It’s hard to live in Utah and not know the name Pamela Atkinson. It’s even on the state tax form for a homeless trust fund. Drive downtown in Salt Lake City and you may pass the Pamela Atkinson Fourth Street Clinic or Pamela’s Place transitional housing. Her First Presbyterian Church has a Pamela’s Closet, collecting items to donate to nonprofits like Thrive, which helps refugees who survived torture.
“A trifle embarrassing” is how Atkinson describes having her name on buildings and programs, but she admits she’s happy when her name boosts donations to worthy causes, which happens a lot. It’s a point of pride that she knows nearly every one of the worker bees who keep those programs running.
But the well-known advocate for the poor, who’s been affectionately called an “energizer bunny,” has slowed a bit. Atkinson, now 92, has recently been ill. Sitting in her comfy chair by an unlit fireplace in her Salt Lake City home, across from the five stuffed teddy bears she keeps on hand for her great-grandchildren — “six under age 3″ — Atkinson said friends keep telling her she’s looking better, but she knows that life is short and precious.
“I’ve had a good inning,” she said, before offering guests a choice of berry cardamom or hibiscus organic tea and biscuits.
The health care advisor in her — Atkinson is a registered nurse and was in Intermountain Health’s administration for many years, retiring as vice president over mission services — is close to the surface. She mentions she likes loose-leaf herbal tea because there’s no insecticide, which tea bags may contain.
Atkinson spent decades roaming through homeless camps to do outreach and check on those she’s befriended who pitch makeshift tents and build cardboard huts among the concrete and the weeds along the Jordan River, meeting endlessly with lawmakers and policymakers and serving on boards. Now she’s as apt to be found on her front porch, weather allowing, chatting with one of the seemingly endless collection of friends she has amassed.
She no longer drives around handing out socks and gloves in the dead of winter. She took away her own car keys, deciding her age and health were no longer so road worthy. This year, because she’s been somewhat frail, she didn’t endure long days at the Utah Legislature to advocate for program funding, although she said she misses her lawmaking friends.
Atkinson has for decades had her fingers in many pies, from advising every governor since Mike Leavitt to serving on the state’s Board of Regents to chairing the Utah Coalition Against Pornography. She’s been on a slew of advisory boards, from refugees to the homeless coordinating committee and Envision Utah. She’s been a paid member of corporate boards, collecting what she calls her “God-wants-me-to-help-others” checks to cover the rent or buy medicine for those who cannot afford it.
Bagel runs
There’s another side far from that public persona, though. Near her elbow on a little table, there’s a paperback copy of “Never Let a Unicorn Wear a Tutu.” Toys nestle behind the couch to entertain the great-grands when they come by and the bookshelves have been emptied so they won’t tip. She says she has three little chairs in the other room for when it’s reading time.
Atkinson showers those she cares about with love and food, from family members to her many friends in homelessness. But in this retreat, her titles are mom or grandma Pamela, GP or simply “my dear friend.”
This expert juggler of challenges never put family in the background, even after her three children, Sally, Roger and Heather were grown.
Said her daughter, Heather Hooper: “Despite my mom working, volunteering, serving, helping others much longer than eight hours a day during the work week, she would often get up early on Saturday mornings — her one chance to sleep in — and go and get three dozen bagels and cream cheese for my family of six hungry boys.”
Hooper said her mom called ahead to order their cinnamon sugar favorite, then showed up early, knowing the boys would be up and hungry.
“Not only was I grateful to not have to feed the boys breakfast or lunch on those Saturdays, I was in awe that instead of relaxing or sleeping in or getting things done for herself, she instead chose to shower us with love and food, which was incredibly appreciated and helpful. It’s definitely what I will always remember and be thankful for and hope to emulate in my own life with loved ones.”
It’s just in the last year that Atkinson’s frenetic pace has changed. Gone are the days of loading big bags of dog food in the back of her vehicle to give to those avoiding shelters because their dogs are not allowed, though they are often the closest friend and most loyal companion.
Atkinson remains involved at a slower pace, participating in Zoom meetings and sometimes speaking at events, though not as often as she used to. She’s still a sought-after and listened-to community advocate and adviser. And she never looks far to get rides, should she need to go somewhere. An incomparable network of friends and her daughter are happy to give her a lift that’s both literal and metaphorical. “I miss driving and independence, but I have the friendship of so many people who are willing to take me to appointments and wait for me,” she said.
Choosing a different life
Atkinson is miles from her birth as the third of five children in Bromley, Kent, England — an assertion that has very little to do with geography. To say they were poor is to inflate her family’s resources. Her father raced greyhounds and gambled away any money he got. She never saw him after he abandoned his family. Her mother, Johannah Bye, worked any job she found to support her brood, but they were always hungry and lacked basics like the indoor plumbing their neighbors enjoyed.
