Heart of a Southern Woman

A snapshot of life one blog post at a time, including: community and family life, gardening, genealogy, people's stories, spirtiuality, and health.


“P” is for Purple Elvis Clock!

When I turned 50 years old, some of my friends gave me this purple Elvis clock, and his legs swing! It has delighted me for years now.  I have loved Elvis since I was a young child, so this was a wonderful addition to my Elvis Collection.  I can’t show all of the collection to you in this one post, but sit back, listen to the king, and enjoy sharing the fun! There is something very special about this Purple Elvis Clock, and maybe, maybe I’ll tell you the secret by the end of this post, maybe– it’s very personal…we’ll see. 
Did I tell you I found out  that I am kin to Elvis?!  According to familysearch.org, he is my 14th cousin! It looks like this: 

Elvis relationship to Helen , 14th cousin

 I don’t think I could settle on just one favorite Elvis song, but I’ve always loved “Jailhouse Rock”! Over the years, family and friends have added to my cherished collection my ability to see Elvis perform this song  always– on my own drive-in theater, and among others, from the mouth of the cutest Elvis Bear you could ever ask for!

Elvis Drive in Theater blue screen


No thoughts of Elvis would be complete without thinking of some of his ballads, his gospel, and his love songs! Oh my, that man could sing! Still gives me chills!

The secret, and you are not allowed to steal this idea now, the phrase “Purple Elvis Clock” is my password for after my death, when I am trying to communicate with my family. Others see butterflies, birds, find dimes–there are all kinds of signs that our loved ones are trying to get in touch with us from the other side. My family knows that if they hear the term “Purple Elvis Clock” or if that picture arises in their minds, then Mom/GiGi is giving them a kiss, letting them know I am fine, that I am thinking of them, and that I am doing my best to help from afar! LOL  Now what do you think of that?  Did you see that one coming? Do you even believe in an afterlife? Communication between?  Think on these things, and let me know. Until we meet again, know that I am always wishing you well. 

“O’ is for Officer, Sir, Sergeant James Kearse, Irish Cop


George "Gabby" Hayes as Police Officer from free-classic-movies.com

George “Gabby” Hayes as Police Officer from free-classic-movies.com

Before I started my genealogical research, I knew nothing about my great grandfather, my mother’s grandfather, except that hia name was James Kearse, and that his father  Robert had come over from Ireland, fought in the Civil War, and raised ten children along with his wife Margaret.  James, my great grandfather  became a cop in Richmond, Virginia like his Dad, as did his son, my grandfather Tom.  James married an Italian woman, apparently the love of his life, my great grandmother Mary Catherine Botto. Lots of friends gave him grief about marrying an Italian, but they were happy with  their four children.
As a police officer, James was apparently very popular as he was nonminated to be chief, and stories of him filled the pages of The Richmond Times Dispatch 1870-1890 after the Civil War.
As I read the articles, I was thrilled to feel I was getting to know the man born  almost 100 years before me!  There was one story in the paper that gave me a great glimpse into James’ personality! It was hilarious, and showed his sense of humor!   Such a cute story, I wish I had written it, and that I could have been there!  I want to share it with you here, hope you enjoy.
Source: storytime.readingchick.com

Source: storytime.readingchick.com

 Kerse, James, Cow visit police station Halloween 1913
Sergeant James Kearse has a visitor on Halloween night at the Police Station–fromThe Richmond Times Dispatch,
Nov. 1, 1913




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“N” is for No! as in “I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No!”


I was only six years old in 1955, when the Rodgers and Hammerstein film “Oklahoma” came out and Gloria Grahame performed “I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No!”  Someone gave my sister the soundtrack as a gift, from one of our dear Aunts, of whom we had eight!  She loved the songs, and we shared a room, so I grew up with all the words ringing in my ears!  I loved this song, and sang it off and on through college, until it was replaced by folk music, then pop.

Saying “No!”, not just in male-female relations, but in life in general seems to be very hard for many girls and women!  We are taught to be “nice” .  I’m not sure, maybe that is a Southern thing, but I doubt it…little girls and young women are supposed to be “nice”–meaning well-behaved, generous with time and talents, and kind to animals and people!

