Lionel (Leo) Llewellyn:
CLASS OF 1968
Lemoyne D'Iberville High SchoolClass of 1968
Longueuil, QC
Chambly County High SchoolClass of 1968
St. lambert, QC
Mont Bruno Elementary SchoolClass of 1966
St. bruno, QC
Preville Elementary SchoolClass of 1965
St. lambert, QC
William White SchoolClass of 1959
Longueuil, QC
Lionel (Leo)'s Story
Most early mornings the air above my home is filled with the sound of singing birds. Away in the distance, where three horses quietly munch on dry, brown vegetation, their companions are the cicadas and croaking toads of the field. At this time of day, even a warm breeze emits a gentle sound past your ears.
This is the time of day when cutting grass the old-fashioned way makes a comeback. Large rubber wheels turn the rotating cutting blades with a quiet whirr. As I push the lawnmower up and down my small plot of HOA grass I am transported back to a time and place where gas-fired lawnmowers and riding mowers hadn't even been invented yet.
The visual of my young father cutting grass in a long-sleeved shirt and dress pants (no jeans in those days!) comes back vividly. His jet black hair fallen past his forehead, the beads of sweat marching relentlessly down his reddening brow and cheeks, and the heavy huffing and puffing that accompanied that chore.
As a young lad, I would sercretly wish that I could remain small forever, so that I wouldn't have to take on the chore of cutting the grass. In my young mind I don't think my dad enjoyed the job very much.
When I married and lived on a farm for 12 years the lawn around the farm house and barn buildings was more grass than I had ever seen my dad cut. I knew it would take a str...Expand for more
ong John Deere-type tractor to manage the acreage. And every week from April through late October it was a five hour slog to cut and trim the grass. It became a mesmerizing hum of noise; one got into the zone and you walked and walked and walked. Stoppage time was limited to giant glasses of ice water, and a cooling cucumber , tomato and lettuce sandwich fresh from the garden, before resuming the never-ending walk behind the unthinking, uncaring and loud, gas mower.
Here, my plot of grass is a sliver of green in the non-descript subdivision. I don't need a gas mower to cut this. My life has come full circle. I can push a rotary mower and think again. I can smell the newly cut grass. I have become my father.
It hasn't changed from the time I was a boy watching my dad manage his mower. I don't struggle, but I do huff and pff, the telltale signs of age. But the spinning blades remind me how simple this task is. Without the noise and pollution of the modern gas mower, I'm walking in the same footsteps as my father and his father before him.
I can hear birds singing. The breeze wafts upon my perspiring face, cooling me momentarily. I'm enjoying the carbonless footprint I'm leaving behind. The exercise I obtain is nothing compared to the euphoria I get from knowing that my life is richer and more meaningful when it is simpler.
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