She was 7 when the London Blitz began, enduring air raids and panicked dashes to underground shelters before she and one of her sisters were sent to the countryside, where they were safer but made to feel unwelcome.
“She knew what it was to be unwanted and impoverished, with no one to encourage her,” Hooper said.
Back home when the sirens fell silent, she delivered newspapers to contribute to the family’s income. But the older she got, the more she saw all her family lacked.
Reading saved her, she said, opening her eyes to a bigger world that convinced her education could change her life. She met a librarian who fed her interest, setting books aside for her. The woman was her first mentor and proof that simply showing up for someone could change their world. Atkinson has shown up for others ever since.
But at night in bed where she and her sisters lay heel-to-head, she decided to marry a rich man. She promised herself she’d leave poverty — and poor people — behind forever.
She later laughed at the absurdity of the plan, given that it turned out the plight of others had been carved in both her heart and her head. Her future would center in large part on easing the burdens of poverty in those she met.
But all of that was still quite far off.
Healing others' wounds
Atkinson was drawn to nursing and that’s what she studied. But she also had a hankering to roam and see new worlds.
In 1958, she got a visa as an exchange student and worked at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York. “I actually found I was so good at doing what I was doing that they made me an assistant head nurse, which was way out of the rule book,” she said. But after a while she had a yen to go home and see everyone and continue her education at University College Hospital, which she did.
Next, she moved to Australia for a job and free fare to one of the Torres Strait islands between North Queensland and New Guinea, where many of the patients she treated were aborigines. The little plane that took her there flew so low over the Australian Outback that she could see crocodiles in the water, a sight she remembers vividly. They landed on Horn Island and took a boat to Thursday Island, where she worked in labor and delivery.
“The operating room had these doors that went to the outside and the patients were wheeled in from the outdoors. The nurse aides would have a fly catcher and fan us while we were working and doing the necessary surgery,” Atkinson said, her British accent still evident. One day, she had to dive and catch a baby before it hit the ground. It came so fast they had no time to situate the mother. Women often delayed seeking care until the last minute.
She sometimes sailed to other islands with colleagues to provide medical care; each was a new experience. On one, Atkinson said if a child was born to unmarried parents, the island chief fined the couple, but the whole island cared for the baby. “It was really wonderful to see.”
She learned to water ski in the strait’s shark-infested waters. The sharks provided her the strong incentive to get up on her skis the first time and stay up. She chuckles at the memory of a doctor who never did manage the challenge she was proud to meet.
In 1962, she moved to the U.S. and worked for a time in a Philadelphia hospital, before moving to San Francisco, where she gained broad experience in different kinds of nursing. She went back to school, earning a bachelor’s degree in nursing with a minor in criminology from the University of California, followed by a master’s degree from University of Washington, where she studied sociology, business and education while teaching others nursing and management leadership.
A human touch
It was in Seattle that homelessness first tugged at Atkinson’s heart.
She’d gone with a group to serve dinner and while the others were given dish-the-food assignments, she was asked to be the greeter, shaking hands as people came in. That handshake, she was told, might be the only touch someone experienced in days or weeks or even years. It was a lesson worth passing through generations, so Atkinson has, though she reminds people to ask “Would you like a hug?” before giving one.
Hooper went with her mom to serve dinner to “her homeless friends” when she was about 20. She felt confused watching Atkinson offer hugs. In the car, she asked her mom why she would “want to get that close to men who were obviously unwashed and dirty.”
Atkinson told her human touch “is extremely powerful in conveying love.”
“It is something I remember to this day — the importance of physical contact for a person’s well-being. I definitely look at those experiencing homelessness with different eyes thanks to her eyes that saw as our Savior does,” Hooper said.
Meeting people where they are
Ed Snoddy has worked for Volunteers of America for 30 years doing outreach, looking for and after those who are homeless, addicted or mentally ill. He met Atkinson in 1996 when she was over mission services for Intermountain Health and remembers being “scared to death.” She already had almost legendary status. They quickly became friends. If you want to know how Atkinson befriended so many experiencing homelessness, Snoddy is the keeper of many of the stories.
The two made many forays into homeless camps near the river and often took along dignitaries, including then-Gov. Leavitt. Snoddy and Atkinson had befriended a man named Chuck who lived outside with his little buddy, a small black-and-white furball named Trixie, a dog of unknown breed. The day Leavitt joined them, he and Chuck had quite a long talk. The governor was cordial and curious, Snoddy said.
Later, Chuck became sick and one of his housed friends agreed to watch Trixie so he could get medical care. His liver was failing. He told LDS Hospital staff he was friends with Leavitt, which prompted his health care providers to call for a psych evaluation; obviously he was delusional from the toxins collecting on his brain, a hallmark of liver failure and encephalopathy.
