Beyond Katrina

On the Scene

By: Rick Portier

The suits finally pulled the trigger. I made it to Grand Isle, Louisiana at midnight. Right now all the experts are saying it'll be a nice day for folks who are boarding up and the photogs who are shooting them.

Only premium gas to be found anywhere south of my hometown of Thibodaux. When I called that info in to the station, the producers asked me for a phoner about it. (I'm sure it's somewhere on wafb.com.) So I made my first Hurricane report before I even got in place.

I'm headed out to look for something too shoot. Jim Shannon and Joe McCoy are already in upper Lafourche parish checking on evacuations. They're picking up video on the way south for this evenings stories.

Rain is supposed to begin Sunday afternoon. Not sure how long I'll be here, or how much I'll be able to blog. But check in here and the WAFB blog. http://wafb.typepad.com/covering_gustav

Rick Portier is a television news photographer in Baton Rouge. For more of his unique stories and interesting rants see his personal blog at http://turdpolisher.blogspot.com/

Live from Louisiana: A Hurricane Blogger's Personal Journal 8/29/08 3:04 pm CT

When I started this blog on the eve of Hurricane Katrina's landfall it was titled "Live from Louisiana: A Hurricane Blogger's Personal Journal". After Katrina went on to be the biggest disaster in contemporary U.S. history, I changed the name of the blog to "Hurricane Katrina"...and then eventually settled on "Beyond Katrina: The Voice of Hurricane & Disaster Recovery".

While recovery continues to date, about a year ago I found that I had Katrina fatigue and that I really couldn't talk about the issues publicly anymore. For the reason, over the past year or so, the blog has more or less functioned as a news aggregator. However, inasmuch as today is Katrina's third anniversary and I'm facing the eve of another potential Louisiana land falling cane, I feel moved to ramp up the personal blogging again. Thoughts are I'll do it as a series at this blog in honor of the pubs original title. So here's the first post in the series:

It's mass insanity here in Baton Rouge and across the state today as Louisiana prepares for the possibility that Gustav will make landfall somewhere on our coast. We're all experiencing a time warp - it's dejavu all over again.  As was similar for Katrina we're moving into the week-end (same time frame three years later) in a great deal of anxiety and anticipation.

I have heard from all of Beyond Katrina's contributors and stakeholders over the course of the past few days. My wonderful and talented PR strategist, Rebecca Rainer just emailed and reminded me that I need to eat my wheaties if I'm gonna make it through this marathon. Paul Greenberg and Itouched base few days ago. He writes, "We're all pretty nervous here in New Orleans right now. I'm going to Morgan City on Friday night for the Shrimp and Petroleum festival, and if I have to evacuate I'll go from there, I guess toward Lafayette.  UGH!". Rick Portier is about to head out on storm coverage assignment at ground zero, should  Gustav truly make it's way here. Matthew White, who is situated at the North Shore of Lake Pontchartrain, (right where Katrina made its second landfall at the Pearl River La/Ms border)  is making evac plans as we speak. And Maida Owens (who works for the state) said every body seemed a little manic yesterday as folks rushed plans to completion before leaving for the Labor Day Holiday.

The theme that runs through most of these conversations is DREAD. While we Louisianians are seasoned veterans when it comes to the canes, it's just too soon. Our memories of Katrina and Rita are still so fresh and indelibly etched into our brains. And while we're all aware that this could be a total bust - Gustav could land anywhere - we still have to go through all the motions - we have to act as if.  Storm prep and particularly EVACS are just no fun...

Left Behind?

By: Rick Portier

I don't get introspective often. It's not what you come here for. The cocky persona, the swagger I adopt when I strap on my babycam are more necessity than really me. It's just easier to witness the low points in so many lives through cynically colored glasses.

But Gustav has given me pause. Five years ago, the best meteorologists could give us with any measure of certainty was a three day forecast. That gave fools like me, who rush headlong into the teeth of stroms, little time to reflect on what might be. Three days was just enough time to throw some clothes in a bag, gas up the sat truck and make it to the coast to watch the surf roll in.

