About > Andy Steinke
Andy Steinke
{Staff Writer}
I remember going outside to watch my dad tinker with his 1965 Ford Mustang when I was about 5 years old. He worked on it nearly every weekend, yet it always seemed to need more work. I never cared because it meant that my younger brother and I had something to do. He and I would go out to the shop to watch him work, and we would fight over who got to sit on this old, two-foot tall red stool.
One summer day, when the three of us were in the shop, I can remember my grandpa walking over from next-door and sitting on that red stool. He was carrying a fruit in his hand, and when he sat down he began to slice it with his pocket knife. The juice from the fruit ran down his hand as he slowly cut it into small, manageable pieces. He carefully put each piece into his mouth, enjoying each one more than the last.
After a few minutes of starring at him, he finally handed me a piece to eat. I wasn’t sure what it was he had given me, but I put it in my mouth because it looked so good when he was eating it.
It was the first time I ever ate a peach. And it’s one of only a few memories that I can remember about my grandfather. He died when I was very young, but I’ll always remember that day when he handed me my first peach.