While searching for signs of royalty amongst the common frogs of their favorite Japanese garden, Coco and Yoko spied a golden koi swim straight through their reflection and gaze up at them. “Enchanting,” the little girls called out while leaping in their princess slippers and pointing into the silvery blue. The fish was unlike any they had seen before, and it whirled playfully, before spraying them with a flick of the tail and vanishing. Coco’s finger followed the direction of the splash—down, down, down; yet before they knew what was happening or could stop it, their beloved bracelet slipped from Coco’s slender wrist and tumbled into the air.

The bangle seemed to fall in slow motion, turning over and catching light on its journey to the pond. It was a lovely thing—strewn with glass beads intertwined with ceramic stones and metallic pearls. Yet its beauty alone is not why the girls loved it so, but because of a special secret that they alone shared. Wondrous things happened each time they wore the bracelet, confirming its magical powers that made them real princesses. Now, struck by an overwhelming sense of loss, they wondered what would become of them without it.

The little girls embraced as they helplessly watched the bracelet float to the center of the pond, where it settled upon a flowering lily pad. An unsympathetic turtle swimming past offered no assistance whatsoever, and the girl’s tears, falling like rain, created a magical rainbow all around. The water level rose due to the incessant crying, and it forced the frogs to higher ground and alarmed many of the passersby. Yet without assistance from the garden keeper, with his long fishing poles and high-waisted rubber boots, retrieving the bracelet was futile. And because he was gone for the day, they headed for home, casting long downtrodden fairy shadows as they trailed their plastic wands in the dirt behind them.

That night as Coco and Yoko dreamed madly, as all precocious little girls do, something astonishing happened. From the center of the Japanese garden the bracelet began to glow, and an unearthly music emanated from its center. A tidal wave of starlight flowed into the spot where their tears had fallen, and a phosphorescent cyclone of pixie dust swirled about. Drawn by the wondrous display of music and light, the golden koi ascended to the water’s surface, slipped the bracelet onto its regal head and wore it like a crown. Immediately, every creature in the enchanted garden bowed down to honor its new queen.

Early the next morning the girls entreated the gardener to fetch their beloved bracelet from the center of the pond, though it could not be found. Together they examined every inch of the garden, scrutinizing red and white koi swim lazy circles, while a blue heron started upon a fat snack of salamander and basil, from which they quickly averted their eyes. And though they investigated the highest branch and the lowest stone without a trace of the bracelet, curiously they felt the magic return. And so, it did not take long for the best friends to realize that they would always be princesses in their favorite garden; where, like the statues, wild moss, and hue-strewn maples, they were happy and belonged.

Years passed, and the little girls grew into strong, practical and wise women. One evening, they returned to the garden where they had once passed a lovely summer during their childhood. “Do you recall,” Yoko asked, “the time you lost our pretty bracelet in this pond?” “Vaguely,” replied Coco, suddenly remembering the golden koi with its royal air. Hand in hand they watched the sun sink lower on the horizon, as if their own bright futures and the sky aflame were somehow intricately connected. Then from the old footbridge where Coco’s bracelet had been lost—and found—they promised each other that they would never forget the magic of childhood.

And while their new dreams ascended to mingle with the emerging stars, a huge golden koi, now over seventy years old, swam beneath their feet and up through their reflection. With melancholy remembrance it gazed into the women’s faces while whirling gracefully below. Adorning its head was the bracelet, still glimmering in the fading light. The women, laughing together and reminiscing, did not notice the fish at all. So, with a playful flick of the tail, it splashed them with a cool mist before diving into the silvery blue and out of sight.

Andra Norris

2010

Team Tracy came together again to blaze the Bonneville salt at the 2010 BUB Motorcycle Speed Trials. With Bonneville located virtually in the middle of nowhere, just getting there is half the fun. Team members congregated in Wendover, Nevada, with some having ridden thousands of miles for the five-day event that is like no other on earth.

For this year’s attempt in the 1350-MPS-AG class, Tracy’s Suzuki Hayabusa morphed into a partially streamlined rocket, and her sights were set on speeds over 201 miles per hour. Tracy was sitting pretty on national and world records in the 1350-M-AG class from her prior two years of competition, but this class presented new challenges that had been consuming her thoughts for months.

