My grandpa lives in Snow, Oklahoma (population 297). When I was younger our family made the four-hour drive to Snow several times a year. As we got older we often took friends along on the trip. On one of our visits in seventh grade, I took my buddy Jeff.

I don’t think Jeff ever owned a ninja suit, but I know he had some nunchucks, a pair of sai, and a blowgun. I can’t remember what all weapons we took with us on that trip, but you know the ancient ninja motto: a ninja is always prepared. (Wait, that’s the Boy Scouts.)

I will probably get this wrong, but my grandpa and my Uncle Kenny (his next door neighbor) at one time owned between the two of them several hundred acres of land. I don’t remember the exact number, but I know that as kids we could pretty much walk all day in any direction and never hit the edge of their property. You might think that with that much space it would be pretty tough to get into trouble, but you would be wrong.

One Saturday morning, Jeff and I set out on one of our secret ninja missions. I’m pretty sure I was wearing my ninja suit while Jeff was just wearing black clothes. We looked so out of place that even the cows kept one eye on us at all times, wondering what in the world these two city boys were up to, walking stealthily through the pasture while trying to avoid cow patties.

Down in the valley, Jeff and I came across an old abandoned house. I don’t know how many, but there are (or at least were) several old abandoned houses on the property. We decided the first ninja task at hand would be to gain entry to this old,boarded-up, abandoned house. Using all my ninja prowess, I tried climbing the outside walls, prying open the windows, and even searching around for a key. It was Jeff who finally noticed that the door’s hinges were on the outside of the frame. A few minutes of searching turned up a workable Phillips screwdriver. Just minutes later, we had the door removed and were inside.

Walking into an abandoned house is always a little unnerving, but this one seemed creepier than usual. Apparently the former residents had left in such a hurry that they had left behind their boots, their fishing poles, and their coats. Even the kitchen table was still set!

About the time it clicked that “something wasn’t right,” we heard it — the sound of a truck coming up the dirt road, directly toward us.

Relying on our years of disciplined ninja training, Jeff and I sprang out of the house and ran like hell toward the woods. Looking back over my shoulder I saw a Jeep Cherokee driving up the way we had come. At that point I wasn’t worried about getting caught; I was worried about getting shot. When you live that far out of the city, you defend you and yours any way you can.

By the time the two of us (huffing and panting) had arrived back at my grandpa’s house, word of our ninja infiltration escapades (often referred to as “breaking and entering”) had beat us there. The two of us promptly confessed to my mom, who explained what had happened to my grandpa, who then explained the situation to his renters — who, in turn, agreed not to shoot us on sight should they spot us in the woods anytime soon.

We didn’t go back to find out. “Ninjas who fight and run away, live to fight another day.” I didn’t find that written down in any of my ninja training manuals … so I added it.