Some mornings the fog sits on Berkeley Lake until nine, and the yards along those slopes come up out of it wet and shining. Luv My Lawn waits for the grass to dry, because a mower on soaked Georgia turf tears more than it cuts. Then it is the ordinary happy work: the cut, the edge along the curb, the trimmer around the trees, the blower chasing every last blade off the concrete. Fescue on the shady lots, Bermuda where the sun gets through, and each one wants its own height and its own week. The name is not shy about it, and you can read the affection in how a finished yard looks.