“Smitty” Smith, with James Squires riding shotgun, hauled Tracy’s new 20-foot custom trailer that housed her Hayabusa, custom garage, and built-in, upper-story viewing deck built especially for her dad, Mark Norris. Tracy’s slogan, Never Accept Limits, Go Beyond Them, gleamed across the trailer’s walls, along with a tribute to her beloved Oakland Motorcycle Club and other sponsors. Her trailer is an inspiration and a sight to see humming down the freeway, and it gives cause for any motorcycle enthusiast to smile a little more broadly while riding past.

Team Tracy 2010

Of course there were problems from the start—it wouldn’t be land speed racing without a host of them. But the team’s designers and gear heads all pulled together, think-tank style, to brainstorm. While they pondered solutions, some of the finest dining in all of Utah was available courtesy of Chris and Sandy Vetter. Nourish the body—nourish the mind. In the Vetter’s caring culinary hands, how could Team Tracy possibly lose?

This year, Tracy was privileged to run the coveted eleven-mile international course, which is exactly where she wanted to be. On this FIM long track, she can take five miles to get up to her fastest speed. Timing begins at mile marker five and ends at mile marker six. The remaining five miles are for slowing down the bike. Tracy was psyched for her first ride, but she was determined to take it easy enough to get a feel for the newest incarnation of her motorcycle.

During Tracy’s first ride, she could feel the bike heating up in a way she hadn’t experienced before. After all, her custom modifications are for better aerodynamics, not necessarily for better airflow. Until then, she had ridden open and unfaired, but the heat was excessive. Additionally, Tracy was unable to shift into high gear. Even with these issues, her first pass was recorded at a whopping 177 miles per hour. Not bad for right off the trailer!

To determine what gear she was in during the race, Tracy was going to count the downshifts as she slowed her motorcycle after the marked mile, but nothing clicked. Mistakenly, she thought her transmission was blown. All the way to Bonneville and with only a single morning run, Tracy feared her racing was over almost before it had begun.

Luckily, the problem was isolated to the clutch and not the transmission. Mike Vetter and the pit crew bled the hydraulic clutch and added fresh fluid to get it into a useable state. A chin rest was also added to adjust Tracy’s head position and improve visibility. Tracy’s second pass was clocked at a respectful 185.650 miles per hour. But the crew determined that the engine was maxing out in top gear and that new gearing would be required to solve the problem.

Day Two

Heavy rains fell that evening, causing the salt to flood, and all racing came to a halt during the morning. The mood was somber and still, which would have been disappointing, except that the Hayabusa required many hours of work. So, in an ironic twist, the gods of speed continued to smile upon Team Tracy. Team mechanics Mike Vetter and Dave Gimbert disassembled Tracy’s entire streamliner fairing in order to swap the rear 38-tooth sprocket with a 36-tooth sprocket.

There were other issues. “The bike is getting too hot at fast speeds,” Tracy stated solemnly when I spoke with her that first night, “but Brent is working on a new air/fuel mixture.” Tracy’s muffler was burning the fiberglass on her bike’s side. A curved pipe and heat shield, courtesy of extraordinary efforts by Paul Gregersen and Brian Jagger, was added to direct heat away from the motorcycle.

Also, her visibility was impaired due to abrasion on the windscreen that made it impossible to see. A hole was cut into Tracy’s windscreen for her to look through, and a helmet face shield was cut and riveted on to cover the hole. The goal was to create visibility without losing too much integrity around her streamlining. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a necessary concession that worked. By late afternoon, the short track was opened, and Tracy got in a single ride, clocked at 192.967 miles per hour. Cheers were heard throughout the pits as she blurred down the track, and the team was looking forward to getting an early start the following morning.

Day Three

On the third day of racing, Tracy’s top speed was a blazing 194.998 miles per hour. The track remained wet, causing decreased traction, but everyone remained optimistic for improved conditions. During Tracy’s second run, her clutch went out again, and she had to pull off the FIM course. Only one run was completed that day, though Tracy quickly reminded me that every chance to race on the salt is a blessing and an opportunity to learn.

Don Mills, the current world record holder in Tracy’s class, offered her the use of some parts off of his clutch, since he stopped riding due to mechanical failure on the first day of competition. You may recall Don was instrumental in helping Tracy achieve her national record in 2008, when he loaned her his custom tank, which ultimately gave her the edge to nab it. How’s that for class?

