Bigfoot, Billy Graham, and a Boy with Autism

"How many here," the Bigfoot expert paused, "truly believe?"

Welcome to Firelight! In case you’re new here, I write about my unconventional life with my husband and two sons, the older of whom has non-speaking autism. In this edition, I write about my family’s recent encounter with a group of Bigfoot enthusiasts.

I wasn’t sure what a cryptid was, but I’m always looking for community activities that my sons might enjoy. The flyer offered a clue: a Sasquatch drawing. I asked my eleven-year-old if he wanted to go. He shrugged—which is as close to a yes as any pre-teen gets—so I put it on the calendar.

For some reason, every time I read the word cryptid, I thought of insects: butterflies pinned to boards, wings vibrant and delicate, or Goliath beetles trapped under glass. No insects, however, were part of this presentation. A cryptid, as a local Bigfoot expert would later explain, is simply a creature that might or might not exist.

At last, the afternoon came in which we were to learn about these mysterious cryptids. Of course we were running late. I sped past the Domino’s Pizza with a grain silo mural painted on one side. I slowed down when I spotted the house with a colorful collection of rusted wind chimes hanging from its back awning—every last silver chime unmoving in the June heat. With minutes to spare, I sailed into a free space in the library parking lot. I exhaled. I knew we would still be late as transitions are challenging for my autistic son. Milo loves riding in the car and listening to music. When the car stops moving, it seems to him that all the fun is over.

I put the car in park. I left the stereo on, waiting for the song to end. I watched the seconds tick down on the music app. Slowly, I turned the volume down. Twisting the ignition off, I didn’t dare breathe. I opened my car door slowly, then tugged open the sliding door. Linus climbed out, but Milo didn’t move. “Unbuckle your seat belt,” I said softly. Milo only stared, his thumb hovering just over the seat belt button. “Almost there,” I said. He pressed the button. The seat belt retracted. Immediately, he reached for his noise-reducing headphones. I didn’t speak again. Instead, I pointed to the space on the pavement next to Linus. Finally, Milo stood up, crouching, and made his way out of the van. I looped my arm through his.

We pushed our books through the return slot in the entryway, then made our way to the conference room at the back of the children’s department. As it turned out, we hadn’t missed a thing. The local Bigfoot expert was still shooting the breeze with a small group of cryptid enthusiasts—a varied collective ranging from toddlers to retirees. I gripped my backpack straps a little tighter when I realized we were the only ones who weren’t wearing Bigfoot apparel or accessories of some kind. The Bigfoot expert was locked into a conversation about the upcoming Cryptid Con, an annual festival in south central Tennessee. A little girl raised her hand: “Look at my shirt!” Her bubblegum pink T-shirt read Undefeated Hide and Seek Champion. Beneath the text was the silhouette of a Sasquatch. “I have that one, too,” the Bigfoot expert grinned.

I shot my eleven-year-old a worried look. However, Linus loves to push me ever-so-slightly out of my comfort zone. In return, he smiled smugly. I sighed. The lights dimmed and a PowerPoint presentation appeared on the wall. Milo started to giggle. Nervously, I searched my backpack for a fidget. The Bigfoot expert paced the front of the room. I found a rubber band. Milo’s laugh grew louder. The toddler sitting in the next row twirled his head around to stare. I handed Milo the rubber band. Clicker in hand, the Bigfoot expert started his presentation.

Apparently, Tennessee is utterly replete with cryptids. Lebanon is home to the Beast of Sugar Flat Road. Northwest of Lebanon, at Land Between the Lakes, twenty-eight people have disappeared. Southeast of LBL, small-town White Bluff is home to a banshee-like creature known as the White Bluff Screamer. The crowd, evidently familiar with all of these reports, yawned and stretched. “Get a load of this,” the Bigfoot expert beamed, clicking on the next slide. All at once, a sketch of a fang-toothed beast with matted hair lit up the conference-room wall. The Bigfoot expert crossed his arms triumphantly.

“Dogman,” a man in the front row deadpanned. He pursed his lips, as if he was expecting a bit more from this presentation.

“Ah.” The expert twiddled with the clicker. “You’ve read Martin Groves’ book?”

The man in the front row raised an eyebrow. “He’s written several.”

The Bigfoot expert scratched his chin. “I’d hoped to see him again this year, but they say he isn’t coming.” I assumed they were speaking of Cryptid Con again. Both men spoke of the retired sheriff’s deputy in the same hushed, reverent tone—like evangelicals invoking the name of Billy Graham.

“Now, for those who aren’t familiar with Martin Groves…”

The man in the front row inhaled sharply.

The Bigfoot expert cleared his throat. “Poor few souls that they are…” He clicked to a slide of a man with a long white beard, flannel shirt, and hand-carved walking stick. He paused to admire the photo. “Now, doesn’t he just look trustworthy?” Milo stood up. While some might’ve assumed that Milo was standing to salute the venerable Groves, Milo was simply tired of the presentation. Perhaps he was tired of looking at AI mock-ups of local beasts. Perhaps he was weary of bearing witness to the shifting power dynamics between a self-proclaimed Bigfoot expert and a crowd who knew too much. Whatever the case, I started to pack up.

“Show of hands,” the Bigfoot expert interrupted, extending a burly arm skyward.

I signed wait to Milo.

“How many here,” the Bigfoot expert paused, “truly believe in cryptids?”

I snorted. Then, I looked around. Nearly every hand in the place was up. Linus’ eyes shone with wonder as he took in the scene.

“It’s time to go,” I whispered.

Linus nodded, his countenance radiant—like one who has seen an angel.

Back in the van, I felt a responsibility to correct any untruths my children may have absorbed in that meeting. Given the subject matter, I figured I’d keep things light. “Can you believe it?” I chuckled. “Those people actually believe in Bigfoot!”

Linus tilted his head to one side. “The evidence was compelling.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” Linus said soberly.

I stared through the rearview mirror. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I know cryptids aren’t real,” Linus stopped me. His eyes wandered to the exterior of the library. Finally, he turned back. He seemed to be carefully considering his words. “But…”

But?

“It makes life more interesting to think that Catzilla might pop out of a river at any moment.”

True, I thought. I smiled.

Milo’s deep agreement echoed through the van: “Yeah.”

I turned to Linus. “Did Milo just say yeah?”

“Maybe!” Linus’ gaze still lingered on the library.

Milo grinned.

“Looks like I’ve got two cryptid hunters in the back of my van,” I said playfully, putting the van in reverse. “I guess that’s okay—as long as you both know it’s pretend.”

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed the rusted wind chimes beginning to stir.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Linus?”

“About those Martin Groves books…”

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Addendum: For the past year, Linus has been hard at work designing his first board game, Rows & Bots. He read books on game design, created prototypes, collected feedback, and—with Tyson’s help—got it professionally manufactured. This week, he launched a crowd sale to bring it to life!

If you love board games or want to support a young inventor, check out Rows & Bots! Linus, of course, appreciates any purchases or social-media shares (and, let’s be honest, I appreciate anything that distracts Linus from cryptid hunting) but, truly, we just want to celebrate his imagination with our Substack friends.