Pamela Christine Goulet

Pamela Christine Goulet

1953 - 2024

We are saddened to announce the death of Pamela Goulet on September 2nd, 2024 after a valiant battle with cancer. She is survived by her three daughters Carla Mackey (Jason), Christie Trann (Curtis) and Nicole Goulet and grandchildren Declan, Landon, Jensen, Abby, Ethan and Freddie. 

Born December 29th, 1953 in Kingston Ontario, she was the beloved only daughter of Roy and Olive Barraclough. She spent her childhood in Eastern Ontario with her numerous aunts, uncles and cousins and shared many happy summers abroad in England and Europe. Pamela was resilient throughout her life and her love of knowledge made her a lifelong learner. A graduate of Queens University, St Lawrence College and University of Regina, she pursued careers in many fields and ultimately had a successful, hardworking career at Regina Transit. She made a lasting impact with her warmth, work ethic and friendly disposition for anyone needing Paratransit services. 

Pamela had a passion for drinking tea, reading books and her animals. She was very spiritual and a member of the Congregationalist Wiccan Association of Saskatchewan in which she was active for several years. 

In honouring Pamela’s wishes there will be no celebration of life. Her ashes will be brought to England at a later date. Donations can be made to Regina Humane Society in her honour.

Sea-Fever

By John Mansfield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.