Saddle River keeps its houses far back from the road, behind acres of oak and old fieldstone wall, and the lawns out here are long enough that mowing becomes a kind of drafting. September is the fine season for it: the heat lets go, the turf thickens, and the cut runs unbroken from the drive to the treeline. The work is mowing, trimming around every trunk and post, edging the drives and beds so the border is a decision rather than an accident, and clearing clippings and early leaf drop off the grass. The bridle paths and the river give this borough its hush, and a lawn kept well simply belongs to that hush. Pulling out at the end of a day past a clean, striped field of grass is reason enough to do it.