Day Four

After finding a well-stocked Barnett truck on the fourth day of racing, team mechanics were able to add stiffer springs (donated by the Barnett folks) to Tracy’s clutch and reassemble it with new hydraulic fluid and one of the parts donated by Don Mills. Then, during her first ride of the day, her air box blew off, so another attempt was abandoned. A new mixture of air/fuel was concocted and tried. “It’s a bit slippery out there in the marked mile, but I’m not letting off the throttle,” Tracy said. I can only imagine what goes through her mind in that zone.

During her second run, seven mile-per-hour side-winds kicked up that hit her like a brick wall, causing her to lean. Not only did that throw off her aerodynamics, but because she was tucked down low and peering through a small hole in her windscreen, for a time she could see only sky. Fortunately, with nothing in Bonneville to get in your way for miles, it is one of the few places on earth where one can theoretically ride blind.

Tracy was in line for a third attempt, when racing was again stopped due to the wind conditions. With her bike running well, Team Tracy remained optimistic for good salt and air conditions on the fifth and final day of racing.

Day Five

Team Tracy was first on the salt on day five, where the winds continued wreaking havoc for the racers. During the first lull in weather, Tracy went for it, earning her best speed of the week at 196.244 miles per hour. The team made some final modifications to the Hayabusa— a risky decision, as the adjustment would eat up valuable time, and Bonneville afternoons are known for their increased winds, but the adjustment was necessary for speed.

We’re all at nature’s mercy, but never more so than at Bonneville, where one must prepare, prepare, prepare, and then hope for the best from the weather. Tracy arrived at the start line with her bike poised for speed, but with conditions worsening, Tracy made the difficult decision to abort her final attempt. Spent, but satisfied with their efforts, Tracy and team earned another year of invaluable Bonneville experience—priceless.

Tracy achieved a new personal best speed of 196.244 miles per hour, and Team Tracy was honored to be the recipient of the Team Spirit award, presented by the Buell Brother’s and Sister’s Racing Team. It was another exceptional year. Tracy’s 2010 promotional sticker states, It takes a team to make a dream. But it also takes a dream to make a team, which is exactly where “we” come in. Any way you look at it, big cheers for Team Tracy!

(Many thanks to John “Geezer” Rohowits, whose detailed notes on the day-to-day action at the pits were used in this report.)

We generally cook our food together at home, but when we dine out, we like to think our food has been make with the secret ingredient (not to be confused with secret sauce). The ingredient of course is “Love”, and as you might imagine, it’s difficult to come by.  I have told my children repeatedly that McDonalds doesn’t have it and never will. Yet in fairness, I’m not completely opposed to all fast food restaurants. ‘In-N-Out Burger’, though preachy at times, does I believe, use the secret ingredient on occasion. I have personally tasted it in their vanilla milk shakes—shaken not stirred, and blended with real honest-to-goodness milk. They’re summer bliss, but I digress.

“E” wasn’t going to be bowled over that easy. He had after all just glimpsed two stories of spiraling, twisting tube slides and teeter-totters galore. What beckoned him most was the Mega McPlay Structure, unlike any our local parks or recreational centers have to offer. Furthermore, it was lunchtime and he was hungry. So he pressed, I only want to go on the slide Mommy. No brother, insisted his levelheaded big sis, who has been around the the proverbial block more often than he—if we play there, we will have to eat there too. Yuck!

One down and one to go, was good enough for me, so we continued home to the good smells of our own kitchen. I stirred soup (made with an extra dose of the secret ingredient), while they built a “tunnel” through our living room. From soft blankets and sofa cushions, we attempted to rival the Mega McPlay structures in our own way, which was both fun and satisfying—even an hour later.

don’t you want her madly—Don’t you need her badly

‘The Doors’ is a funny name for a band, “L” managed, through her increasing laughter.  The band took its name from a line in William Blake’s poem, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, (‘If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite’). Smartly, I circumvented a conversation that I wasn’t quite ready for by keeping that information to myself. Rather, I asked her why she thinks they call themselves ‘The Doors’. Well, my daughter considered for a moment, maybe they like to sing songs about doors. Hmmm—Interesting theory, I offered. Just then Jim chimed in with— Don’t you love her as she’s walkin’ out the door—as she’s walkin’ out the door. Hey mom! They do sing songs about doors—I guessed it right! And so she had.

