I like to think that if Dessie were coming of age today, she’d be a child psychologist. She always knew how to make my brother George and me do just exactly what she wanted. She kept a fly swatter on top of the refrigerator, and that’s what she “swatted” us with if we misbehaved. Dessie could wield that fly swatter with the grace that a fly fisherman casts his line—and make the accompanying swishing sounds to go with it. Just seeing her arm
