Seven on a Saturday morning, dew still heavy enough to soak a shoe, and the first engine of the day starts up somewhere in Caledonia. Grasscutters take the week's lawns in order, mowing lines straight down the length of a yard, edging the drive, trimming what the deck cannot reach, then blowing the walks so nothing is left behind but the stripe pattern. By noon the smell of cut grass hangs over half the block, which is about the best thing summer here has to offer. In January the same properties get a different kind of early start, plowed open and salted before the day gets going. Same crew, same addresses, whatever the sky is doing.