Hello, and thank you for stopping by. My name is Ramona Peasley. I am 71 years old, and I live on a wheat farm near Salina, Kansas, where my husband Roy and I raised four children and a great many cats.

Our son Jeffrey is a sergeant in the Army. He is stationed in Germany, with his wife Tracey and their little girl Alexis, who is five. This summer they came home on leave, and Alexis stayed on the farm with us for seven whole weeks. She fed the cats and gathered the eggs and rode in the combine with her Grandpa, and she went home to Germany in August with a suitcase full of feathers and rocks and a sunburned nose.

The house has been awfully quiet since.

So every Sunday I write her a bedtime story about the farm, about the animals and the places she knows, and I put it here on the computer before Roy and I leave for church. Germany is seven hours ahead of Kansas, so by the time Alexis has her pajamas on, the story is waiting for her, and her daddy reads it to her off the screen. Tracey says she sits right up against the monitor so she can see the words, even though she can't read them yet. She can read her own name, though, and she looks for it.

The newest story is always at the top.

The Night the Combine Came Home Late
Sunday, September 26, 1999

Do you remember the night the combine came home late?

It was harvest, and the wheat was gold, and the whole world smelled like warm bread. All day long Grandpa drove the big green combine up and down the Gilley field across the road, and all day long the wheat went in the front and the straw came out the back, and the trucks went back and forth to the elevator in town.

At supper time, Grandpa didn't come.

We kept his plate warm in the oven. We washed the dishes. We fed the cats. The sun went down red behind the elevator, and the stars came out one by one, and still Grandpa didn't come. You put on your nightgown with the yellow ducks, and you said, "Grandma, is Grandpa lost?"

And I said, "No, honey. Grandpa is never lost. He's racing the dew."

Because that's what farmers do at harvest. When the night gets damp, the wheat gets tough, and the combine can't cut it anymore. So they work just as long as the wheat stays dry, and not one minute less.

We sat on the porch swing, you and me, with the old quilt over our knees. The crickets sang. The cottonwood whispered. And way off across the dark, we saw two little lights.

They came down the field road slow, slow, slow, bumping along, as big and bright as a giant's eyes. And behind them came the hum of the engine, and then the rumble, and then the big green combine itself, rolling into the yard with its lights on and the dust shining all around it like gold glitter.

Grandpa climbed down the ladder. He was dusty from his hat to his boots. And you ran down the steps in your bare feet, and he picked you up, dust and all, and you said, "Did you win? Did you beat the dew?"

And Grandpa said, "By twenty minutes."

Then he ate his supper at eleven o'clock at night, and you got to sit up and watch him, and that was the latest you stayed up all summer.

The wheat is all in the elevator now, and next week Grandpa starts planting again for next year. The combine is resting in the machine shed. But some nights when I sit on the porch, I still look down the field road for those two little lights.

Goodnight, my darling. Grandma misses you more than the combine misses the wheat. Tell Daddy to tuck you in tight.

The Sunflowers Taller Than Daddy
Sunday, September 19, 1999

Along the garden fence, where you helped me plant them in June, the sunflowers are taller than Daddy now.

Your daddy is six feet and one inch tall. I measured him once when he was sixteen, on the kitchen door, and he hasn't grown since. But the sunflowers didn't stop. They grew past the fence. They grew past the clothesline. They grew past the top of the porch rail. And yesterday, Grandpa stood next to the biggest one with his hat on, and it was taller than Grandpa's hat.

Do you remember how you planted them? You poked your finger in the dirt, one knuckle deep, and dropped in a seed, and covered it up, and patted it, and said, "Grow, grow, grow." Every morning after that, you went out in your nightgown and said it again. "Grow, grow, grow."

Well, honey, they listened.

Their faces are as big as dinner plates now, and they are heavy with seeds, so they hang their heads a little, like they are bowing. In the mornings the goldfinches come. They are little yellow birds, as yellow as butter, and they hang upside down on the sunflower faces and pick out the seeds, one at a time, and chatter about it.

