by Tom Edwards

This winter, by the pitiful standards of Southeast Missouri, has been particularly harsh. The region has received about twice the amount of snow, sleet, freezing rain, and the ominously vague 'wintery mix' than it did last year.

This season has brought a potpourri of ice falling from the skies from the light and fluffy stuff to the heavy, sloppy crap to what could best be called 'chunky rain'--the ugly, unfriendly bastard cousin of a cold, stinging rain.

The temperatures have bordered on the sadistic at times. It was so frigid one night that we registered the coldest temperature in the United States. Yep, how d'ya like us now Grand Rapids, Michigan? Who's talking now, International Falls, Minnesota? Your icy grip on the trophy wasn't so tight after all.

It's one of the few honorary distinctions where the winner doesn't have to do a thing-- which is good for this drowsy town. There wasn't any boisterous fanfare following the recognition because every living creature in the area was catatonic with booger stalactites hanging from nostrils and freezer burn on faces.

Definitely, Old Man Winter has bent us over his knee for what has been a vigorous 3-month long spanking.

Typically, people in this part of the country react to any forecast of inclement weather on par with Biblical Armageddon. They mobilize in droves to the nearest shopping center to stock up on the essentials. They must act before the coming paralysis of the greater metropolitan area. They must act before that first solitary snowflake forms around a speck of dust in a nimbus cloud drifting above Oklahoma.

People need eggs, sugar, flour, and milk-and don't forget cigarettes-just in case they need to whip up a batch of souffles, crepes, and a couple quarts of hollandaise sauce by 6:15 the next morning.

That night, as snow comes spitting toward the earth, Southeast Missourians drive their grocery laden automobiles with a certain deficiency, or complete lack, of intestinal fortitude.

Tip: When going up a hill, unless you're in a Sherman tank, there has to be enough momentum gained to mount the hill before the incline is encountered by the automobile. Translation: PUNCH IT, SOCCERMOM! Result: An exhilarating, out-of-control assault up and over a hill. The downward side of the hill is up to you. Most prefer a frenzied pumping of the brakes, rigor mortis, and a fair dose of prayer.

By seven o'clock in the morning everyone breathes a little easier as plows unearth the one and half inches of snow and trucks dump enough sodium chloride on the roadways to salt a pretzel the size of Saturn- not to mention the extensive sanding effort that invariably ends up encrusted on the floorboards of cars. It does come in handy if you're looking for a suitable place to start plugs of fresh sod for spring, however.

By 7:30 the kids hear the good news from the school superintendent that school's out. They are therein free to travel to the mall, arcade, or their boyfriend or girlfriend's house while their parents are out working for their allowances.

In years past, they didn't call school off for any weather event-even it made the journey to school seem like the Iditarod. If you lost a few kids to frostbite or a couple toddlers vanished into an icy crevasse, so what? The turning wheels of primary education stopped for no one or nothing and the superintendent reigned with an iron fist.

Nowadays, by the effect of overly litigious liability issues, there could be a slushy patch on some road out in the boondocks and some spineless school bureaucrat would pull the trigger on yet another snow day.

At last count, I believe we were approaching a baker's dozen of snow days for this school year. What's next? 'Rain days'? 'Wind days'? 'Cold days'? 'It was supposed to snow but it didn't days'?

By 10 o'clock the last remaining tufts of snow are melting and people begin to assess the fallout.The print media weighs in on the financial boon to local business by interviewing various elderly grocery bag boys who persevered through the pre-storm madness. The local TV station banishes some poor anchor out onto the streets to find a 'dangerously wintery' locale for 'Aftermath: WinterStorm'03: Heartland Winter Wonderland or Hellish, Icy Death Trap?'.

By the noon o'clock news, the airwaves are filled with an indepth expose featuring yokels swapping stories about how this one compared to the 'Blizzard of '79'.

But I guess you don't remember that one. The townspeople had to construct igloos, hunt small game using nothing more than sharpened sticks, huddle around crudely fashioned fire pits, and still find a way to get their kids to school.