Now, with five-day projections, my brethren and I get to sweat the details. While storm virgins around the station jockey for position to nab a spot on the beach, I've had a knot in my gut for three days.

From the time Gussy flared up, I've had a bad feeling about this one. Twenty years chasing these damn things has taught me to trust my instinct. He may not be another Katrina, but Gustav ain't gonna be pretty.

Storm coverage is never easy. Three, four, five days eating sandy food from a celophane bag. It's long hours, mind-warping stress, and adrenaline rushes you'll never find in any amusement park. It's sugar highs, and big crashes. It's arguments with the house boys, and props to the crew who are the only ones who really know what it took to get the coverage on the air. It's a time for newsies to prove what they're made of. And it's no place to take chances.

Two nights ago the Missus told me she didn't want me to go.  No fussing.  No arguing.  Just a simple statement.

In some homes that might go without notice. At the turdpolisher ranch, it was the first time she's ever said that. It hit home hard. She knows I have to. She'd never reallly try to keep me home. And she knows too well I'd be miserable chasing fallen limbs around Cap City instead of in the thick of the battle. Still, part of me wants to be left behind.

It's not the dry assignment in the State Office of Emergency Preparedness I want. (X-Ray Ted's whiney ass will be comfy and well fed.) It's not that I loathe sleeping on the sat truck floor, a raging case of swamp ass, sand in my teeth, or seaweed in my shorts. It's what these little excursions into absurdity do to my family.

For the past twenty years, every time the suits turned the crank on the hype generator, my wife has put on a brave face, and kissed me good-bye at the door, not really sure when I was coming back. She's been left to keep life normal at home without me.

As much as I worry about everyone back home while I'm wind surfing with a satellite dish, I cannot imagine what I'm putting them through.

Just once I might like to be left behind . . . Probably not. But when winds are raging outside, it's a lot nicer curling up to the STW than a smelly news crew.

Love ya, Gail. See ya when I get back.

Rick Portier is a television news photographer in Baton Rouge. For more of his unique stories and interesting rants see his personal blog at http://turdpolisher.blogspot.com/

CUE THE CLUSTERF^(#

By: Rick Portier

It happened just as the third story of the day slipped through my sweaty fingers. Governor Bobby the Reformer called a press conference.

know what you're thinking. Big deal. Politicians are always summoning news crews to spout some innanity or another. But this presser was official. Even the out of town crews trundled their giant satellite trucks up the highway and onto the lot at the state's office of ememgency preparedness.

9 cameras, five live/satellite trucks. A couple print guys and a radio reporter or two jockeyed their mics for position on the governor's podium. For something this big, it's important the folks back home see your mic flag and know you were there.

Then he said it. If he'd been in Indianapolis, it would have sounded like, "Gentlemen start your engines." Under the portico of the state building, it was more like, "Katrina's coming back and she's pissed."

Bobby the Reformer was quick to point out, and repeat adnausem that Hurricane Gustav was still many days away, but it was time to start preparing. According to the governor, the state is doing its part. And now is the time for the folks at home to do theirs.

In newsrooms across the boot-shaped state, news directors, stackers, and other house boys salivated on cue. (There's nothing like covering a cat. 3-4-5 hurricane from the confines of the turd factory where it's always sunny and 72 degrees.) Then they removed their station's well thought-out ememgency plan from under the foot of the news director's desk (where it was being used to keep the damn thing from wobbleing everytime the head suit touched the keyboard). Blew off a thick layer of dust and chucked it out the window.

Who needs a plan when there's hype to spout? So from now till the killer storm lands somewhere near New Orleans's doorstep, it'll be all Gustav all the time. And just in time for the third anniversary of Katrina.

But seriously, I remember the lack of preparation around the state three years ago. Things sound a lot more organized this time around. And the station is using all the stuff we learned during our Katrina coverage to fine-tune our plans.

This morning, it's looking like we'll be in evacuation/contraflow mode by Saturday. And we'll all be eating soggy Moon Pies and MRE's soon after that. Cue the clusterf^(#!

