My sister Rose was going skiing! A shocking idea. In the late 1950s, skiing was akin to going on an African safari. Public housing occupants did not have the financial resources to spend a weekend skiing. The few families with pre-war cars barely made it up a hill, never mind a mountain in New Hampshire. As far as I knew, there was no subway to go up to the mountains.

But here was 17-year-old Rose asking Dad to let her go skiing with her friend, Lulu, for a four-day skiing trip. Wanting to head off any concerns of Dad, Rose brought along 20-year-old Lulu to assure Dad they would be staying at a cabin with her aunt and uncle. Truthfully, Ma would have forbidden it, but Dad, now a widower, was an easy pushover. He would have never said no, even if Rose asked to go on an African safari.

As to being an athlete, Rose was a project athlete. Her daily exercise was bending and stretching to fit in her one-size-too-small jeans.

She could be an Olympic contender in fighting if there was a classification of street fighter. Rose took no guff from anybody. While she was not a bully, she had the reputation of being a world-class finger thumper on anyone's chest who dared to hurt any of her friends or family. Her greatest weapon was her voice. When angered, her vocal sound was loud, lightning-quick, and emphatic.
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When she was in full fighting mode and angry, it was akin to being caught in the vortex of a tornado, as evidenced by family stories, told mainly by her, of how she decked her husband when she found him cheating. She sent him a strong message their marriage was over when he came home late and found his clothes, including his underwear, hanging from the trees where Rose tossed them from the 3rd-floor porch.

Like an Olympian, Rose had a professional "athletic team" consisting of: Cookie, Lucky, Lulu, Angelo, Deacon, Butchie, Shakes, DeeDee, Chickie, and Terry. They were pros at climbing in and out of 2nd story windows at night to meet each other in the project tunnel.

Knowing Rose's lack of skiing experience, I kept expecting a phone call that weekend telling Dad that there was an accident. We did not have a phone and had to rely on hard-of-hearing Mrs. Gillis next door to give us emergency telephone calls. I barely slept worrying about Rose. I had seen skiers on TV flying through the air after jumping off a ramp. I thought of Rose flying off a ramp like a flying squirrel, her arms and legs spread out as she screams and lands flat in the snow or gets hurled off the mountain. She could get buried in an avalanche or be in traction with broken arms and legs.

I put Nana's rosary beads, St. Christopher, and St. Anthony medals under my pillow, praying for Rose's safety.

Monday morning, there was a loud banging on our door. Dad opened to find Mrs. Gillis, cane in hand, ready to knock again.

"There is a call for you."

Everything I feared had to have happened; I grabbed the rosary beads as Dad left to answer the phone.
I had closed my eyes and held onto the Rosary Beads as Dad returned. He was red-faced and looked angry.

There was no ski trip, no hurling down the mountain. Rose was in New Hampshire alright, but she had eloped with her boyfriend, Angelo. As it turned out, perhaps being in traction would have been better than marriage to Angelo.

Dad never forgave Lulu for covering for Rose; I do not think his view of her would have improved had he known that Lulu was a prostitute.