Mom, L asked, what did you ask Santa for when you were my age? For the life of me I didn’t recall, and suddenly wondered if she would remember any of her fourth Christmas when she was grown. The thought faded as I placed our order of hot drinks and a Christmas cookie. Did you have a favorite toy when you were four? Hmmm. Well, I liked playing with troll dolls. With what?! An explanation was necessary since for L, trolls are ugly, mischievous tyrants, come to life through bedtime stories. They have on occasion even slipped into her otherwise sweet dreams. L was indignant, so, over my steaming cup of coffee, I thought back to my own childhood. I had many, I said, but my favorite one had green hair, a funny nose, and huge feet. Her eyes widened at the thought and she remained speechless. As I recall, everyone my age had one. That’s just strange mom, was all she eventually said.

By then I was caught up in the memory of playing with my sister and pet dog in the warmth of our childhood home. Other collections I had were rabbit feet, I added. At this, L nearly fell off of her chair, especially when I confirmed that they were real! You played with rabbit feet? Yuck! I recalled my father telling me that he played kick-the-can when he was a boy, and thought how archaic I now sounded, explaining that kids of my generation collected brightly colored rabbit feet. We had them for luck, I said, with an air of dignity. Was there much blood, L whispered, staring with her animated down turned mouth. Oh, no Honey. The blood had been removed prior to distribution to the toy stores, was all I could think to say. Then I added that we hung them on chains and wore them dangling from our belt loops. Oh, like the Indians, she said, now seeming to comprehend everything perfectly. Her contagious smile appeared from underneath her vanilla-milk mustache and we both laughed.

What other toys did you play with mom? Well, there was a time when I simply had to have a pet rock, but we will have to discuss that at a later date. It was time to go. Mom now I know you are kidding me. We held hands and walked past the overcrowded modern toy store without judgment. And although I thought to myself that some things really do get better with age, I confess, that evening I placed a four dollar bid for a pair of troll dolls on eBay—one with pink hair, and one with blue. They will arrive sometime this week, and my kids are counting the days.

You know you’re vain when a friend says you look 10 years younger than your biological age, and you feel insulted.

Here’s what you will need.

1.  Artificial wreaths: *I purchased mine from Michaels Arts and Crafts.

2.  Family photos

3.  Laminator: *I laminated my photos at Kinko’s.

4.  Green yarn

5.  Decorations: Beads, baubles, pine cones, feathers, sequins, bells, shells, etc.

6.  Scissors

7.  Hole-punch

8.  Hot glue gun & glue

Laminated photo detail

Directions.

1. Either laminate your photos with a laminator, or have them laminated professionally. I did mine at Kinko’s. If you cut your pictures into fun shapes before you laminate them, you will be able to fit more pictures into a single sheet of film, which saves money. Once laminated, cut around the photo, keeping a slight boarder of clear film exposed.
2. With your hole-punch, punch four holes into each photo. Place holes on the top, right and left; and on the bottom, right and left sides.
3. Using a long piece of yarn that matches your wreath’s branches, tie one end to the back of your wreath. Bring the strand to the front and pull it through a hole on one photo. Pull the strand back around on the same side of the wreath, then pull under, then up to the front on the other side. Pull through another hole, positioning your photo exactly where you want it, and pull your yarn around the back again, then up through the third hole. Finally, pull the yarn around the back again, and up though the last hole. The motion is like tying a corset backwards. Your photo should be securely positioned where you want it. Now you are ready to continue on to the next photograph. Pull your yarn back under the outside of your wreath, then up through a hole on your next photograph. Continue as before. When you have sewn all of your pictures in place, tie the yarn to the back of your wreath. You will still be able to wiggle your pictures into place, and adjust your branches around them.
4. Use whatever you like to decorate your wreaths. Artificial candy, feathers, sequins, gold dipped pine cones, beads, painted beans, shells, buttons, pom-poms, crystals, ribbons, paper flowers, etc. Use your imagination. I found these wreaths could be made to look great and very personal, for very little money. Great eye catching impact, and fun for the whole family. ~Happy holidays! Andra Norris

For twelve years I maintained a website, with its primary function, cataloging my visual artwork. In those early days, HTML teams were the primary builders of websites, for huge sums of money. Per my signature—flying by the seat of my skirt, I engaged in the barter system. Trading code for artwork fit my artist’s budget, perfectly.

The website generated new collectors and occasional gallery interest, until it grew stale from neglect. When I pulled the plug last week, my website was reminiscent of a ghost town I visited as a child. There was nothing left but a few scattered virtual tumbleweeds blowing past crookedly hung paintings, that no one had looked at in years.