Rick Portier is a television news photographer in Baton Rouge. For more of his unique stories and interesting rants see his personal blog at http://turdpolisher.blogspot.com/

Unsung Heroes

By: Rick Portier

One of the benefits (and curses) of being one of the more experienced photogs at my station is working solo.  It was on just such a cursed day that I stumbled across my favorite story from the storm.

Dozens of FEMA workers milled about outside the old Dillards building near downtown Baton Rouge. It looked like the fire drills we practiced when I was in grade school.  This was no drill, but there was no danger. Someone accidentally set off a fire alarm in the make-shift FEMA, Because I had no reporter for the day, it was my duty to chase things like this.

It was clear that this would never see the air-waves, but I squeezed off a shot or two just to prove I had been there.  When my cell phone beckoned, I was sure my bosses had found something equally mundane that needed my attention. At the other end of a bad connection,  a raspy voice barked, "Rick, how's it goin' dude?" The voice wasn't familiar.  Neither was the number, but that's not unusual. I give my cell number to lots of strangers. This stranger was a little stranger than most. It's Kevin Cronin. (no, not the lead singer from REO Speedwagon.) Kevin owns Body Image Tattoos on Government St. I worked a story with him several years ago, and he wanted to hook-up again.

Seven ambulances are parked in the gas station next-door to Kevin's shop, none of them local. Inside, a cacophony of voices struggle to be heard over buzzing needles, and The White Stripes blare from a small speaker in the ceiling. There must be 30 people in here, all of them paramedics, EMT's, or first responders.

Kevin pushed his way thru a sea of blue T-shirts from places like Michigan, Illinois, and Hawaii. "Is this great or what? We've been packed for three days. They're all getting Katrina tattoos!"

Kim Paulsen is a big ole boy who doesn't look out of place in a place like this. He's retired from the National  Guard. "I saw people on TV yelling they needed help, so here I am -- on my own dime -- two planes and a bus. No body's paying me to be here." Kim is only one of hundreds of emergency workers in town helping in the recovery. Everyone in the crowded tattoo shop has a similar story. These men and women have lived the tragedy and human suffering wrought by Katrina.

It's Kim's first tat. His bright blue eyes are blank as the artist's needle jabs his shoulder over and over and over applying color to the eye of a hurricane symbol that will be with him for the rest of his life. Kim doesn't want to talk about the emotions he experienced while recovering bodies with the Guard in New Orleans. His tough-guy facade can't hide the pain in his eyes.

Rob Kelly and Chip Arnold from Illinois and Lake d'Arbonne, La. watch from across the counter.  Debbie Fabiano is getting inked. "Pain don't hurt!" Debbie is, a painted lady from Detroit. She blames her tears on the needle bouncing off her back, but she and everyone else knows the needle is only bringing up painful memories buried just beneath her skin. "Ironically," she says "the pain I'm experiencing here, sort of connects me to the pain of all those people we're helping." She's already got a 9/11 tattoo on her back. Katrina will go right along side of it. The enormity of the destruction is what brings her to tears. "People have lost their family, their pets...their livelihoods... "

Rob is the youngest of the heroes preserving their emotions with multi-colored pigments. He sniffs and snorts as he struggles to speak of the misery he has seen during his tour through the soup that has devoured so many lives. "Something good's gotta come out of this. That's what this tattoo is. You have it for the rest of your life...just like the friendships we've made."

Of all the stories I've told following Katrina, this one has stuck with me.  Maybe it was the disbelief on their faces as they spoke of bodies floating in the streets, maybe it was the instant camaraderie sparked by a common experience, or maybe it was simply standing in a room full of heroes, whatever it was, these men and women left their mark on me.  While politicians and bureaucrats pointed fingers and assigned blame, folks like Kim, Rob, Chip, and Debbie acted.  For that, we are eternally grateful.

