Buxton Ninjas

Not long before lunch, a group attacked our motor home. They did not knock, just rushed in, and at first glance, I thought we had been invaded by terrorists, but when I voiced my concerns aloud to Jerry, one of them responded. “No Granny, we’re not terrorists; we’re ninja’s.” We do good things they had told me, but I did note each of them carried long wide swords. Come to think of it, earlier I believe I had seen these same ones dashing about the bushes here on Steve’s property.

Ninja Drake opened the screen and said to Pappy, “I’m very thirsty, and I see lemonade in your kitchen.”

I poured five small plastic glasses full; four with ice, one without. Ninja Seth lapped up the spilled lemonade like a puppy.

The eyes of Ninja Thane glitter.

Sweet little great-grandchildren of mine. They’re in the air now heading back to Carson City. “Are you ready to go home, Drake?” I asked this morning.

“No, Granny,” he solemnly responded.

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