Gustav's Northern Edge

Louisiana's Convention Delegates Go About Their Business Under the Hurricane's Far-Reaching Cloud of Concern

MINNEAPOLIS The TV people kept talking about the hurricane's "cone of uncertainty," and as Gustav barreled toward the Gulf Coast, the ladies of Lafayette were at a party that had turned into a vigil. The cone of uncertainty also resided here.

"I told Charlie today, I said, 'I just have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that I've never had before,' " said Peggy Buckels, 59, whose husband is the vice chairman of the Louisiana Republican Party. "I don't normally. I turn it over to God."

"I keep calling home every two hours," said Sandy Hindelang, 60, whose husband and teenage son were back home while she served as a delegate here. Her husband is an OB-GYN. He was to be on call Tuesday.

"I'm not gonna feel good till mine are on the road," Buckels said, and by "mine" she meant: two adult daughters, one son-in-law, several grandchildren, three dogs and a cat.

What a party, huh? This was supposed to be the Louisiana delegation's Saturday night celebration, except half the people weren't here because they were back home preparing for the wreckage of Hurricane Gustav. And the ones who did make it here were worried sick. The private room at GameWorks was too big for the hundred or so people who showed, and only a few folks used the bowling lanes or the dart boards. Too much food, not an ounce of frivolity. Rows and rows of cheese slices were about to start sweating.

They'd tried to hurricane-proof their homes, even though, as Charlie Buckels put it, "there's no way to hurricane-proof your home." Still, he taped up the windows, pulled potted plants and the barbecue grill inside. The knot of women from Lafayette figured the damage to their homes wouldn't be nearly as bad as what might hit New Orleans 135 miles east -- and the damage, in any case, was secondary. The lives, that's what they talked about.

But they had a job to do. That's what they kept saying. Elected delegates with a job to do -- officially make John McCain the Republican nominee for president.

"Have you talked to men?" asked Hindelang. "The men are going, 'Oh, it's no big deal. . . . I'm Mr. Macho, nothing's gonna bother me.' "

"We're gonna take what happens," said Charlie Buckels, stoically, standing across the room near the bar. "We're gonna go forward from there."

The cone of uncertainty was all weekend, as the traditional pomp of the political convention fell away. President Bush announced he wouldn't be coming Monday as planned. On Sunday, planners started turning parties into fundraisers for the future victims of Gustav. (A big Monday night bash called "the Spirits of Minneapolis" became "the Spirits of the Gulf Coast," with attendees encouraged to give money to the Red Cross. The Democrats, meanwhile, canceled a media reception at what they called their "More of the Same Media Center.")

Delegates, finding themselves with muddy schedules and the prospect of lots of free time, talked about being flexible.

"It'll give us some more time to get to know Minnesota," said Paul Whetten, a delegate from Mesa, Ariz., walking through the lobby of the Saint Paul Hotel with his wife, Sally.