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It's been several hours since Hurricane Laura made landfall, but the storm is still delivering devastating gusts of wind to inland Louisiana.In it's 4 a.m. CT update, the National Hurricane Center downgraded Laura from a Category 4 hurricane to a Category 3 hurricane. But the storm is still delivering maximum sustained winds of 120 mph, and "unsurvivable storm surge."According to the NHC, Laura will continue to deliver hurricane-force winds to central and northern Louisiana throughout the day on Thursday. The storm will then move to the northeast, bringing heavy rain to the Missouri Valley and Ohio Valley regions on Friday and through the weekend.Laura made landfall near Cameron, Louisiana at about 1 a.m. CT on Wednesday as an "extremely dangerous" Category 4 storm with 150 mph sustained winds. The Category 4 rating makes Laura is the strongest hurricane to make landfall in Louisiana in at least 60 years, according to the National Weather Service.The National Hurricane Center (NHC) said Wednesday that "Laura is expected to produce catastrophic impacts from the coast to well inland; life-threatening storm surge, extreme winds, torrential rain, flooding, and tornadoes."On early Thursday morning, NOAA's Coastal Inundation Dashboard showed storm surge warnings all across Louisiana's shoreline. The dashboard also noted that readings from Calcasieu Pass — a tributary near Cameron that flows into the Gulf of Mexico — showed that surge was recorded at about 9 feet as of 1:30 a.m. CT."Take the next few hours and get your family to a safe location," Louisiana Gov. John Bel Edwards said at a Wednesday afternoon press conference. He reminded residents that during a hurricane, it is hard to respond to emergency calls right away for people who decide to stay behind.The National Hurricane Center issued an "extreme wind warning" for areas of Southeast Texas and Southwest Louisiana at about 11 p.m. ET on Wednesday. A fairly new and rarely-used warning, it's issued for areas expected to see winds of 115 mph or higher. Residents in the affected areas are urged to find a low-lying interior room and protect their heads. 2145

It is the silence that John Christian Phifer loves the most as he walks around the 120 acres of a nature preserve in Gallatin, Tennessee. He considers himself a caretaker of the land.But in these rolling Tennessee hills, if you look close enough, you can see that it's not just the land Phifer is caring for.There are 50 people buried throughout Taylor Hollow, all of which are natural burials. Their graves are marked by simple stones, and there are no expensive caskets. Many of the people buried here were wrapped in quilts or buried in beds of wildflowers.It’s a simpler way to say goodbye, and in recent months, this type of burial is gaining popularity."I think with COVID, one of the things everyone has done is they’ve started thinking about making a plan," Phifer said as he walked through one of the wooded paths.Phifer works for Larkspur Conservation, a nonprofit that describes itself as Tennessee's first nature preserve for natural burials. On this hallowed ground, only green burials are allowed to take place.The pandemic has led to an increase in the number of people looking at natural burial options. Natural burials are also giving families a way to grieve and mourn safely outside during the COVID-19 pandemic."I think COVID has heightened folks’ awareness of how important it is to make a plan. Families can still have a burial, families can still have a gathering, they can come together with their loved one," Phifer said.There is also a cost aspect that's driving the increased rise in natural burials. As many American families struggle financially, natural burial offers an end-of-life option that's around ,000. It’s much less than a traditional burial, which usually runs around ,000.There’s also an environmental draw to all of this. Every year, American bury about 73,000 kilometers of hardwood boards, along with 58,000 tons of steel and 1.5 million tons of concrete. Natural burials are often much safer for the environment"It’s not going to be for everyone, and that’s OK,” explained Phifer. “We’re just another tool in working through the end of life.”And while planning for the end is never easy, Phifer sees this as one place people can start. 2193

It was supposed to be a make-or-break moment.When the Trump administration said last September it was pulling the plug on Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, March 5 was the program's official end date.But it was so much more than a date on the calendar. It was the looming deadline that finally was going to force Congress to tackle the perennial political hot potato of immigration.Protesters organized around it. Lawmakers invoked it in fiery speeches. The President warned that time was running out to make a deal.Now, here we are, just days from that fateful date and no solution in sight. And what about Monday's deadline? Well, it still exists on paper. But it's become more of a symbolic marker than a moment when anything major is expected to happen for the roughly 700,000 DACA recipients.Here's a look at how we got here, and what happens next: How did this happen? 893

It is only 9 in the morning, but the sun in Little Rock, Arkansas is beating down on the pavement as it does this time of the year.It is uncomfortably muggy, so 78-year-old Elizabeth Eckford elects to walk in the shadows of the trees that line Central High School.It is a place she’s grown comfortable with over the course of the last 50 years as she’s remained mostly silent about her experiences as a student at the school.“Talking about the past is a walk through pain,” she said. “It was very, very difficult. I had felt so terribly, terribly, terribly, alone,”Elizabeth was one of the nine black students sent to attend the all-white school on the first day of desegregation in 1957, the resulting reaction of the town has become known as the Little Rock Crisis.Many might recognize Elizabeth’s picture taken by a news photographer that day."At one point [the mob of white students] said get a rope, as I was walking, let’s lynch her,” Eckford recalls. "It was a very frightening, a very threatening time.”Elizabeth endured the harassment until she reached the doors of the high school, but was turned away by National Guardsmen. Alone, she remembers wondering what to do next as she walked over to a bus bench a block from the school.“I remember that bus bench meant safety to me,” Eckford recalls. "There was a pack of reporters and photographers in front of me walking backwards and asking me questions. I didn’t say anything because I was afraid if I opened my mouth I would cry in public.”Over the course of the next 50 years the words that berated Elizabeth manifested into PTSD. The school, that picture, crowded hallways; they would all elicit panic and anxiety. It wasn’t until 1997, when Elizabeth began sharing her story with students at Central High School that she started to heal.“They were very patient with me,” she said. "When I would cry they waited and gave me a chance to resume. It meant that to them I was a human being.”Today, Elizabeth Eckford speaks at national conventions and remembrance events of that first day of desegregation. She says walks by the school and crowded hallways no longer elicit anxiety.She also remains modest in her triumph and dedicated in her pursuit to help others."I point out that [students] can just reach out to support someone who is being harassed,” she said. "Just treat that person in a way that you would want to be treated. That can be very powerful. It was very powerful for me." 2454

In this image from video, Sen. Elizabeth Warren, D-Mass., speaks during the third night of the Democratic National Convention on Wednesday, Aug. 19, 2020. (Democratic National Convention via AP) 202

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