy: “Dad! Are you serious? You just made that up?”

Mom (from the picnic table): “What are y’all talking about?”

Girl: “Dad just made up a story …”

There was a longer pause. Almost on cue, as if in a movie, my son reached down into the fire and pulled the barely charred peg out and laid it reverently on the ground beside the firepit. I looked at him with a raised eyebrow …

Boy: “Dad! I know you just made it up … but, I kinda think we shouldn’t burn it.”

I laughed. We all went into mega-camp-breaking-mode.

An hour or so later, we’re all loaded up and my son and I are awaiting the females to return from the restrooms …

Boy: “Dad, did you really just make that story up?”

Dad: “Yes.”

Boy: “Uh … well … can I take that old tent peg home? I mean, do you think it would be okay?”

Dad: “Sure, son.”

Fast-forward a couple hours … back at home, unpacking the van … oldest daughter is minding her own business when Boy taps her on the shoulder and she turns and squeaks at the same time. There he stands holding the only friend of Billy McGillicutty.

True of false, it never fails: Boys and their sticks, girls and their squeaks, old men and their tales …

Camping.

NOTE: The name “Billy McGillicutty” just popped into my head when telling the tale and is not connected to any other works using the name.