Danger: The Slithering Kind
Danger: The Slithering Kind
It was mid-July and almost 85 degrees in the small town of Bastin, located in the mountains of West Virginia. My parents and grandparents were going into the big city of Bluefield, population 3000. It was only 30 miles away, but the trip would take them over three hours, round trip, due to all the winding and treacherous roads. My parents told my brother Eugene, my Uncle Mike, and me not to go down to Wolf River while they were gone. They told us that they would take us down to the river to go swimming when they got back. As the elders in our clan drove away, leaving three mischief-seeking teenagers home alone on the farm, it did not take long for us to get bored.
Our parents left our Uncle in charge, and since he was two years older than my brother, it seemed to make logical sense. When he suggested we go to the river to go fishing and explained to us that they said we could not go swimming, it made perfect sense to us. So, like the Pied Piper?s followers we followed our uncle, grabbing our bamboo fishing poles to the
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