Unfortunately, as we grow older, we learn that the world itself is not always so “nice”. If we continue to act as we were taught as children…to just be nice, don’t say “No”, then what happens?  People may see us as nice, and kind, and some will love and respect us for that, if we are lucky enough to live in a sheltered world.  But on the big stage, in a corporation, in politics, in the military, omg, being nice could get you taken advantage of, disrespected, even killed!

Can we find a middle ground between “nice”, “Can’t say No!” and aggressiveness? Somewhere between “Of course I can drive the scouts to all five field trips this Fall.” and “Of course, I can wash dishes after all the Wednesday night suppers for the year, because you asked so nicely, Pastor Ryan;” and “No! How dare you ask me that?! I have a life too you know! Don’t call me again!” LOL

I was squarely in the “I’m just a girl who can’t say No!” camp in my niceness all of my life, until I reached my mid 30’s to early 40’s! I had the opportunity to teach interpersonal communication at N C State University as a Visiting Lecturer for several years, and as part of that we studied the difference in assertive and aggressive communication.  In all honesty, before then, I think I thought assertiveness WAS aggressiveness, I didn’t know the difference, and you didn’t state your mind unless you were angry and as we say in the South…”throwing a hissy fit!” LOL

I had to learn I wasn’t responsible for other people’s feelings–one of the hardest lessons for me. “What can I do to make you happy? So sorry I …made you mad…disappointed you….So glad I made you feel better!” I’d never thought about how conceited that is actually–and how controlling!  I can’t make you  happy, sad, or mad….I now know.  You choose what feelings you choose!  Ultimately, I am in charge of me–you are in charge of you—it’s freeing!  I get to say and act as I want, yes, you get to decide whether or not you want to be around me! LOL We all get to be authentic, we get to be ourselves, isn’t that refreshing.

I’m not as “nice” as I used to be as a child or a young woman, just ask my husband. But ultimately, I am a nice person, and I want to be, I choose to be, and I like to be. However, I do say “No!” more and more often, enough that at times I fear growing into a crotchety old lady! Guess I’d better watch it…choices.


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“M” –Mangled Marriage of Mack and Marissa


domestic.violence.battered.woman500x250, americansendingabuse.org

source: americansendingabuse.org –National Hotline, 24/7, 1-877-1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

Mack had just gotten out of jail for beating his wife nearly to death. After only three months in jail, he was now on probation and court ordered to attend “stupid” outpatient therapy once a week for two hours for a whole year! “Disgusting” was his cleaner thought. He wouldn’t bother to go, but if he didn’t, the therapist would report him and he’d just end up back in a cell–“no thank you!” So attend he did–hating every moment that he had to pretend he was learning “anger control–how stupid do they think I am?”

His great desire was to get his wife back. He was pretty sure he could do that, but for that damn therapist who kept talking to her. The therapist would never encourage her to return to him. Just the opposite, she’d gotten his wife to take a protection order against him, and he could not go closer than 100 feet to her! He’d lost custody of his son…”all because he’d lost his temper…once…okay, maybe two or three times. He didn’t mean to hurt her, but she aggravated him so much, she was so stupid sometimes. Still, she was drop dead gorgeous, and he loved her in some ways. But sometimes, he just had to haul off and smack her! He just got out of control this last time. He didn’t mean to pick up the butcher knife, didn’t mean to cut her arm, her hands–he was just so mad, and the knife was just there. It really was her fault, if she would just shut up!”

“I truly believe I can get her back, if I can just talk to her! I have to see her,” Mack thought to himself. So, he hatched a plan. They both had to go to the large public mental health center for counseling. The center took great pains to schedule them on different days however, so they wouldn’t cross paths.

“What can I do? How can I fix it so we are forced to run into each other there, and we can talk?” Mack knew there had to be a way, and he was scheming as hard as he could! When he was at the center for his group therapy tonight, he noticed that the cleaning crew left the front office open while carrying out the trash. The office was always locked, you had to talk to the receptionist through a glass window. But here was the door, propped open! There sat the appointment calendar for anyone to thumb through! Quickly, he picked it up, opened it to the current week, and “yes! –Marissa was scheduled at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Stupid therapist!” A plan began to form in his mind.

