Pamela Goode

The Days We Never Forget

/ Pam Goode / 12 Comments

“It’s not bad — we think you’ll be fine” and suddenly the words leap from “We’re just not sure why this isn’t working” to “I’m so very sorry, but this is all we can do,” and before we knew it, she was gone.

Today is the day my Mom died. It was 5:30, March 30th, 2006.

I remember every moment of that day, as do my sister and brother. Still. And Forever.

Death is so surreal — and often, so unexpected. Even when you know it’s coming, it jumps at you like a growling hyena, and you wonder if you’ll every understand.

If you’ll ever get past it.

My mother’s death was one of those “wait, WHAT HAPPENED??? sequences that spilled suddenly from “It’s not bad — we think you’ll be fine”, then morphed strangely to “Unfortunately we’re just not sure why this isn’t working” to tears and more tears right up to “I’m so very sorry, but this is all we can do.”

We stayed with her night and day, and still before we knew it, she was gone.

Mom was one of those women who could (and would) do everything. She loved us, fed us, had a fabulously and almost childish laugh, danced, taught us how to sew and create and curtsy, get along with Dad, AND be a bad ass??????

My sister, who gardens like a similar first-class badass in addition to raising sheep (LOTS of them) and growing food for the family, pretty much took on Mom’s role and keeps us together.

Three children — each forging their own path and as different as night and day. It didn’t matter a wink how different we were (and still are). I’m so deeply grateful that we’re all still together and helping each other along the path. Life isn’t always easy, and that’s an understatement, but we love each other.

Thank You Mom
Love Always

Holding Firm

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I saw a house in England —
stones enjoined by mortar
braided into artistry
like kings and queens,

and made my way to study her —
to touch and ape this gorgeousness up close
and OH!

I saw not braids nor fancy icing cake —
designs made plush for those
with fancy fortunes to expend,

but saw instead a simple cache
of rounded river stones, quite niblet-sized —
embedded piece by piece
and skin to skin.

and laughed to see a castle built
so much like me —

pebble by pebble,
and holding firm.

Pam Goode

The Merry Days

/ Pam Goode / 6 Comments

So far I’ve made it through hauling Christmas regalia out of the attic, hanging stockings, and standing by with a ready hand while my husband lifted and settled the tree. We have dinner plans — scratch that — we had dinner plans, but then the bottom fell loose and now I have no idea what the rest of the day holds. And I’m okay with that. Really. When you see your brother once a year, you smile, hug, and take what you can get.

And what’s change really? Life is never set in stone. N E V E R. I learned that lesson at the age of four.

So I pulled out my attic stash, rounded up the pink twinkle lights that keep me happy and sane, and dove in. And yeah, it took hours, even with our small four and a half foot tree. Because, well, you know. We all know, and it just ain’t easy. One side of the living room window is a bit smashed across the glass, and once I limb the ladder, I can’t really lean in far enough to extend the lights from one end to another. I’ve been doing this for years and always took the time to make it perfect. Now I’m just happy to see the lights at all. “I grow old, I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled ….” Oops, sorry to run off course.

When I was growing up, we always kept Christmas a secret. I was in my early twenties, my sister 3 years younger, and my brother quite a bit younger when the three of us walked into the living room together — my sister and I in tights and a top and my brother — ever the creator — walked in fully dressed in his own handmade Santa suit. Yes, I said Handmade Santa Suit.

I’ll never forget the awe of it, and I’ll never forget how much we can accomplish if we take a bit of time to drop the everyday and and add a bit of creativity. .

P.S. Apparently Jingle Bells was never intended to be a Christmas song, but hey, it sure worked.

Happy Holidays to all!

Pam Goode

Staring Into Space

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This morning I knew exactly what I wanted to say. What I needed to say. It was clear and concise — a mix of horror and loss.

This afternoon, I can’t tell my front from my back. I can’t complete a sentence. I can’t remember where I was headed when I left the house. Maybe I just don’t want to remember — to lose these feelings of safety, sharing, and creativity — these days of love and laughter that held much of my life before this morning. It was a good life — filled with happiness, joy, women working together, and love.

And then this morning my husband misread the clock and accidentally trotted downstairs an hour early. I did the same an hour later and by then hell had already broken loose — at least in my house and my heart and the hearts and souls of so many. I’m accustomed to waiting and waiting and waiting for the election results, usually taking a day and a half or so. When have the polls ever been ready in less that a day??? This didn’t seem like a good omen, and it certainly wasn’t. I dropped into my chair and stared at the TV for only a few minutes, and then spent most of the day staring into nowhere, which seems appropriate.