You can watch their story at:

http://media.swagit.com/s/wbrz/The_Advocate/09202005-19.html

Rick Portier is a television news photographer in Baton Rouge. For more of his unique stories and interesting rants see his personal blog at http://turdpolisher.blogspot.com/

 

Remembering Leslie Deamer

By Rick Portier:

"Journalists and psychotherapists do essentially the same job, that is to sit down and listen to people, to try to construct narrative. And journalists have a responsibility and an opportunity to construct that narrative well, and to do it in a way that is authentic to the experience of the people with whom they are talking. Journalism that contributes to further distress and pain, unnecessarily and gratuitously, is bad journalism. Good journalism, by telling narrative, by hearing people, by giving them space to talk authentically and be heard, can be profoundly transformative."

(Mark Brayne, DART Centre for Journalism & Trauma, Europe)

Pearl and Patricia Deamer sit huddled in the dark.  The living room curtains are drawn.  The waning sun peeks through the slit where two panels meet.  There lives have been dark for 40 days.  But this evening, they are laughing.  It's the  first chuckle they've had in three days, and it comes at the expense of the blonde-haired reporter sitting across the coffee table.

To be fair, they are not laughing at WBRZ's  Veronica Mosgrove; they are laughing at a light-hearted comment I made at her expense. V and I have a brother-sister type relationship that seems to put people at ease. Whatever the reason, that laugh is good therapy for the week these two have had. They have been waiting with great trepidation to get to New Orleans. Neither had heard form Leslie Deamer since Hurricane Katrina paid him a visit 40 days ago.

About a week ago, during a call from the make-shift morgue in St. Gabriel, Pearl heard the words that she had been dreading for nearly a month. Her brother, Patricia's father, was dead. 

On September 10, a recovery team searching house-to-house found Leslie's body.  He was buried in silt and debris in the bedroom of his St. Bernard Street home. When the levees broke, Leslie's home flooded too quickly for him to escape. There is still no word of Leslie's sister, Ella who lived with him.

When Leslie's part of the city was finally opened, Pearl and Patricia returned to collect his personal effects, mementos of a lifetime of love.

A fluorescent orange "x" stained the roof of Leslie's home, in the upper quadrant, "1fd," rescue code for one found dead.  Below the cross, the time and date authorities found his body. It's been 25 days.

Aunt and Niece lean on each other as they enter the flood ravaged home. Everything had been thrown from the corners to the center of the house. A crystal punch bowl sits untouched on a coffee table. Memories of Thanksgiving feasts, birthdays, and back yard bar-b-ques flood the home trying to undo the damage done by Katrina. From the bedroom, an other-worldly moan rises, then a scream. Leslie's body is still inside.

Face-down on the floor, Leslie is covered with sediment and soot. "It just looks like part of the floor," Patricia pauses a long moment to compose herself, "except it has arms and a head." Someone, somewhere in the red tape that consumed the early stages of the Katrina recovery, has forgotten about Leslie Deamer. "We did...everything we were supposed to do...And my father...just laid there...And nobody else...did what they were supposed to do." Pent up emotion overwhelms Patricia. She's been grieving the loss of her father for a week. This is anger.

Tears stream down her flushed cheeks.  "It's a crime against nature...to do a human being like this." Are the only words Pearl can whisper.Patricia searches for words that describe the feelings of helplessness and sorrow that washed over her the moment she discovered Leslie's body.  "To leave him...that amount of time, with nobody taking care of him."

These are the moments I struggle with as a photographer. When do I stop being a journalist and start being a human being. When do I turn off the tally light and try to comfort someone whose pain I cannot begin to imagine.

We sat off camera and talked a while after that.  We talked about work, life, and family. We hugged each other at the door.

That night, we all got what we needed. Veronica and I were reminded about what is important in life. Pearl and Patricia got to laugh. And now, no one can forget Leslie Deamer.