Wednesday brought a bright, sunny day in Georgia. Marissa was scared to death as she loaded the last suitcase in the trunk of her car. She’d already arranged for the sale of her car, and the buyer was taking delivery in an hour at the Mental Health Center of all places.  She was headed to school to get her five year old son Michael. She couldn’t believe it, but she was leaving the state today!

She really thought Mack was going to kill her this last time he’d beat her. He’d cut her as well. Although she loved him, she knew now that he’d surely kill her if she let him into her life again. Her own group and individual therapy had convinced her she had to get away. She should have done it while he was in jail, but now she had to take Michael and go! She had no money–that was part of the problem. But once she’d convinced the therapist she was serious, the shelter had introduced her to the Underground Railroad for Abused Women. She was scared to death, but today was the day. She would take Michael with her to the Mental Health Center.  A lady from the Women’s Shelter would meet them there, and take them to the train, bus, or airport, she wouldn’t know until it happened. They would give her a new ID, a new passport, and send her to a home where she and Michael would stay, just tonight, one night! The next night they would be staying in a different home or shelter, or hotel. Her expenses were taken care of. It was like entering the witness protection program. She’d filed for divorce while Mack was in jail. He’d signed the papers in exchange for reduced active time. She’d said goodbye to the few friends and family she had, just saying she had a job opportunity and was moving away. Her parents were deceased, she hoped to never see Mack again.

Marissa knew that in about seven to ten days, she and Michael, from now on to be called Ken, Kenny, or Kenneth, and his Mom Carol, would arrive at their new home, an apartment paid for by the Underground Railroad. Kenny would go to school and be safe she hoped. She had a job waiting for her, she didn’t even know what yet, but different from what she’d done before. She was scared a bit, nervous, but excited also. “Finally,” she thought “Michael And I will be free, safe, and able to pursue a more normal lifestyle.” She was only thirty years old.

Meanwhile, back in Atlanta, Mack was putting his plan into motion. What he didn’t know was that Marissa and Kenny had arrived at the Center at one thirty. She had signed papers and transferred the title to her car to its new owner. Pocketing the cash, she met with her therapist only long enough to say goodbye and be shown out the back door to a waiting car, with tinted windows, where they quickly loaded her, Michael, and their suitcases. Waving goodbye, Marissa and Michael were gone, on their way to their new life before two o’clock.

Not knowing any of this, Mack took a break from work “to run an important errand,” he told his boss. Within minutes, he’d called in a bomb threat against the Mental Health Center from a pay phone. He drove directly there, thinking he would surely find his wife in the parking lot, evacuated along with everyone else. He laughed, no one could beat him, he always got what he wanted!

When Mack pulled up near the Mental Health Center, he was delighted to see all the staff and clients standing out in the parking lot, just as he’d predicted. He parked on the street, and began to look for Marissa. He saw the police forming teams, each with a bomb-sniffing dog, and enter the building to search. Half of him wished he’d been able to plant a real bomb!

He walked around a bit, but didn’t see her! “Where could she be?” He knew she wouldn’t still be in the building. Then he saw her therapist, his also, “that stupid woman!” He looked carefully, then approached the counselor. “Hi Angela, what’s going on?”

Angela was surprised to see Mack for sure! She smiled at him and said, “Hi Mack, what brings you here this time of day?”

“Well, I was coming by to settle my bill, and I heard on the radio about the bomb threat. Thought I’d swing by and check it out. Everyone okay? I thought I’d heard that Marissa had an appointment this afternoon, it worried me, so is she here?“

Red flags went up immediately in the therapist’s brain and intuition, but she stayed calm, and kept a smile on her face, as she said, “Oh, thank heavens, as it turns out, Marissa canceled today. I can’t remember why, but we rescheduled for later in the week.” (She lied to protect Marissa, hoping the delayed appointment time would keep him from searching for her beyond the center.)

Mack said he had to get back to work, but she saw him circling the crowd and the building. She immediately sought out the nearest police officer she could find. She pointed Mack out as she and the officer watched him get into his car and drive away. Immediately, the officer issued a bulletin for him to be brought in for questioning as a person of interest in the planting of the bomb at the Mental Health Center, or the issuing of a false report.

