On a January morning the Androscoggin steams where it drops past the old Cabot Mill, and the cold coming off that water finds every driveway in town. Plowing starts long before the streetlights quit — pavement opened, walks shoveled, a track of sand laid down so the first car out never hesitates. Then the year turns and the same ground wants mowing, trimming and edging, with cleanups at either end to clear what winter left and what autumn drops. There is real pride in a dooryard already open when the household wakes, and in a lawn cut straight enough to read from the street. Snow and grass alike, across Brunswick and the towns beside it.