A few miles from San Rafael the ground turns to black lava and stays that way to the horizon, which puts every lawn in this valley in a category of its own: somebody decided on it, and keeps deciding. The upkeep is the steady half of that decision — mowing on a schedule instead of when it gets away from you, edging where turf meets gravel and drive, trimming tight to fence line, wall and post, weeds pulled before they set a single seed. Debris leaves in the truck rather than turning into a pile behind the shed. At midday in July the light coming off the malpais is flat and hard, and a cut lawn reads cool from all the way down the road. That is worth the drive time and the fuel it takes to get there.