I wonder if they only exist in Northern Utah, those nondescript white vans with the simple lettering “Incident Management” painted down their sides. I don’t recall seeing them anywhere else, though maybe they escaped my notice during my preoccupied thirties in Washington. I can’t remember now if they have flashing lights (I think they do). But I’ve seen them everywhere here—there must be a fleet of them— and I always wonder, when I see one, just what incident they’ve been summoned to manage. Domestic disasters? The vans look a little underdressed for such major disturbances as earthquakes, tornados, terrorists, or flooding (and too local for other aquatic catastrophes such as Watergate and Whitewater).
And so I am left perplexed. What DO they mean by incident? How do they intend to manage it? Who are “they”? And how are they summoned? Could I call them, if I had an incident? Or do they just suddenly show up in my moment of need.
My sister Andrea pleaded. She pleaded a month ago in a post on my Facebook wall (which otherwise is a minimalist space–spare, sparse, and neglected by its owner) for me to write more blogs. Which plea smote my heart and tickled my vanity and led me, eventually—in spurts and lapses— to this very moment, in which my fingers find their cautious way once more across my laptop keyboard. Writing who knows what; after the longest quiet interval yet, I battle not just writer’s block, but trepidation. Which trepidation means (some friends complain that my word choice is foreign to them) that there is at least some fear—let’s call it agitation— about writing (I know, it’s lame); it is possible, even, that at some point trembling could occur (that would be from the Latin “trepidare”: to “be agitated, tremble”).
I have discovered that I can run in the cold. In well below freezing temps. I thought something bad would happen, like (for instance) I would get really, really, really cold. Miserably cold. I hate being cold. And my toes, nose, and fingers (and the pink lining of my lungs) would be frostbitten, which frostbite might lead eventually to death or dismemberment. But no. No, I can run in the cold without permanently damaging my pieces and parts.
My sabbatical has ended; I’d like to talk about banana bread now.
Crisis. Everyone faces them; most of us make it through them. Usually they alter our perspective. Hopefully we learn good things by crisis. Hopefully we see better on the other side. Perhaps we are even more gracious and graceful in the end.
It was great. The art reception was great. Thank you, everyone who came and took it in! I hadn’t known what to expect, and I was pleasantly surprised. There was a warm sense of community and welcome amongst the artists who’d gathered to show their work. I liked that. The atmosphere and visitors (many of whom were family and friends, including a couple of babies) were casual and friendly and appreciative (barring a tiny gaggle of teenagers who came just for the food). And Maurya did come and play the baby grand with her lovely gentle fingers for awhile, after her dad had sufficiently nagged her (she was on a date). It was all delightful: the guests, the other artists (whose art I gratefully mingled mine with), the atmosphere. Having no real previous experience of my own, I had been vaguely worried that guests (if any came at all) would expect the event to go off like something I’d seen in a movie, where the artists were cerebral and mysterious and devastatingly neurotic and everyone dressed in chic, snug, expensive, unapproachable black and ate tiny fancy appetizers with names ordinary people couldn’t pronounce. 
I’ve been asked to show some of my work in the Ogden Arts Gallery during the months of November and December. There will be an art reception this Friday night (November 5, 2010) from 6:30- 9:00 at the gallery; it is on the northeast corner of Washington and 25th street. Anyone and everyone is/are (?) invited. I peeked in on a few Friday night Ogden Art Walk open houses on 25th this summer (the Art Walk on Friday night coincides with the reception)… it is fun to take a quick (or slow) stroll past local art; 25th street is one of my favorite places in Ogden. Please come!
Absolute favorite place to go for vacation: The Oregon Coast. Took the family (all but Michaelyn, who stayed behind to work and socialize) a couple of weeks ago; Frank had just accepted a job and asked for a little time before he started. Rented a house between Newport and Waldport overlooking the beach…was it Seal Rock? Seal Cove? Something like that. And we listened to the waves and splashed in them and flew kites and combed the beach and were content. That’s all, really. Feet in sand and gravel and water, playing and looking for cool beach stuff.