Webster Lake carries a name longer than most sentences, and in January it lies flat and white the whole way across. Field Snowplowing works the streets around it with the wind coming off that ice — driveways plowed down to blacktop, walks cleared by hand, sand and salt on the grades that refreeze after dark. When the ground softens the same crew turns to lawns: mowing, trimming, mulch where the beds have gone thin, cleanups in spring and again in fall. There is a plain pride in a driveway opened before the alarm goes off, and in a lawn cut straight enough to notice from the road. Webster and the towns around it, whatever the calendar says.