Robert and Judy Schow's 100-acre farm, situated just below Pleasant Grove's east bench, is the last -- very last -- agriculturally zoned land in the city. Called North Fields, the original farm here was created in 1890. Today, despite blessings many farms never enjoy, this farm is buffeted by change.

"We were having a hard time finding anyone with a combine to harvest it," he said.

The farm is in no danger of disappearing, but it has gradually grown smaller since the halcyon days when Schow bought it in 1992.

Schow, now 54, was in Japan one day when he decided to change his life. He regularly traveled around the world installing computer software systems, but on this day, he woke up unsure what country he was in, having traveled so much. His sons were teenagers and he simply longed for a quieter, more family-oriented life.

Schow sold not one but two computer companies and retired to Pleasant Grove as a gentleman farmer. Using his fortune, he built a mansion on the property and a one-third-acre pond stocked with 100 huge rainbow trout. He built a half-acre barn -- so cavernous it is larger than most people's building lots. To get his vast collection of John Deere tractors and implements at-cost, he purchased a John Deere dealership. He gave each of his four children building lots for homes.

He even leased nearby farmland, and at one point, he and his wife and children were farming 600 acres. Today, his children have families and careers of their own and have left the farm, forcing Schow to downsize -- he now actively farms 74 acres. And he has sunk his fortune into the operation, he said. Hiring men to farm more acres would simply drain more money.

Nevertheless, sitting on the lawn with his children and grandchildren on Thursday eating fried chicken, biscuits and watermelon rounds, Schow and his wife seemed deeply happy.

"We are in it together," said Judy Schow. "There is a feeling of peace and real life, respect for creatures. We feel a lot of fulfillment here."

Asked what the future of their farm is, they said they don't look too far ahead.

"We are stuck with the farm for a while," Robert Schow said. "I'll never sell out, and never is about 18 months, isn't it?"

He pauses, a smile spreading on his face.

"My kids might stop by [to sell the farm] on the way to the funeral home," he said.

Schow worries that children, reared in subdivisions with no experience growing food or working the earth, have lost a critical connection.

"We work so much with man-made objects, we've lost touch with God-made objects," he said.

To that end, the Schows hosted more than 200 elementary school students on Thursday, an annual tradition that started four years ago. The family introduced the kids to the turkeys, guinea hens, sheep, goats, horses, trout, donkeys, pigs and even six newborn kittens that live here. The children ate ice cream cups, watched Clydesdales pull a wagon, fed the trout and watched as the brown eggs, still warm, were gathered right from beneath the chickens.

There were immediate signs of education in progress. One boy, seeing one of the 3-year-old Rio Grande turkeys roaming on the property, got excited: "Wow, a big rooster out of its cage!" the boy yelled, running toward the turkey. "Look how big it is and it's out of its cage! Holy crap!"

The children were invited to pet the turkey, feel its waddle, examine its beard and look at speckled turkey eggs. They also learned that male turkeys are called toms while females are hens. At the end of the lesson, the young boy knew a rooster from a turkey.

The children also learned the difference between straw and hay, that each of the Schows' mature hens produces roughly 300 eggs a year, that goat meat is the most consumed in the world, that steak and milk come primarily from different breeds of cows, and where pork chops come from.

Even the parent chaperones came away with a new understanding for farm life. One mother told another that she had always thought that farms stunk. Not this one.

Robert Schow said he decided to open the farm to schools out of respect for his childhood. Growing up nearby, when he and other boys wanted to play baseball, a neighbor cleared a field. Another neighbor built a rodeo arena, another gave horse shows. When the community needed something, everyone pitched in.

Today, little of that ethic remains.

"We rely so much on the city to do things for us," he said. "There is no community tie. We wait for the value of our houses to appreciate so we can sell and move on."