Have you had your juice today?

Madeline (a.k.a. Bonnie) Bromilow (September 27, 1949 – March 5, 2011)

I’ve been procrastinating on this particular post for close to a year now.  As the anniversary of the death of my foster-mother-of-sorts (whom I like to call ‘Momma Bromilow’) nears, I fear I’ve let loved ones down by not writing sooner. I just don’t know where to start. It seems the beginning would be the logical choice.

I left home on my 16th birthday. I had good reason, so I’ll never regret leaving but I have to admit, like most 16-year-olds, I didn’t know quite as much as I thought I did. I had already experienced a lot of things that I would have preferred not to but I believe those struggles made me a little stronger and more aware of how the world truly operates than most my age. It was still hard.

Though I was first staying with a really good friend, there came a point when I needed another place to live. My distress must’ve been obvious because another friend, BJ, asked what was troubling me during school one day. When I told her I needed a home she said, “I’ll ask my mom if you can live with us. She’ll probably want to meet you first but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Oh sure. It’s just that easy. Of course, I thanked BJ for her kindness, but truthfully, I thought she was a little bit delusional. I mean, really? Who, as a respectable mother, would take in a strange and troubled girl just like that?

Momma Bromilow, that’s who.

Needless to say, the very next day, dear, sweet BJ proudly announced that her mom said it would be all right and I just needed to stop by for a coffee and a chat first. Even at sixteen, I understood this was not normal at all. Either the Bromilows were batshit crazy or the Man Upstairs was smiling down on my pathetic soul. I was right on both counts. Ha! Ha!

Momma Bromilow was the type of woman who remained calm and collected while her four, bickering daughters verged on chaos, as I witnessed during that first meeting. She gave me coffee, let me smoke and touched on ground rules (no drinking, get your own smokes, go to school, get along with your sisters) while  we chatted easily, as though there wasn’t all sorts of activity bustling around us.

She didn’t ask me for the sordid details of how I came to be there. Her eyes didn’t judge me, nor show false pity. They simply looked me over and accepted. It seemed too easy, too good to be true. But that was it. “Welcome to the family, Jenny-Poo.”

That’s just how Momma Bromilow rolled. Her door was always open to anyone in need even though she barely had two nickels to rub together. She didn’t complain and she always found a way to make ends meet somehow. She cooked and baked as cheaply as she could and her food was always excellent. I no longer eat pigs, but I still miss her pork lasagne. And nobody makes cookies like hers!

What I appreciated most about Momma Bromilow is how she made me feel unconditionally loved – as though I really was her own daughter, by blood. She treated me the same as her own, with a gentle, and consistent fair hand. I could be difficult, to say the least, pushing her more-than-reasonable boundaries much more than necessary. I couldn’t have been easy to love, but she loved me whole-heartedly. She never gave up on me.

Momma Bromilow had a great sense of humour and some unique outlooks on life. I could chat with her for hours, sucking up her experiences and wisdom. She also knew just how to deal with me, encouraging my “free thinking” and rarely telling me what to do. I do recall, however, one of the very few times she ever gave me trouble. Would you like to hear about it, Dear Reader? Of course you would!

Like many rebellious teens, I enjoyed smoking very much. Momma Bromilow, a smoker herself, didn’t support it but she couldn’t very well tell me not to. I came home from school for lunch one day. Momma Bromilow saw  me walk up to the house, smoking a cigarette. She didn’t say anything as we enjoyed our lunch and a chit chat together but as I was leaving she said to me, “Jenny-Poo, I want to talk to you.”  She was using her serious voice and it made me nervous.

“Okay,” I said cautiously. “What did I do?”

“I saw you smoking a cigarette when you were walking down the street. I better not see you do that again!”

“Really,” I asked, somewhat confused. “Why?”

“Only hookers smoke when they’re walking down the street.”

Ha! Ha! To this day, any time I catch myself smoking on the street I hear her voice telling me that. I laugh out loud every time. I usually put out my cigarette, too. 

You have to understand, Momma Bromilow always thought I was such a lady. I’m not sure why. I also believe she was very protective of my reputation, God bless her.

I lived with my Bromilows during the most difficult time of my life, but we still managed to have a lot of good times and many good laughs. Back then, I doubt I realized just how much I needed them. I often wonder what might’ve become of me if they hadn’t taken me in. Momma Bromilow saved me that day.

Of course, eventually the day came when I left my Bromilows in Ontario and moved to B.C. to reunite with my biological mom. The plan was to return in a year but it never happened.

It was almost sixteen years before I went back, and then only because Momma Bromilow almost died on us. I still remember phoning her in the hospital before I drove out to see her. Even in her drugged and confused state, she remembered my voice. I told her she better wait for me and she did.

That was March 2009. In March 2011, she was in the hospital again. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to make it to Ontario just then and Momma Bromilow couldn’t wait this time. She died on March 5th.

