STRANGER THAN FICTION: THERE'S NO BUSINESS LIKE SNOW BUSINESS

Apparently, Cape Girardeau is going to be blessed with more than its usual share of white stuff this year.

I mean snow, of course. Only members of the media say "white stuff," because after days and days of snow, we're looking for ways to make it sound interesting.

Did it work?

The last time I enjoyed snow, I was 17 and praying to see the words "Sikeston High School" flash up on a television screen. A snow day back then meant curling up with a cup of powdered, generic hot chocolate -- nothing but the best for our family -- and the TV Guide.

After watching several hours of mind-numbing television, I might magnanimously pull on some warm clothes, go outside and play Snow Fort with my sisters. You know, the game where you press snow into a short wall, hunker down behind it and smack people with ice balls.

Somebody always ends up crying after a game of Snow Fort, but that never stops kids from going out and doing it the next time. Ain't childhood grand? It's amazing we made it through sane and with both eyeballs.

When employment starts, the love of snow ends. You never wake up at 6:30 a.m. and turn on the radio to see if the Southeast Missourian canceled work for the day. You wake up at 7:30 a.m. and see if you can beat the clock to get there by 8, but you don't, of course, because of all the snow.

Just kidding, Mr. Rust!

My trip to work is more complicated than most people's because of my second-story apartment. It sits at the end of a very, very steep driveway where angels fear to tread, never mind Toyota Tercels.

The extent of snow removal done by management is the 10-pound bag of ice melt kindly deposited on our steps at the beginning of the winter. It's apparently meant to last until the first spring flower blooms. Other than that, we're on our own.

Getting down the driveway isn't really the problem. It's getting back up.

I usually build some speed and make a run at it, getting halfway up before the tires start spinning uselessly. After cursing Mother Nature, the architect who designed the driveway and the apartment's management, I park my car at the bottom with all the rest and start trudging up in impractical shoes.

There's a lot to think about during those cold, dark walks. How I might fall and slide to my death under a snowplow. How much money there would be in it for me if I survived. How I'd wheel into the courtroom in a body cast with the jury yelling, "How much do you want? Fifteen million? Twenty million?"

"No, no," I'd say. "I'm not here to make money. I'm doing this to make a point. But maybe there's just one thing ..."

"What is it? Tell us," they'd say.

"I'd like to see someone beaten senseless with a 10-pound bag of ice melt."

So far, I've made it home alive in each of our three major snows this winter. After the last one, I actually fell on my back and made a snow angel. Hah hah! I thought. I'm not an old biddy! I can enjoy the snow as much as I ever did! So there!

Then I felt the ice slide down my collar.

This weekend, the temperatures are supposed to be above 50 degrees, but don't kid yourself. It's the annual Southeast Missouri Fool's Spring event, where we cast off our heavy coats and smile with a false sense of security.

Meanwhile, Mother Nature is thinking, "Suckers!" and preparing to dump more white stuff on us.

You just wait.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.