Rick Portier is a television news photographer in Baton Rouge.  For more of his unique stories and interesting rants see his personal blog at  http://turdpolisher.blogspot.com/

T'ings Gonna Get Betta: A Tale of Wonder

Publishers Note: The following is the second in a series of Katrina stories "penned "by guest author, Rick Portier. I really LOVE this story as it is focused on Grande Isle, one of my favorite haunts - it is a place of pristine beauty where quiet moments spent amongst the  wild marsh grasses and inspiring encounters with the wildlife Rick mentions re-awakens me to the raw beauty and power of the natural world. Of course the next best thing to being there is to capture its genus loci in a C.C. Lockwood photograph - or via a story by Rick Portier... So enjoy!

Home to about 1500, Grand Isle is a seven-mile stretch of sand off the southern coast of the boot-shaped state. It has protected southern Lafourche and Jefferson parishes from hurricanes the likes of Andrew and Betsy and Camile for hundreds of years. Early accounts had the island wiped out by Katrina. From the air two weeks after the storm, things looked bad, but the island was far from gone.

David Carmadell is a short swarthy man with a "t'ick" cajun accent. He's been on the island all his life.  He's been mayor almost that long. Mayor Carmadell left the island more than two weeks ago with the clothes on his back. The red tee-shirt he sported this day, he bought from Wal-Mart yesterday, "T'ree-ninety-nine."

Carmadell leads a tour for the only tourist allowed on the island, famed Louisiana nature photographer C.C. Lockwood.  Katrina halted C.C.'s latest project documenting gold footed heron, brown pelicans, alligators and other endangered wildlife in the vanishing wetlands.  But the storm also brings him a chance to trumpet another of his causes, the importance of those wetlands to the well-being of Louisiana and the entire country.

The Bayside Trailer Park was obviously the hardest hit area on the island. "See all doze camps still stan'in'?" Carmadell points across the street. The camps are missing shingles and siding.  A window or two is missing here and there, but the camps are still structurally sound.  "Dey was built afta (Hurricane) Andrew -- tougha buildin' codes.  Anyt'ing built befo' Andrew," he sweeps his hands across the tailgate of his truc,. "phuh, gone!"

C.C. Lockwood straps on his digital eye and walks headlong into the tragedy. It's clear many called this trailer park home (or at least summer home), but he'd be hard-pressed to find where one trailer ended and the next began.  He climbs the stairs to where a camp was once eight feet above ground.  The camp is gone, but the small potted plant that greeted vacationers is still on the barren porch.  C.C. takes in the sea of crumpled aluminum, splintered wood and scattered memories through a 75 mm lens.  He's here merely as an observer, to document what happened here as only C.C. Lockwood can.  His nature photos stir feelings of splendor and awe in anyone who has visited Louisiana's bayous and backwaters.  There's a different kind of wonder that rises in the pit of his stomach as he scans the desolate horizon.  It's a sense of the power of nature and the insignifance of man.

The air is eerily still.  A flock of brown pelican swoop in for a look.  But C.C. doesn't turn his lens at them.  He's fixated on what nature has wrought in front of him.  Homes ripped open, dreams scattered in mounds of debris, and a lone bookshelf standing in the distance.  On the second shelf, a young man in uniform smiles from behind a broken panel

Back in the bed of the National Guard truck, Carmadell remembers what hurricanes Betsy and Camile did to his home in the sixites. He was just a boy then, but he's telling folks here the same "t'ing" his daddy told him, "It's all gone now, but we gonna rebuild. Dat's all we kin do. T'ings gonna get betta!" The Louisiana guard is in charge of the clean-up on the island. They are getting help from guardsmen form Tenneessee. (Interesting side note: The last time the Tenneessee guard was in Louisiana was for the battle of New Orleans. They marched through woodlands all the way. When they got here, their uniforms were so tattered that locals cut-up their blankets to make new uniforms for the soldiers.) They see the same hospitality today from the local or two that are trying to return.  They're frying fish at what used to be the island's fire station.

C.C. whips out his lens again.  It's another awe-inspiring moment.  In the midst of all this, Cajuns have found a reason to celebrate.  People on the coast are a hard-working and resilient lot.  C.C. can tell you that.  T'ings gonna get betta!

