Their farm was two hundred acres of corn fields, cows, pigs, and, of course, chickens. No farm would be complete without chickens. At the southeast corner of the farm, behind the smaller corn field, was the stream with clear, cold water that reached up to my knees. Most weekends my family visited our friends, the Sartis, who once had seven boys to keep them company. They all grew up with their own lives to take care of, except Dan, who stayed on the farm to help maintain the crops. His younger brother Dave still returned to the farm from the busy city to visit and take his children to see their grandparents. Even though they were about the same age as my brother and me, we didn't play with them because they were greedy and didn't fit our gaming qualifications by constantly changing rules and cheating. It was rare that we met them anyway, and that suited us fine. Most of the time we stayed all weekend. Our parents chose to sleep in a tent, while my brother and I slept in one of the many cozy bedrooms in the farmhouse. We loved it there and secretly both he and I wished we could stay forever. There were different reasons why we liked it there. My brother Forest had more than a dozen different old cars and trucks to choose from. Forest was allowed under the hoods so he could tinker with the engines and understand how they worked. He was a ten-year-old mechanical genius. Everyone knew that he would grow up to be a mechanic. When he was five or six; Forest found an old transmission behind the barn; in two hours he had dismantled and reassembled it without any prior instructions. Old Mr. Tailor watched from afar as Forest methodically disassembled and reassembled the transmission back to its original form. Our parents are proud and still equally impressed as the day it happened. Even today they boast and continue his brilliant feat, as they do with both of us due to the many special encounters accumulated during our formative years. My reasons for loving that farm can't be expressed so simply.