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BILLY CRAIG

my own words

I’m just a small-town guy, second youngest of nine kids to parents of the Greatest Generation. We didn’t have a lot of money, but I never went hungry and our house was in constant motion. Mom ran the local bus station and started a small print shop, while Dad sold Pabst Blue Ribbon all around the Great Lakes as the regional sales manager. We lived at 215 Marion in a beat-up house not far from Mitchell Creek, which led to the Muskegon River that cut right through the middle of our little storybook town. Along with the neighbor kids, we had the freedom to escape via cow paths and trails stretching out to cliffs, sand hills, and the waterways that we considered our playground. Our clothes were torn and our shoes were muddy, but in my mind, it was a kid paradise with too many adventures to remember. .

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