For C.C. Lockwood's nature photography and his storm pictures, check out his website, http://www.cclockwood.com/

Rick Portier is a television news photographer in Baton Rouge.  For more of his stories and rants see his personal blog at  http://turdpolisher.blogspot.com/

A Story to Haunt & Heal...

Following my rant about blogging and storytelling, Rick Portier graciously sent me a story he "penned" about his experience in a Baton Rouge shelter post-Katrina: 

It's amazing what people will tell you when you wink at them through a long piece of glass.  As the quiet half of a television news team, I've had the honor and privilege to be privy to the best and worst moments of peoples' lives.  Even today, more than a year after Hurricanes Katrina and Rita ravaged the Louisiana coast, those stories have the power to haunt and heal.

I was one of the lucky news crews, or so I thought.  I wouldn't be heading into the teeth of Katrina.  My bosses needed me to document events here in Baton Rouge.  After a week in evacuation an evacuation shelter, I was wishing I was in New Orleans.

The one place news coverage fell short was telling evacuees stories.  Those days in the shelters were truly the most emotionally draining days I have ever experienced -- even more tragic than 9/11.

A never-ending line of people stretched half way around the Baton Rouge River Center.  To a person, they were tired, frustrated and lost.  Some had bed head.  Others wore bed clothes.  Some carried small bags.  Others had only the clothes on their backs.  Each face held a story of fear, fear of the storm they had fled, fear of what they fled to, and fear of an uncertain future.

The line continued inside through a maze of armed police and National Guardsmen.  Evacuees murmured questions about procedures and loved ones as they began the paper trail that would help them re-connect with missing family members...if they were still alive.

In the main arena, 5000 people who had just lost everything they had ever known; homes, possessions, family paced the floors with expressionless faces.  Imagine fitting all you own between two cots on an eight-by-eight slice of linoleum.  All had harrowing stories.

My reporter and I set-up shop.  We rolled tape on anyone who wanted to talk.  Surprisingly, there were many who wanted to unburden their souls.

One of the first to step up was a hulking black man with hands the size of bear paws.  The expression on his face was incongruous with his size.  What could such an imposing man have to fear.  His massive shoulders hung with the weight of his new world. His family was safe with him.  He was worried about his neighbor.  As the waters rose in his neighborhood he heard cries from across the street.  His bed-ridden neighbor had not heeded early warnings.  Now the nearly 300 pound man was trapped in his home.   The water in the street was waist deep.  The sobbing man in front of my lens waded across the street and carried his neighbor to his own home. He pushed the man through a window as the water rose near his chest.  Inside the house furniture floated across the living room.  It was clear they didn't have much longer.  He loaded his neighbor onto his back and climbed to the second floor, then the attic.  Like so many others, he searched the house for anything that he might use to break through the roof.  He somehow managed to remove a roof vent.  He showed us the cuts on his enormous hands.  With his bare hands, he punched, and clawed, and broke, and tore a hole big enough to lift his neighbor through.  They waited for two days to be rescued.

Another man was attracted by our television lights.  He had been luckier.  His home had not been flooded, an island in an ocean of human misery.  He watched out of his kitchen window as looters beat his neighbor to death.

Around 11 that morning, Arch-bishop Alfred Hughes from New Orleans and Bishop Robert Meunch from Baton Rouge came to pray for the souls of those who didn't make it through the storm and ask for God's grace on those who did.  It was the first time in a 17-year career shooting news that I ever turned my camera off in the middle of a story.  I couldn't shoot.  My reporter couldn't write.  We could only cry with them.

I turned my camera off many more times in the week I spent at the shelter.  As much as the people parading in front of my lens needed to tell their stories, they needed someone to listen even more.  They needed a hug.  They needed a human response, not the bureaucratic answers from emergency workers.

