Every week, he mowed the grass with slow, deliberate rows. He pruned the hedges by hand, not clippers, because it gave him more control. His flower beds changed with the seasons—daffodils in spring, marigolds in summer, and a trim patch of asters come fall.
It wasn’t flashy, but it was loved. Clarence believed that a man’s yard said a lot about him. A clean lawn meant you paid attention. A weeded bed meant you had standards. His yard, neat and symmetrical, with gravel paths and soft lights, was the kind neighbors paused to admire.