Kansas is called the Sunflower State. Did you know that? There are sunflowers in the ditches all along the road to town, little wild ones, a million of them. But I think the biggest and best sunflowers in Kansas are the ones by our garden fence, because a little girl told them to grow.

I am saving the seeds from the biggest one in a coffee can for you. Next summer, when you come, we will plant them again, and you can say it again, and we'll see if they can get as tall as the barn.

Goodnight, sweet girl. Grow, grow, grow. But not too fast.

Grandpa's Old Pickup
Sunday, September 12, 1999

Grandpa's old blue pickup is older than your daddy. It is older than your mama. It is a 1966 Ford, and it has carried hay and feed and fence posts and baby calves and four children and one Christmas tree every year for thirty-three years.

Its name is Old Blue, but it isn't very blue anymore. It is blue and rust and gray primer, like a patchwork quilt. The seat is cracked, and Grandpa put a saddle blanket over it. The radio only gets one station, and that station is the farm report. The passenger door only opens from the outside. Do you remember? You had to wait for Grandpa to come around and let you out, like a princess.

Every morning this summer, you and Grandpa drove Old Blue down to the mailbox at the end of the lane. It is half a mile. You sat up on Grandpa's lap and steered, and Grandpa did the pedals, and Old Blue went about as fast as a turtle with somewhere to be. You honked at the cattle. They never honked back.

Old Blue makes a lot of noises. When it starts in the morning it coughs, like Grandpa does. When it goes over the cattle guard it rattles, bang-a-bang-a-bang. And when it is very cold, it won't start at all until Grandpa says something to it under his breath that I won't write down.

The man at the co-op told Grandpa last week that it was time to get a new pickup. Grandpa said maybe so. Then he came home and changed Old Blue's oil and washed the windows and fixed the latch on the glove box.

I don't think Old Blue is going anywhere. I think Old Blue is waiting for a certain little girl to come back and steer it to the mailbox again.

Goodnight, Princess Alexis. Old Blue says honk honk. So does Grandpa.

The Rooster Who Overslept
Sunday, September 5, 1999

You know Mister Pepper, our big red rooster with the green tail feathers. Every morning of his whole life, Mister Pepper has gotten up before the sun, and climbed up on the fence post by the chicken house, and crowed, to wake up the farm.

But on Thursday morning, Mister Pepper overslept.

Nobody knows why. Maybe he stayed up too late. Maybe he was dreaming a good dream, about a whole bucket of corn. But the sun came up over the shelterbelt, all pink and gold, and there was no rooster on the fence post. No crowing at all.

The hens didn't know what to do. They stood around in the chicken yard, blinking. "Is it morning?" they said. "It looks like morning. But nobody crowed."

The barn cats didn't know what to do. They sat on the barn step, waiting for their milk. "Is it morning?" they said. "It feels like morning. But nobody crowed."

Even Grandpa didn't know what to do. He sat on the edge of the bed in his socks, and he said, "Ramona, is it morning? It smells like coffee. But nobody crowed."

So I went out to the chicken house in my robe and my rubber boots, and I opened the little door, and there was Mister Pepper, sound asleep on the roost, with his head tucked under his wing.

"Mister Pepper," I said, "the sun is up."

He pulled his head out and looked at me with one eye. Then he looked at the sunshine coming in the door. Then he jumped down off the roost and ran out across the yard, as fast as a rooster can run, which is pretty fast, and flapped up on his fence post, and crowed the loudest crow I have ever heard in my life. He crowed seven times, to make up for it.

And the hens said, "Oh! It's morning!" And the cats said, "Oh! It's morning!" And Grandpa said, "Oh! It's morning!" And everybody got up.

Mister Pepper has not overslept since. But he has been going to bed a little earlier, I've noticed.

Goodnight, my chickadee. Sleep as late as you want in the morning. Grandma won't tell Mister Pepper.

