Role Model

In the early 1980’s I was a teenager growing up in Rothwell Heights, an idyllic suburb of Ottawa. My best friend David had a summer job cutting the Lawrence’s lawn. On one fine summer day, David was lured from his lawn-care duties by what would typically lure most teenage boys – a girl.

Enterprising fellow that I was, I approached Bert Lawrence to ask if he required my services. As fate would have it, my friend’s tardiness landed me the job. That simple act of being in the right place at the right time would eventually allow me to graduate from gardener to groundskeeper, to house-sitter, to general handyman. I even dabbled in some auto-body repair for the Lawrence’s. To this very day, David harbors a bit of resentment…and for good reason.

Over the next few years I would spend many a summer (and winter) tending to all manner of odd jobs on the Lawrence’s Estate. No rock was too big to move, no snow drift too deep to clear away. On Friday nights I would make my way up the path, past the big cedars, the manicured lawn, to the wide front door of the 1950’s style bungalow of Burt and Lois Lawrence. The inviting sound of Jazz music could be heard from the interior, and it always took Burt a little while to get to the door, as he was usually engaged in a story of some sort, entertaining some guests in the living room as he would make his way to the front of the house.

Swinging the door wide with a warm smile and a hearty greeting, I never felt like the kid down the street collecting his wages. I felt like a friend, sort of like family, and I’ll never forget how that felt. Bert would reach for his wallet, ask how much he owed, count out the requisite total, then cast a quick sideways glance back through the open doorway…to check that his lovely wife wouldn’t notice his extreme generosity…and quickly peeled off an extra bill or two. Something told me she knew all too well, and simply didn’t mind.

I would eventually grow up some, move away to the big city, start a career and a family, but would often come home to visit my family, who still live in that wonderful neighborhood. The Lawrence’s have moved away, and I lost touch. It’s sad how what meant so much then, is only visible through the smudged lens of hindsight.

Their lovely rambling bungalow with the huge picture windows perched high above the best view in the city, was eventually torn down. In its place, a grotesque monstrosity of a palace was erected. I fondly remember their property – a home comfortably reigning over an odd mix of manicured structure, and wild abandon. Most of all however, I remember sipping Lois’s lemonade, in the backyard of a kind gentleman’s kingdom.


I sit in my kitchen today, having stumbled across an old obituary clipping I kept, stunned by the feelings that have flooded back to me. As I gaze at the picture of a man (who really should have represented no more than just the memories of a few summer jobs) I am struck by how much he actually meant to me.

Bert taught me the value of hard work. He taught me the value of going the extra mile. He taught me the value of integrity, and keeping your promises. And he taught me all those things by treating me fairly and with generosity. But most of all, he taught me how it felt (as an employee) to feel appreciated.

As fate would have it, I myself have had employees who looked to me for guidance. I am convinced (though it only recently became clear to me) that my relationship with the Lawrence’s were formative years indeed.

If I have ever taken the time to recognize my employee’s efforts, or paused to smile at someone who had exceeded expectation, I have Bert to thank. And as both Lois and Bert are intrinsically linked, have them both to thank.

You are sorely missed Mr. Lawrence.