Atkinson called Leavitt and said Chuck would likely die soon, prompting the governor to visit the hospital, security guards in tow, where the two had one final chat.
“You could see the medical team wondering, ‘Who the heck is this guy?’” Snoddy recalled with a chuckle.
Chuck longed to see his dog, so Snoddy and Atkinson smuggled Trixie into his hospital room in a jacket. “Is this OK?” a worried Snoddy asked his friend. “Of course it is,” she replied. Then added, “Just don’t tell anyone.”
Such moments are vintage Pamela Atkinson, Snoddy said.
Chuck died — at the home of his friend with Trixie, in a hospital bed Atkinson obtained for him. They held a memorial service on the river and she officiated.
“He was a nice guy, always respectful, not a hardcore alcoholic or drug addict,” Snoddy said. “He kept a clean camp and was fun to talk to. Sometimes we’d sit and have a sandwich with him. We had boundaries. But there’s no limit to caring.”
Pamela moments
At Christmas, Atkinson and Snoddy took wrapped presents and meals out so homeless friends would have gifts to open: a jacket, a scarf, candy. It was an annual, outside-of-work experience, “just basic humanity, caring and giving,” as Snoddy describes it. “Those times were probably when we had the best conversations. You could see how grateful Pamela was for being in her position and having the ability to help other people.”
Even her street friendships have been far from fleeting.
Johnny was among the first to go into a Sunrise Metro transitional housing program, which gave him a small apartment of his own. They’d known him a while, had brought him Thanksgiving dinners at a dumpster where he and a pal, Smiley, lived.
Housing made Johnny happy, but with the passage of time he and Atkinson lost touch — until a hospital social worker called her about a man who said she was his friend and asked her to visit.
She did. Doctors said they could keep him alive for a while, but he would be on oxygen and need a feeding tube. He didn’t want that. Atkinson got him to The Inn Between, a hospice program for individuals experiencing homelessness, “and we saw him every day for about five days, then he went relatively quick; his heart was tired and he gave up. I have his ashes on my desk. He’d been a baseball fan. We decided that maybe, when there’s a new stadium, we’ll sneak him there,” Snoddy said.
When Snoddy described trying to get a home for sex-trafficked women going, Atkinson immediately helped organize it, enlisting community leaders and offering guidance. That program became reality in 2023.
“She’s an advisor to everyone,” said Snoddy, who calls her input remarkable. Most people look at the bricks and mortar needs, but he said Atkinson has always seen need at a more personal level. She nudges people toward personal fulfillment they’ve never had. Some, said Snoddy, “never had an opportunity to play in a field, an opportunity to go to school, an opportunity to have clean clothes. Pamela would zoom in on that … she was attentive to those details. That’s why people are the way they are. They have missed big chunks of their development.”
He credits Atkinson with his own development working with people on the street, both professionally and personally. He notes moments when the system makes work depressing, with gaps in continuity of care. She makes time to talk whenever he feels down. “It always means a lot to me to have that Pamela moment.”
Snoddy once asked her what she’s doing with all her awards for good deeds and lifetime service. She smiled. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a basement,” she replied.
Agent of change
Were he to sum Atkinson up, Snoddy said her story would be one of lives changed, often slowly and one at a time:
There’s the girl, not quite 18, who ran away and worked as a private dancer, developing a drug habit. Atkinson found and visited with her every week. One day, the girl asked if she could call her dad. A week later, Snoddy put her on a plane — with a ticket Atkinson provided — to go back home.
The two friends cried afterward as Snoddy told Atkinson how the girl called home to tell her dad she loved him and was coming.
Or the homeless friend with congestive heart failure who wanted to marry her partner. Snoddy bought a wedding dress at a Deseret Industries thrift store. University of Utah Hospital staff printed programs and baked a cake. The chaplain officiated. And Atkinson put them up for a couple of nights in a hotel, because the woman didn’t want to die in a hospital. She perished two days later.
There’s the man from Monterrey, Mexico, in the U.S. legally with a wife and three young kids who had terminal cancer of the jaw who wanted to die back home. The Fourth Street Clinic bought Christmas for the little family and Atkinson used her many connections in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to plot his journey and ensure he could get the strong medicines he would need at a pharmacy in Mexico.
“I look at her and think, ‘How many people do you know?’ She’s been connecting people like me to other people in the community and you can see how the trickle effect really works,” Snoddy said.
Spencer Cox, Utah’s governor, calls Atkinson “one of the greatest champions of Utah’s homelessness. She is tireless in her efforts to serve others, always looking for ways to lift and support those in need. I’ve been in meetings with Pamela to discuss how we can better help the homeless, only to learn she had just come from handing out socks and supplies to her friends on the street. Her quiet acts of kindness and countless moments of service have made a difference in the lives of so many Utahns. We are incredibly fortunate to have her example of compassion and dedication in our state.”
