EVERY DAY A BONUS

'Every day is a bonus."

So the old gardener called after me as I began to walk home.

It was a clear brisk day in that recent time when the calendar was relentlessly marking off the last days of allotted summer.

The sun at times was bright, but the air had a nip that clearly announced the coming of fall.

It was this that I mentioned as I stopped to pass the time of day with the friendly old man who for years had been growing beds of beautiful flowers and keeping immaculate lawns for some of our neighbors.

He had been a gardener from away back, first in England and later in Canada.

Since he had retired, he had kept on doing what he liked to do, to the benefit of a few fortunate friends.

As I spoke to him, noting the chill in the air, and the leaves beginning to flutter down, I remarked with bright originality that summer seemed to be coming to an end.

"Yes" he said, "I don't like it. It reminds me of myself."

"It reminds me of all of us," I said. "We all know that summer won't last forever."

I resumed my walk home, leaving the old man leaning on his rake, and looking at the spread of flowers still free from frost.

I had taken several steps when I heard his cheery voice call out that last reflection:

"But every day is a bonus."

For me that day became a bonus. How good it was, I thought, to see a person so happily greeting the last days of summer and of his own life.

The secret, I knew, was not in a passing burst of sunshine, but in his own buoyancy of spirit.

I am sure that when the winds of autumn and the snows of winter come he will still find somewhere in every day a bonus.

The word "bonus" somehow stirred in my mind a buried memory of Sammy Hemp.

Sammy was only a character in a novel; but like many others in fiction and drama was as large as life and twice as natural.

He was an odd individual in J. B. Priestley's book Daylight on Saturday.

The book never attained the popularity of the Good Companions, but, like it, showed Priestley's rare ability to enter into the lives of little people in limited circumstance - an ability perhaps as remarkable as that of any writer since Dickens.

Sammy was a wreck of a man in his fifties. He had a bad leg, an almost useless left arm, and a nagging tendency to bronchial trouble.

He had no childfren, no wife, no skill, no savings. He faced nothing except the prospect of a penniless old age.

What a repository of resentment and bitterness Sammy could have been in the pages of most modern novelists.

But Sammy was cheerfulness itself. The whole factory was brighter because of him.

Priestley gives this reason; He was a superb example of the Christian virtue of humility for, as he asked for and expected little or nothing for himself, anything that was pleasant at all that came his way was sheer bonus."

Sammy in Priestley's portrait was not religious: but he had found a secret which many religious people miss. He had learned the joy of life itself.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

Don says: I feel the warmth of this wonderful piece of writing. So many times I have said, "If only I was rich, I could travel, drive a huge car, own a beautiful boat, and travel the world." I came to know that there is nothing substantial in worldly goods. Like the cars, the boats, and the travel, life is empty without a loving wife, children, good friends. As I come nearer the end of my life, (75) I find comfort in a beautiful garden that my wife and I have cultivated, the lovely mornings, in winter, spring, fall, and winter.

Having the companionship of a fine wife to share the little moments from day to day is priceless. The luxury of looking into her beautiful brown eyes, with nothing but love for me is heartwarming. Little things like going to the show, eating out: sometimes at a fast food place, sometimes with a little classier restaurant. Big or small, classy or plain, it is the company I keep that is of the most importance.

I never felt like this when I was drinking. My world was the walls of glass surrounding my liquor bottle. It had become my God. It told me when to get up, when to sleep, when to work, and when to suffer with the inevitable shuddering hangovers. Also it caused me to do things that I wouldn't normally do. Like "Where is my car". I would go outside to see if it was there, if not where did I leave it?


Who had I insulted last night, and who would I have to face this morning, not knowing whether I had hurt someone. Fortunately I had done nothing too blatant, but this did not stop me from going out to do it all over again. Marvelous way to live!

And then I went for treatment of my alcoholism at Donwood. After a long period of desire for alcohol, I can now proudly say I have not had a drink since 1969.

Insofar as the forgoing article is concerned, I know the name of the author, but I am not publishing it because I do not know how to contact him, he may have been in for treatment. If he reads and recognizes the article I would be honored to thank him, and publish his name if he so desired.

DON FELSTEAD