The Center of Their Universe?

Arrve at the COE Emergency Response Center around noon. I'm surprised to see that it is located in an old hospital- the same hospital my oldest son Tristan was born in 27 years ago. Three stories, crowded, makeshift, only the necessities. Piles of boxed supplies, a maze of electrical and computer cables, a sense of urgency and purpose in the air. But also something else.

Although everyone was friendly, folks seemed slow to provide advice. The old-guys, those who had been in place for two weeks or more, strutted around some. Combat pants with cargo pockets are very popular with early responders. And reminecent of the early complaints about FEMA's handling of refugees, I was shuffled from room to room, provided directions that turned out to be wrong, while waiting for training that never materialized.

And throughout the building, rooms full of red-shirted, serious faced COE employees sat at phones and laptops. Trained for a specific task, they waited quietly and patiently to carry it out. It was rather surreal made more so because you could view them through the hospital viewing windows located along the corridors. The same windows through which I had first looked at my newly born son.

Received my shots, supplies, a FEMA cell phone, and directions to the barge where I would spend the night before heading off for Lake Charles.