One of Atkinson’s favorite events is an annual holiday dinner provided to those without their own abode. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints cooks an unbelievable number of steaks — this last year with the help of many volunteers 1,800 people in shelters and various programs and in some cases on the street had dinner with all the fixings.
Atkinson said she believes — sincerely hopes — others will step up to fulfill the needs of those who struggle. She sees a new generation of leaders with big hearts and understanding and said she isn’t worried that if she’s no longer able, there’ll be a huge void.
Holy nudges
Does she have regrets? “I’m grateful and feel blessed that the Lord gave me a purpose in life and led me in terms of what to do,” she answered. She regrets moments when she didn’t answer the call to act. She quickly learned to recognize what she calls “holy nudges.”
She believes the Lord often provided solutions.
She remembers a night serving dinner at the Salvation Army dining room before an overflow shelter existed. Folks were worrying about how those living outdoors would survive the cold. The next day, recounting the dilemma to a friend at the Capitol, she started to cry. A reporter overheard and wrote a story.
Her friend, the late Jon Huntsman Sr., read it and provided $50,000 for an overflow shelter, which made her cry again.
Crying, though, is not something Atkinson does much. “In England, you’re brought up to have a stiff British upper lip. I remember when I went into nursing, one of the first things we were told is you do not cry with your patients. I thought that was odd. The first patient who died when I was out on the wards was a 14-year-old boy with leukemia, and I’ve never forgotten I couldn’t cry because I’d been told not to. That changed when I came to the States.”
She said caring goes both ways. She has plenty of stories of folks experiencing homelessness who linger outside the congregate dining room to make sure she reaches her car safely. She tells of a pair who noticed her trunk latch wasn’t working properly. They took turns eating so one of them could watch her car.
Atkinson likes putting people together in interesting combinations, figuring they’ll find things in common and become friends. It usually works. When former Utah Gov. Gary Herbert wanted to host a faith leaders luncheon, her seating chart put guests with others she figured were strangers. Someone told her it would be better if they could sit by friends, but she disagreed. She also invited the governor’s senior staff to host a table and sent them the names and faiths of the leaders they’d be sitting with so they could visit their place of worship beforehand if they wanted.
“What I loved about these luncheons is the number of business cards that were passed around,” she said. “People made real friends there” and learned about each others’ beliefs.
Her energy has come from leading a “purpose-filled life,” she said. “My purpose is to do whatever the Lord wants me to do. It’s a good purpose and he reminds me if I don’t pay attention.”
Asked to describe that holy nudge, she says, “It feels like, ‘Pamela, get out of your car and do something.’” Occasionally followed by a “holy shove” if she’s too tired or slow to act.
Front porch friends
Like Snoddy, Casey Cameron is one of Atkinson’s front porch friends. They met almost 20 years ago handing out turkeys at the Indian Walk In Center, then grew the relationship while serving as Cox advisers. COVID solidified the friendship as they did their best for folks struggling during those isolating days.
They have tea every couple of weeks at Atkinson’s house and Cameron sometimes runs Atkinson to her appointments.
Atkinson taught her there are different levels of outcomes, Cameron said: Big ones that cost lots of money and start programs and move systems along. That’s something Atkinson was well-known for at Intermountain. “She can get big outcomes; she’s done that a lot in her professional career,” Cameron said. “But she taught me even when you can’t move the system along, you can still get small outcomes.”
Small outcomes can look like this: making sandwiches and handing them out. Or keeping blankets and gloves in your car in case you encounter someone who’s cold. You can keep people from freezing “and that’s an outcome.”
Atkinson thinks of both short- and long-term outcomes, Cameron said. “One thing she taught me is always focus on what you can do today. Small outcomes go a long way.”
Atkinson’s credibility with people who are often distrustful is based on what she does “in the moment,” her friend said.
Cameron also credits her for lessons on professional and personal accountability. Atkinson mastered the “one pager.” She can boil any issue, no matter its complexity, to a single, understandable page that doesn’t give anyone an excuse not to read it. She’ll summarize an important issue and put it on legislators' desks. If she asks for money, that page says where the money would go, what the results would be, how the money would make things better and the impact on people and communities it would reach. She would be accountable in that way for that money.
Both Snoddy and Cameron said Atkinson has always encouraged those with whom she’s worked to mind their friendships, to never let disagreements get in the way of relationships. Always hear people out, be curious and open, is how Cameron describes it.
She wants friends to take care of themselves, too, and to take care of others. So Atkinson does some nudging of her own. “She’s a champion and a cheerleader for me,” said Cameron. “I am 50 and she’s 92 and she’s one of my very best friends.”