Just outside the range of our microphone, a tall, slender grandfather was preparing a baby's bottle.  The grandfather's afro was mashed in on the right side of his head.  It spread out wide on the left like it was reaching for something.  His pants were baggy, and he needed a shave.  He never ventured to tell us his story, but my reporter and I watched him feed, change and care for his grandchild.  He wouldn't offer any details as to how they ended up here.  He didn't know where the child's parents were.  They were separated during the evacuation.  There was nothing he wanted, nothing he needed -- Maybe a phone call.  We both offered our cell phones, but it was pretty useless.  Communications were down through most of south Louisiana.  The lines that worked were jammed.  By the end of the week, we had adopted them. 

We were constantly asked for news.  The truth was we didn't know much more than what was unfolding in front of our lens.  We witnessed a few reunions, but many more tears. Of all the images from that week, the roof-top rescues, third world conditions at the Superdome and Convention Center, the citizens flotilla, nothing haunts me more than the glazed-over eyes, tear streaked cheeks and expressionless faces I go to know inside the Baton Rouge River Center.

Rick Portier is a television news photographer in Baton Rouge.  For more of his stories and rants see his personal blog at  http://turdpolisher.blogspot.com/

Bloggers As Storytellers?

If you were to ask me what  my life purpose is I would tell you it is to inspire people. One way I strive to do that is through my writing, although I am ever so aware that I often fall short of that mission. At the same time I am also a person who doesn't get inspired very easily - so when it happens it's a peak experience for me!

Imagine my delight then when I had not one, but two inspiring encounters today and both times via a couple of good, powerful storytellin', hometown journalists - James O'Byrne of The Times-Picayune (New Orleans) and Rick Portier, a television news photographer here in Baton Rouge.  Since I seem to have a lot to say on the subject I am going to break up this post into two segments - consider this post Part I of a an ongoing series about inspiration, and I'll begin by talking about Rick.

What inspired me today was not just the really nice post that Rick Portier wrote about me and Beyond Katrina at his personal blog - here. It's mostly that Rick has managed to elevate blogging into an art form for great storytelling - check out his post "HELP" here - I am forever amazed at how he can transform something as mundane as a brief encounter at a convenience store into an amusing tale that kept me scrolling. This should come as no surprise though, for a guy who says storytelling is his passion.

Now, this segues me into another thought. Maybe it's about Rick's background as a journalist - because in general, we bloggers tend to be conversationalists rather than storytellers. However, Rick's approach to the medium has inspired me to consider my own blog as a medium for better storytelling. I know that stories have the power to heal, and Beyond Katrina is afterall a blog about disaster recovery.

So I'll end this post with a story about Rick. The night that Rick came out with Channel 9's Greg Meriwether to interview me about Beyond Katrina, I had all of about thirty minutes notice they were coming.  I had burned up dinner, the family was in flux, and I was still in the same clothes I had worn to clean out the garage earlier in the day.  I think I did look like the Pookie, lil bit, or Scooby that Rick mentions in his blog post about me! 

I gave myself 30 seconds to have a melt down and then I pulled a rabbit out of the hat. When Greg and Rick arrived they found a happy- homemaker- blogger lady- with a  seemingly perfect, orderly household - ya know like one of those Stepford wives! We did the introductions and then I brought them into the library - You know that one room you set aside for when company comes.

Well Rick wasn't in that room 5 seconds when he immediately saw through the ruse. He  took one look at my shiny, barely used lap top laid out all nice and neat on my Liquid Gold polished coffee table and said, "okay. Now I want to see where you really blog". Whoops! I was BUSTED!

Suffice to say we ended up in my studio with the papers piled a mile high, the crumpled candy wrappers scattered all over the desk, and the dust standing an inch thick on my computer tower - I think I had to even wipe a dustball off my pants before the camera started rolling.  The point is, Rick nailed it. As chaotic, dusty, and disorganized as it might be, my studio is the place where creativity and inspiration happens for me.

So what's the lesson?  It is this: You can't fool a crafty veteran holding a camera and lookin' for the real story! - How is it that a storyteller always knows?! Oh, and Rick in case you're reading this, I have to tell ya it has taken me a while to really "get" what a turdpolisher is or why you named your blog that. But that's what you are. Here's to good storytelling!