Since the birth of my children, I find myself painting less and writing more, and so decided to include both on my blog. After researching a handful of hosts, I chose WordPress. My plan was simple: To exchange my outdated website for a blog, and move my domain’s email to Google. In addition to gaining more control over my current web presence, it seemed likely that as a bonus, I would also save money.

To my surprise, setting up a blog on WordPress was straightforward and easy. WordPress’s intuitive tools and 24/7 training through tutorials worked well. I confidently created pages for artwork, published articles, and daily haiku’s—a practice, turned obsession, I began some months back on Twitter. Things were looking up, until I realized that I lost all access to my email.

As I repeated unsuccessful attempts to set up a Gmail account, Google sent me automated messages, telling me to contact WordPress for further instruction. When I did, WordPress responded with their own automated message telling me to get help from Google. It was a vicious cycle, and my email was literally lost in space.

Several nights passed where I found myself working into the morning hours, attempting to recover my lost email. Zombie-like from sleep deprivation, I became unrecognizable to my own family. It was truly shocking to learn that I couldn’t get a hold of a human being from either WordPress or Google, and felt abandoned. With my new blog live, I couldn’t simply revert to my outdated website. Yet, without my email, I couldn’t move forward either—Not even to communicate the problem. I was in an electronic purgatory.

One doesn’t just call people from these companies, in order to muse technical conjecture. I might more easily ring up J.D. Salinger, or Jimmy Hoffa, than Google or WordPress. To my dismay I found it simply isn’t done.

As the days passed, thoughts of retrieving my email consumed me. In that moment between sleep and wakefulness, I found myself in an overwhelming state of dread, that grew throughout the day. Taking pity on me, my husband finally suggested I call the Geek Squad for assistance, and I agreed.

As soon as my children went to sleep that evening, I got hold of a kindly geek with his own small children obviously using him as a jungle gym. But, even before I finished telling him my story, he did the unthinkable, telling me there was nothing he could do. I needed to get ahold of WordPress or Google, and I had already spent five days trying. The geeks had been my last hope.

Becoming unhinged, I considered whether I actually needed email. Since much of my life had been enjoyed without it, could I go back to relying solely on snail mail? Slipping into melancholy reflection on the glory days of the 1970’s, I had to shake myself from the delirium, knowing that even if I had a magic time machine,  I had no desire to go back to any period before the invention of the iPhone—and I required email.

It was obviously time to stand up and make some noise, so I blasted my story on Twitter. I sent WordPress and Google, each direct messages, imploring them to call me up to work out my email problem. “Oh the humanity!” ended one on my 140 character tweets.

The following day, my eyes began to twitch, and my hands shake. I wanted to scream and break things, but protocol prevents such outbursts in front of my children. So, I sang the itsy-bitsy-spider song for the 20th time in an hour, and mentally prepared for another evening of technical tribulations, when everyone in my home would peacefully dream, but me.

An entire week without email passed. As I was walking in my front door, following a princess ballet class and stint in the park, my phone rang. “Hello, this is Thomas,” said a living, breathing, person sent by Google to assist me. I was so taken aback, that I had a difficult time stammering out my appreciation, and nearly began to cry. Though I’m still frustrated at Google’s lack of accessible customer support, they ultimately restored my faith in humanity and brought a sense normalcy back into my home with good, old-fashioned customer service.

As it turned out, the biggest problem I had, was trying to use Gmail for my domain’s email. For that, one should use Google Apps. The simple misunderstanding took me down many twisty pathways, and ultimately wasted a lot of precious time. Thomas spent about 45 minutes configuring my system for email, and I happily paid him for the service, though I would surely have preferred the opportunity, days earlier.

That evening, still exhausted from the ordeal, I tucked my children into bed and kissed them on the head. Dimming the lights, I finished up their bedtime prayer with, “God bless grandma & grandpa, auntie & uncle, and God bless you & Mrs. Claus.” My husband, standing in the dark, laughed outright. And it was only then that I realized I was half asleep, leading my children in a prayer to Santa Claus.

Soon, I put myself to bed, with visions of Google dancing in my head, and smiling, with warm content feelings of electronic connectedness, and drifted off in peaceful slumber.

George Surat—as imagined by Stephen Sondheim, in “Sunday in the Park with George.”