Troy still keeps a few of its old orchard oaks, wide and tall over streets that were farmland inside living memory, and on a Saturday morning in June the whole city smells like cut grass. Lyle's Lawn Care is out in that hour — mowing, trimming around the mailbox post and the play set, edging the sidewalk until the line is a line again. Autumn arrives as one long argument between the oaks and the maples, and carrying the leaves out is half of October. Beds get mulched, the grass gets cut on a rhythm it can count on, and the yard quietly stops being anybody's chore. A tidy lawn on a shaded street is a small, plain pleasure — this is how it happens.