It was determined before long that there was no bomb in the building. Angela entered with all the other staff, although she didn’t feel very safe or comfortable. The afternoon and evening continued as if nothing had happened. About six o’clock however, Angela got to talk to the same police officer she’d seen earlier. She reminded him that she’d reported that one of her male clients, arrested formerly for domestic violence, was seen loitering around the Center during the bomb threat evacuation, and that he’d admitted he was looking for his wife, from whom he was separated. She asked if he knew whether or not he’d been involved.

The officer said he was just coming to see if Angela was still in the building, and continued to tell her the outcome. They had picked Mack up to be questioned as a person of interest. Under intensive interrogation, Mack had admitted he had planned the whole thing, that he had called in the bomb threat. He admitted that he’d wanted to see his wife evacuated from the building, and even how he’d discovered her appointment time!

Angela was surprised and saddened, even though on some level she’d suspected just that! She knew, and it came to happen, that when he appeared in court the next morning, his probation was revoked and he was sent back to jail for breaking the terms of his release–trying to harm his wife, get close to her, possibly threaten or intimidate her, and calling in a false report. This meant of course, Angela would no longer have him in the Men’s Violent Offender’s Group either. While sad, and wishing she could have done more to help this couple, she also used his incarceration as a warning to other group members that they meant business–that if the men failed to attend group and participate, or broke the rules of their probation or restraining orders, they would be reported and go back to jail. It had an impact, most didn’t want to lose their freedom.

Mack got out of jail a year later, and immediately went to see Marissa. He was surprised to learn she had moved away quite a while ago, no one seemed to remember just when. He used the internet, but could find no trace of her. After he was back at work, he used his first paycheck to hire a private detective to find her. Even the detective was unable to discover her whereabouts. The women’s shelter, the Underground Railroad had done their jobs well, and Carol and Kenny were happy in their new home and community.

(© This fictional story by Helen Y. Holshouser, was inspired by a true one, unfortunately.)

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“L” is for Liam, 7- Year- Old Grandson Has His Own Blog!




I have been blogging for a couple years now, mostly genealogical in nature. A couple weeks ago, my 7 year old, first grader, grandson Liam and his class at school started blogging! I was very surprised, and thrilled! Another writer in the family! Of couse, don’t tell him that, he’ll tell you quickly he’s going to be a State Park Ranger like his Papa!

Liam is the son of  my daughter Ali and her husband Greg Orcutt.  Liam is a nickname, named for his Great-Grandfather William Donald Brown, and his Great- Uncle  William Donald Brown II, called Bill (Greg’s mother–Kaysie Brown’s father and brother). So three in a row we have William, Bill, now Liam, all from the same name! I think that is very cool! A wonderful tribute to beloved family members as well.

Liam does so many wonderful and fun things, as you can see from above, but today, I wanted to share his blog with you. It is on a site for his school, not available to the general public. However, he was kind enough to let me repost his blog posts!

Liam concentrating so hard, has his little tongue out, just like his momma used to do when she was little! LOL   Liam’s Blog               

March 30, 2015  9:52am

Thursday night, me and my sister got new shoes. I thought mine were best!


March 30, 2015, 4:05 pm

“My Base” 

 I built a new base on “Disney Infinity.”  It has a hiding place.  I made a world for it myself.  


 April 7, 2015, 4:50pm

Walt Disney World

 My family is going to Disney World. We are so, so , SO excited.  I ‘m really excited to go to Star Tours and Animal Kingdom.  





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K is for Katy! My 3 Year-Old Granddaughter




Katy at 3rd birthday party. Collage by her father's sister, her Aunt Amy Orcutt Pickering.

Katy turned 3 on January 21, 2015,  Princess cupcake cake made by Aunt Annie Holshouser was a hit!


Kathryn Marie Orcutt, called Katy, my precious granddaughter, lights up our lives with her sweetness and joy. She is the daughter of Gregory Orcutt and Alexandra Kathryn Orcutt, my daughter. 

When she is sitting calmly by herself –sometimes, you can hear her singing her current favorite song–“Everything is Awesome!”


Katy climbing where she should not go

“Look at me! First I pulled all the videos off the shelf, then I climbed right up and leaned, fell, jumped over to the back of the chair! Now, how am I going to get down?! Help, Mommy! “

Katy is a daredevil too, however, so she keeps us  on the edge of our seats! She loves to climb and nothing is too daunting for her!  She once tried to climb  the long chain hanging  down from a stained glass lamp and pulled the treasured lamp, made by her Granddaddy, right out of the ceiling! Thank heavens, she wasn’t hurt, nor was the lamp, miraculously!


