The Storm

“ Yeah, I know, Sir, but this storm washed out whole towns, and my boss wanted me to see it firsthand .” I responded. “Then you’re some kind of reporter. Is that correct?” “Yes Sir, I am. And I need someone to show me around these parts of the front edge of the flood waters to see how far inland this goes and how the people were affected. Can you help me? I want the readership back home to see the plight of the people here, and at least get an honest report and not some politically correct nonsense about relief fund s and promises and such.” “Are you some activist or something, tryin' to start a fight with the bureaucracy and powers-that- be or something?” “No Sir, just an honest reporter with a job to do.” “Let me tell you right now, that folks don’t want to be both ered around here, and especially with news reporters. If anybody asks where you're from, just tell 'em Shreveport, New Orleans, or Baton Rouge or somethin', got it? They don’t take kindly to Yankees” “Yes Sir!” was my quick reply. “Well, come on in, Zachar y AB Taylor, and we’ll talk over some Louisiana Mud,” which means "coffee", I soon learned. “Sounds good, Sir.” The man turned and disappeared into the darkened house. With the smell of catfish hanging low in the air, I climbed up on the porch and followed suit and walked through the paint chipped open door. With my eyes adjusting to the low light, I now saw the disheveled room. Obviously, at one time, it had been a living room. “Come on in, Son, and sit a spell and tell me all about it,” Henry replied wit h a kinder tone. Henry pointed to an old, rickety table, and I took a seat. The place was piled high with books and newspapers and fishing gear. Clothes were scattered about, and an old TV set

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