Roc

Disaster planning and recovery meeting, bayou country, southwest Louisiana:

Miss Ellie, the obese woman in a motorized wheelchair, wraps herself in a plaid blanket and opens the meeting with a prayer, and later wheels over to the corner to talk "in private" every time her cell phone rings.

Paula, the chair of the meeting, a chainsmoking overworked control freak, has a lot to say, but doesn't seem to have an agenda for the afternoon, as the topics veer from FEMA to elevation levels for homes to evacuation centers to resources available for disabled residents to food distribution.

Reverend Bob bats down the idea of a phone tree during a disaster, saying, "I sure as hell will be outta here, so it's going to be pretty damn useless to have my name on that list if I'm evacuated to Tennessee."

I sit there typing out email on my Blackberry to my colleague sitting next to me ("It appears there's no agenda... Ugh!") as the meeting gets boring, but keep an eye on who's there so I can pass out my business card at the appropriate time.

Julie, the smartly-dressed and made-up young assistant for the committee, sits patiently with crossed legs dangling her high-heeled shoe at the end of her toe, saying nothing.

Janelle, the only African American in the room, keeps getting up for more soda in the back of the room, and I can't figure out what organization she works with.

Marcel, with a ruddy face and crisp grey business suit, stresses the need to encourage the public to evacuate in the case of emergency - "Y'all weren't there with me in the boat in New Orleans, paddling past bodies floating in the water. It's irresponsible not to tell people to leave. We will have blood on our hands." Marcel is breaking up, his composure nearly crumbling under the weight of his memories of Katrina.

Roc, an 80-something son of the land, still living in his shack on the bayou, shoots back angrily, "That ain't nothin'! I seen thousands of bodies piled up during the war. Ain't nobody can't tell me I gotta leave my home. I sat out lots o' hurricanes, and I got an ax so I can bust outta my attic if I need to."

At this, the meeting grumbles and moans as Paula and Miss Ellie shake their heads and try to regain order.