Katy the flower girl at Amy Orcutt's wedding, Oct. 11, 2014

Graceful flower girl in her Aunt Amy Orcutt Pickering’s wedding.


Katy is named after several beloved family members– first and foremost, her mother Ali, Alexandra Kathryn Holshouser Orcutt. We also have my beloved cousin Kathryn Youngblood Fuller, and my mother’s sister Katherine named after her mother–my maternal grandmother Katherine Steptoe Houchins Kearse/Kerse (called Kate) . These are some of the treasured family members her parents were thinking of when they named her Katy.

 Her middle name Marie, is just as, or even more prevalent in our family.  Max Holshouser, my husband, Ali’s father, Katy’s  granddaddy–his mother was Helen Marie Wagner Holshouser.  Helen Marie named her daughter Brenda Marie, Max’s sister. Brenda named one of her three daughters Patrice Marie, Patrice had Amanda Marie, who has Paisley Marie! That’s five generations of Marie’s in Ali’s father’s family!

I also had an Aunt Helen Marie Youngblood Webb, who had a daughter Grace Marie Webb Wingo , and a granddaughter through her son Philip named  Maria Webb.  In the South, we love family legacies, and family names, it makes genealogy harder, but it is a loving tribute.

Katy with wings and sophia gown cropped

Katy pretends she can fly as she jumps off the sofa, fairy wings held high!

Katy was a premature baby like both of her siblings. She was  6 weeks   early, and had to be in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit for  about three weeks.  That was an extremely stressful time!  Every developmental milestone she reaches, counting, recognizing letters, talking– is duly noted by her mom, and her psychologist grandmother!  We are very aware of the concerns–possible leaning difficulties. So far she is meeting or exceeding every developmental milestone, counts and knows all her letters, and even laughs at her grandmother’s jokes! 

Katy’s current favorite joke is this one which sends her off into peals of laughter!

Knock Knock                
Who’s there
Banana                                   20140801_150129
Banana who…
Knock Knock
Who’s there
Banana who…
Knock Knock
Who’s there
Banana who…
(This bit can go on for some time!!)
Knock Knock
Who’s there
Orange who…
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana again!!

She even likes to tell it herself, dress herself, walk by herself, eat by herself, and just do everything–“by myself!” Miss Independent! I love it and her.  (Sorry if it doesn’t show, LOL)  I’d love to hear about the special kids in your own life! Thanks for sharing  with me. Helen

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“J” ~ Juvenile Detention/Treatment Center




Teen in jail

source: httpwww.independent.co.uknewsworldamericasorange-jumpsuit-for-nineyearold-whos-accused-of-shooting-girl-7440652.html


After college, for seven years before graduate school, I was a teacher of  children and adolescents with emotional and behavioral disorders.  So it stood to reason that my first job offer right out of grad school with my Master’s in Clinical Psychology, was in a juvenile treatment facility.   I was the “Staff Psychologist” (masters, not PhD), and there were 8 to 10 kids for whom I was regularly responsible. There were, all together, about 50 adolescents, ages 12-18 in the building.  Most were “Juvenile Offenders”, meaning they had been picked up by the police for shoplifting, fighting, or breaking other laws and were mainly with us awaiting their first day in court. In those days, the 1980’s, there were some kids who’d been apprehended for running away. The police picked kids up for that back then, not today.  These kids were only with us two or three days usually, and I only worked with them if they were suicidal.  

I was hired to work with kids who had been proven violent and aggressive by the courts and mental health agencies, and were therefore locked away from general society, called treatment, not jail.  


I was actually quite excited to have this  job opportunity. Coming right out of school with training in behavior modification, and realizing there was a caring, committed, and well-trained staff already in place, I truly, with all the enthusiasm and naivety of youth, believed we could turn these kids and their lives around–inside out– and send them on the “right” path through life.

