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

By Libby Copeland
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, September 1, 2008

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.

McCain appeared at a news conference in St. Paul by satellite to announce that for now, delegates should be Americans first and Republicans second, and that he was canceling all but what was absolutely necessary for the first day of the convention. Rick Davis, the campaign chairman, appeared on the podium to say soberly that the candidate might not be appearing at all, and to add that he couldn't foresee what the next few days would bring.

"By nature, it is an unpredictable event," he told the crush of media overflowing the room.

Unpredictable and slow and fateful, the way you could feel the disaster rolling in. That cone of uncertainty.

"You understand what's really important," said Gary Jones, chairman of the Oklahoma Republican Party, who was attending the Louisiana delegation's event. Jones is used to tornadoes -- you hear one is coming and within a few hours it makes landfall, he said. The destruction is small by comparison. With hurricanes, "you're talking about two weeks of waiting," Jones said. And then, the aftermath. Which, this time around -- well, no one knew quite what to expect, but the women feared the worst. They watched the television screen above their table. Somebody remarked that even her stubborn-as-a-mule dad had left his home, and wasn't that something.

"I didn't leave for Lili, I didn't leave for Andrew, I didn't leave for Rita, but this I would leave for," said Peggy Buckels. (That is, if she hadn't already left to come here.)

"Jindal is doing -- he's doing everything he can possibly do," said Madeleine Deslatte, 43, an alternate delegate, referring to Louisiana Gov. Bobby Jindal.

"Before, we used to have hurricane parties," Hindelang said. "We would just ride it out." And by "before" she meant Rita and Katrina.

"I will stay through a Category 3," Buckels said.

"See, it depends on what happens once it hits the gulf," Deslatte said.

"I went to the mall and I felt guilty," said Hindelang, who stared up at the news on the television screen as she spoke.

Every once in a while, someone hurried over and dropped a piece of information. The women craned forward for the briefings -- how the evacuations were going, whether the storm might turn toward Vermilion Bay, 40 miles south of their homes in Lafayette. They talked about storm surge and they said things like "For Hurricane Betsy in 1965 . . . ." They talked about the uncertain future.

"My dad has a home in Cocodrie," Deslatte said. "This could take it out."

"It's the lives," Hindelang said.

And then they left to take one of the last shuttles back to their hotel.

Get home safe, a reporter said, meaning the hotel.

"We hope we have a home to go home to," said Connie Boyer, 61, already way past the convention in her mind.

Staff writers Roxanne Roberts and Holly Watt contributed to this report.