I’m glad I was in touch with her not long before her passing and that she knew how much I loved and appreciated her. I am glad there was nothing unresolved between us. My world was forever altered when she left us, but it is better for the time she was in it. Rest in peace, Momma Bromilow!

It seems, Dear Reader, that I haven’t given you any of my natterings for some time now.  Unfortunately, what you are about to read is not my usual material. I know I have previously stated that there will be no pornography on my site. Well you may want to cover your eyes now because I am making an exception for my good friend, Kyle, who has been struggling with his health for some time now.  Of course, I must, however, deliver this post with the cheese I know you have all come to love!

Kyle, this one’s for you! 

Once apon a time there lived a dashing, young prince named Kyle. Prince Kyle was very fond of perusing the countryside in his shiny, new carriage. He was also fond of tormenting the young maidens at the town market.

One day, as he approached the town square, Prince Kyle noticed a lovely, young maiden that he hadn’t seen before. She was tall and slender with wheaten blonde hair and wore a gown of the finest, blue silk. The prince signalled his coachman to pull over to the curb. “Aye, Miss,” he hollered from the open carriage window. “Might you fancy a tour of our fine countryside in my splendid, new carriage?”

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Today I attended a 6-hour Rape Prevention Workshop by Richard Dimitri of Senshido Combative Science Technology. I’ve never taken any sort of personal protection training  but with my knack for getting myself into undesirable situations, I figured this workshop was a good idea. Besides, you just never know when you’ll be in the wrong place at the wrong time. A violent attack can’t always be prevented but it certainly helps to be prepared.

I don’t believe that preparing yourself for a personal attack that might not ever happen (fingers crossed!) indicates paranoia. Rather,  I believe that preparing yourself for the possibility is intelligent, proactive and empowering. Rape is a very common reality in today’s society. It could happen to anyone. You don’t have to be dressed like a prostitute and you don’t even have to be attractive.

Obviously, you don’t have to be a woman either. However, because the vast majority of rape victims are women, I’ll be tailoring the information in this post for female readers.

Richard informed us that 1 in every 3 women has been or will be raped. Having worked for both the RCMP and Child Protection I neither doubted this fact nor had any difficulty grasping the magnitude. To illustrate this for the women reading this post, I ask you to think of 2 other women close to you — perhaps a friend, neighbour, mother, sister and/or daughter. One of you has been or will be raped. How scary is that?

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 When I was in my early 20s I had a big “thing” for a guy named John.  Unfortunately, I was kind of shy around John unless, of course, I had a lot to drink. Anybody who knows me knows that when I drink I’m a wee bit crazy and more than a little outgoing — not shy at all.

John was very funny and as laid-back as they come. I never hesitated to call him in the wee hours of the morning after muchos drinking in the bars with my friend, Mel. Sometimes I didn’t even  bother to call and just showed up at his apartment — so often in fact, that he just left his patio door unlocked for me in case he didn’t hear the buzzer.

I’ve always loved the smell of coconuts and am a huge fan of any lotion, perfume, hair product or — anything really — that smells like coconuts. One day, I bought coconut shampoo and conditioner. While I slathered it on my hair in the shower that evening I found myself wondering if John liked the smell of coconuts.

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I’ve only ever met 3 people in person that I first encountered online. Two of these experiences were disasters but the first one felt like reuniting with an old friend  — as though we’d known each other forever, really. That experience gave me the guts to meet the next two bozos. Unfortunately, just because you found one gem doesn’t mean you’ll find another. Yet douchebags, it seems, are a dime a dozen!

The first man I met from the online dating world is one of my truest friends whom I’d been chatting with for approximately 5 years. I was not the slightest bit concerned about picking him up in the city and travelling with him to a home he bought in a village a few hours away (he had some renos to do and I was to be the drunken, pain-in-the-ass supervisor — yay!).

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Painting by Jack White

I hope Jack doesn’t mind me naming his artwork.

Painting by Jack White

I have had so much drama and turmoil these past few months. You wouldn’t believe what has happened if I told you so I won’t. But I will tell you this.

I walked out on my job with child protection about a month ago and escaped to the mountains of Jasper, Alberta. I feel more at home now than I have in a very long time and I will not leave until they banish me, kicking and screaming.

Of course, I already claimed my favourite watering hole at the D’ed Dog Bar and Grill. While sampling their fine ales last Saturday night, one of the dishwashers plunked himself beside me at the bar and introduced himself as “Jack”.

Jack looked awfully familiar to me so I asked him if he ever lived in Edson, Alberta, where I myself once lived for a short while (please don’t spread that around). Of course, he had. So I asked him if he’s a painter. He is. Then I asked him if he remembered giving me a painting about 8 years ago. He did!

What a small world we live in, Dear Readers!

With Jack’s permission, I will be posting pictures of his paintings. Please don’t hesitate to provide me with your honest feedback. I’d like Jack to start selling prints and perhaps originals, if offers are fair.

Jack has had no formal education in the arts. His talent is raw and pure. Don’t you think it’s time we get him out of the dish-pits? I know Jack. He deserves so much more!