I’ve read part of the manifesto put out by trump and friends, and yes, it scares me sh***tless. And yet somehow I put much less concern into it than I should have. Tonight, if I’m thinking clearly, I’ll delve further to acquaint myself more fully with Project 2025 and the demons that lurk when we’re not looking. I won’t make that mistake again, but is it too late?

Crumbs

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Some say the purest death
is to be ravaged alive
by beasts —
a final communion with creation
and instinct.
I could give myself to the lions
as red men gave their flesh
with joy to birds of prey, a feast
laid high on offering altars of pine,
their bodies rising
bite by bite to fill
the mouth and longing arms
of god.
And if I should die on African soil
at the pawing of tigers or men,
I pray the ants will piggyback my
sun-pressed crumbs across each undulation
of the ancient and bare breasted earth
and leave me soul to soil,
to nurse the hungry wild
and mingle with the stars.

© Pam Goode, 1995
Adapted 2024

Her Garden

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

I sang all day in the dirt.
Peat, sawed up wood, manure,
and what once took the shape of leaves
come happily together in my hands.

Good dirt smells.
First like the parts put in,
and rather less than pleasant as you
might expect —
and then all excited like a promise.
Earthworms writhe,
excited and aware.
They know full-out what’s to come:
the breaking down of life
into blackness —
and then rebirth.

Whoever thought beauty could burst
from a handful of chicken shit???

We are so much more than we know,
simply because we don’t take the time to see.

© Pam Goode

Steam

/ Pam Goode / 7 Comments

The summer is losing its steam,
and you begin to warm
and grow large in me
again.

Just today
I passed too silently
behind you,
and your body grew in greeting leaps
both left and right
until I doubted I could make
my way beyond
without a full submission
to your hands —
so present, and so full
of opportunities
to touch,

Your body
a forgiving bank
of second chances,

And I wanted my
hands
to have them all

in fingers full.

© Pamela Goode

i

/ Pam Goode / 5 Comments

i cough.

and breathe and

cough

again

and wash

and walk and

run

and run and run and

run …

and still you stick

in me.

© Pam Goode

They Walk Among Us

/ Pam Goode / 7 Comments

What is it about stalkers? What makes them feel so entitled?

It could be loneliness, but they tend not to reach out. They’re not looking for love — they’ve already been down that path and turned to something darker. It’s not a good thing.

Sometimes he pretends to be all fun and games; other times he slumps into his seat almost hidden, perhaps thinking he can watch from a place I can’t see. Meanwhile I keep my eyes down, my focus on work, and make friends with those who work near me. So much of me wants to leave. I can leave. But I’m determined not to give up my writing sessions.

He doesn’t write. I don’t know why he’s here except to engage others with stories and jubilant laughter that makes him seem easy-going and raucously jovial. We all want to know people like that, don’t we? We all want to be a person like that, don’t we? But not everyone understands the difference between friendliness and danger. I worry about those who are young or naive, and especially for those who are lonely.

And then the best thing that can happen right now actually happens: children are coming in with their moms and brothers and friends and smiles and safety — one of my favorite words.

Such a big part of me wants to kneel at their level and tell them not to smile, not to talk, not to trust . . . but that’s not the route. The route is learning to put yourself and your intuition first, to learn the difference between kindness and inhumanity, and to teach it to others.

Sadly, women have to be vigilant for a lifetime. And yes, I could say that it’s an incredibly sad way to look at life, but in truth, it IS life.

Little Moments

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

To be honest, I have very little recall of most Fourth of July festivities. I don’t dislike the day — I’m just ambivalent. Actually, wait . . . . . . . okay, maybe I’m not ambivalent at all.

The best thing I remember about the fourth of July is children. I love seeing their bright faces, watching to see which balloon figurine they’ll choose and then stand in eye-popping awe as a masterfully (and surely exhausted) moustachioed man (or woman) twists and turns and blows and wiggles his way into the skinny balloons until THWACK! And suddenly the child is magically holding a pretty darn good replica of a dog/spaceship/tuba/baby girl/….. And mind you, this is all AFTER we’ve stood in the forever-line for tiny-tot-face-painting.

The saving grace, of course, is the look in their eyes and the glee lighting the entire night sky.

So yeah … I LOVE the Fourth. Don’t you?