The Windmill That Talks to the Wind
Sunday, August 29, 1999

Out in the pasture, by the stock tank where the cattle drink, there is a tall windmill. It was built before Grandpa was born, and it is still working, every day and every night.

Do you remember the sound it makes? Creak and turn, creak and turn. That is the windmill talking to the wind.

In the morning the wind comes up from the south, warm and sleepy, and it says, "Good morning, Windmill." And the windmill swings its big wheel around to face it, and says, creak and turn, "Good morning, Wind. Do you have any work for me today?"

"Yes," says the wind. "The cows are thirsty."

So the windmill spins its big wheel, around and around, and down below, the long rod goes up and down, up and down, and it pulls the cold water up from deep in the ground, where it has been sleeping in the dark since before there were any cows at all. And the water comes splashing out of the pipe into the tank, and the cows come and drink, and the calves put their noses in it and snort.

In the afternoon the wind gets big and loud, and the windmill spins so fast you can't see the blades. That's when they're laughing, the wind and the windmill. They are old friends, and old friends laugh.

And at night, when the wind is soft again, the windmill turns slowly, creak and turn, creak and turn, and the wind tells it all the places it has been that day. Over the wheat fields. Over the river. Over the highway and the elevator and the church steeple in town. And maybe, if it blew far enough, all the way across the ocean, to a little girl in Germany.

So tonight, when you are in bed, if you hear the wind outside your window, you listen hard. It might have come from Kansas. It might be saying hello from the windmill.

Goodnight, my darling. Creak and turn. Grandma is listening for you, too.

The Barn Cat with One White Ear
Sunday, August 22, 1999  ~  the very first story

Once upon a time, on a farm in Kansas, there lived a barn cat named Button.

Button was gray all over, like a rain cloud, from her nose to the tip of her tail. Except for one ear. Her left ear was white, as white as if she had dipped it in the milk pail. That's how you could always tell her from the other cats. Grandma's cats are mostly gray, you know. But only Button has one white ear.

Button was a shy cat. When the farm truck came, she hid. When Grandpa started the tractor, she hid. When strangers came to the door, she went under the porch and didn't come out until supper. In all her life, Button had never let anybody pet her.

Then one day, a little girl came to the farm. She had a pink suitcase and new sneakers and she was five years old. Every morning she came out to the barn with Grandma to give the cats their milk. And every morning she sat very still on an upside-down bucket, and she didn't chase, and she didn't grab. She just sat there and talked to the cats in a quiet voice.

On the first day, Button watched her from up in the hayloft.

On the third day, Button watched her from the top of the feed bin.

On the seventh day, Button came down and drank her milk only three feet away.

And on the tenth day, while the little girl sat on her bucket very, very still, Button walked right over, and smelled her shoe, and smelled her knee, and then put up her gray head with the one white ear and bumped it, very softly, against the little girl's hand.

That little girl was you.

Button still comes to the barn every morning for her milk. She still hides from the truck and the tractor. But now she sits by the upside-down bucket, and she looks at it, and she waits. I think she's waiting for you.

Goodnight, Alexis. Button says meow. Grandma says I love you. Come back soon.

To Other Faraway Grandparents

If your grandchildren live far away, whether it's Germany or Korea or just three states over, I hope you will try this. You don't need to be a writer. I am not one. I was a farm wife and a church secretary, and the only things I ever wrote before this were Christmas letters and the minutes of the Altar Society.

Here is all you need to do. Write down something your grandchild knows: a dog, a porch, a tree in your yard, the way you make pancakes. Make it short enough to read before somebody falls asleep. Put their name in it. End by telling them you love them. That's all a bedtime story is.

If you don't know how to put it on the computer, ask a grandchild who lives closer. Our daughter set this page up for me at Easter and wrote the instructions on an index card, which is taped to the side of the monitor. I still look at it every Sunday.

And if you are a soldier's mother or father, like me, please know I am praying for your child too.