We controlled their every move. Child care workers (guards) told them when to dress, eat, and sleep. They slept in individual locked cells. The doors along the hall were locked every ten feet or so, leading to other areas of the small building. I had to learn to buy and wear clothes with pockets in them, so I could carry my keys with me at all times. The kids went to school in this small, squat brick building as well– in fact lived there–sometimes for years. They played outdoors where there was a basketball hoop surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence, and they had therapy.  If they behaved and followed the rules, they could earn privileges including going out of the facility, to see a movie, to shop, or maybe even to see family. Staff was generally kind to them, there were long talks with lots of people–even the cooks and teachers, the director, all were involved.

If a kid had a temper tantrum, “broke bad” , child care staff would go silent. They would surround the child, and take him or her to the floor gently by sweeping them up by their feet, while others held their shoulders.  Then they picked the kid up with about six of them carrying him. They would take them to a “cooling off” room, and put them on a bed where they were put in five point restraints until they were calm. If the kid was a head banger, or tried to bite the staff, they had a helmet put on their head, and a mouth guard put in their mouth. The psychologist, social worker or head child care staff were the only ones who were  supposed to talk during this time, to see if the child was okay, if they wanted to cooperate, if they were ready to talk– instead of course, to threaten, kick, hit, spit, bite, or whatever.

When I started working at this facility, my oldest daughter was 12. She had a favorite pair of black jeans she wore, with a pink lining which had little black polka dots. My very first day on the job, I walked in–and my first sight was to see the staff having to take down a kicking, screaming, biting young girl, who was only 12 herself! As I watched them helmet her, I realized she had on those same black jeans with the pink polka-dotted lining, that I’d just left at home on my own child! I had to leave the room as tears flooded my eyes!

Individual and group therapy, and designing behavioral modification structures,  was mostly what I did at the center. We were teaching the kids to talk about things instead of acting them out…in babysteps. So we had group sessions often.  We role played behaviors, we talked about families, we talked about growing up in a facility, getting out, how to cope, so forth and so on. Sometimes it went very well– sometimes not so good!

I remember very clearly one time when we were meeting for group therapy– I was sitting on a couch with one other teen, and the other eight kids were seated in a circle. The very same young girl I’d seen restrained my first day at work, was sitting across from me now, almost 2 years later. She was getting angrier as the group discussed an earlier altercation on the playground. It had cost a lot of them privileges, and even though painful, we were trying to learn what principles had been taught by it. Sally (fictitious name) was getting angry and I could tell. I was getting ready to ask her if she needed to take a timeout, or to take some deep breaths.  Before I could blink however, she attacked me! She leaped out of her chair and it seemed like she was flying across the room! Then she jumped on me– grabbed me around the neck, and took me over the back of the sofa onto the floor! Before I could get a breath, six childcare staff, summoned by the one who’d been in the room, surrounded her and took her off of me and once again put her in restraints. Her lack of impulse control, was greater than her loathing/fear of going back into the restraints.

I wish I could tell you that we did indeed “turn these kids lives around”.  Unfortunately, I saw many  transfer out at age 18, only to be arrested a few weeks or months later for hurting someone! Then they went to jail. I became very disenchanted, and more cynical. I became a believer in the “missing gene” theories of crime, it surely seemed  like something was missing for these kids, with such highly invested treatment, not to be able or willing to change their behavior. Some seemed to literally have no conscience, to be budding psychopaths and sociopaths. 

One Friday night, about 10pm, when I was at the Juvenile Center because one of the “regular juveniles”  had threatened suicide, I talked on the phone with my husband.  He was home alone with our two children, ages 7 and 15, and his wheelchair-bound father, who had moved in with us after his mother had died. I found myself asking , “How are the kids there, honey? Did they get to bed easily?”  In turn, he asked, “How are the kids there doing?” WHOP! That conversation hit me upside the head, and got my attention!  I was suposed to be at home, helping him raise our own kids.  Yes, I felt a great responsibility and caring for the kids at the Juvenile Center, but actually, they were beginning to get more of me than my own family! That was a turning point, and it wasn’t long before I had moved to outpatient counseling of adults, families, and groups in a center owned by a private psychiatric hospital.  As the director of the small counseling center, I also got to teach seminars all over the community, in schools, churches, and businesses–I was a teacher at heart and loved it.  A whole new chapter of my life..one full of new experiences and joys had opened–and although I was sad to leave the Juvenile Center behind, I was thrilled to move on as well. 





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