The old highway through Locust Grove runs parallel to the interstate, and at first light it belongs to the pickups and the mowers. A cut above the rest lawn care starts the day out there, tires ticking over red clay shoulders while dew still silvers the Bermuda. Mowing, edging, string trimming down the fence line, then the blower to send the clippings back where they came from. By the time the sun clears the pines a yard that was shaggy at six reads square and clean at eight. The line along the drive is the part worth standing back to look at — drawn as straight as a chalk mark.