Golden Gate Park – Clara Hsu

My Father’s Soy Cake

Bud Zimmerman escaped the Holocaust in Germany by taking a slow boat to Shanghai. He stayed there for many years, and as a teenager apprenticed in a bakery. After the war he settled in San Francisco and when he retired, took daily walk around Spreckels Lake at the Golden Gate Park.

There were always a few familiar faces at the lake. Bud noticed a new regular, my father, who walked around the lake leaning on a cane. They became friends and talked about their war experiences. When my father found out Bud was a baker, he asked for some tips.

Since his stroke, my father turned vegetarian. He started making soy milk but didn’t want to trash the residue. Bud suggested blending the residue into a flour mixture and bake a cake. So my father did, baking soy cakes and taking them to the park and sharing them with Bud. Bud would in turn critique each attempt, offer suggestions in adding and subtracting various ingredients.

Bud died a few years ago. My father now ride to Spreckels Lake in an electric scooter. He still makes soy cakes, experimenting with new ideas each time. Instead of using the residue, he now grinds the beans into a paste. Yesterday two young friends came by to assist him. We sat down to afternoon tea, tasting fresh baked soy cakes filled with raisins.

Dahlia of Beauty and Love

Last year, my father’s neighbor Devi Joseph got permission from the city to plant dahlias in front of the Cabrillo Playground. The head gardener of her district removed the sod that had been covering the lawn area and filled it with truckloads of Golden Gate Park compost. Devi received a grant from SF Beautiful to pay for the drip irrigation parts and system. She put up a wire fence and planted the bulbs. I watched the rows of green plants in front of my father’s house with interest. One day the flowers came, blooming in all hues and shades. Some are soft like little crinkled pompoms, some are elegant in their velvet dresses, all of them stunning in their display. In late autumn, Devi dug the bulbs up for the winter. The little plot of land lost its magic.

A few weeks ago I saw Devi at work again. As the weather warms, the dahlias are peeking out of the green. My father, 90, likes to ride his electric scooter down the sidewalk like a pageant reviewer. The dazzling faces give him joy and company. I, on the other hand, can only think of poems that speak of love.

Shirchin Baatar and the Naadam Festival

I got to know Shirchin Baatar, visiting Mongolian scholar at UC Berkeley, in 2001. Together with Jeff Falt, human rights lawyer, we produced several fund raising events to send the first Mongolian woman, Oyuna Tsedevdamba, to Stanford University. With our combined effort Oyuna received her MA in International Policy Studies and now works as an adviser to the president of Mongolia.

Years later, Baatar introduced me to G. Mend Ooyo, poet and president of the 26th World Congress of Poets, who came to the Sacred Grounds and read his poetry in Mongolian. Baatar works tirelessly to help the underprivileged Mongolian community in the Bay Area and to keep their tradition and culture alive. The Naadam festival is happening soon, where Baatar brings wrestling, music and archery to the Golden Gate Park. The music is always enchanting. The food and the men hefty. Ask for Baatar at the West Speedway Meadow. Everybody knows him.

The Old Druidess

Sometimes we live in magick and we don’t even know it. It is because we are mundane and unable to perceive the fantastical elements. Unlike falling in love where there is a heightened sense of pleasure, most magick is subtle, coming and going without creating too much of a stir, except when it is gone.

Jehanah Wedgwood had long silver gray hair. She sat at the head of the table at the Sacred Grounds Cafe with a piece of sign up sheet in front of her. She had sat there like this every Wednesday night for nearly twenty years. Once in a while I gave Jehanah a ride home after the reading. She lived not far from the venue but I could never find it on my own. I blamed myself for not paying attention. Sometimes I would pick her up during the day for other outings and find the street and the houses looking all together different from the night.

After Jehanah died we had a druid ceremony at the Monarch Bear Grove at the Golden Gate Park. While we memorialized Jehanah, Rodney the celebrant pointed out that he had trouble driving Jehanah home. Many hands shot up at once, as we all had the same experience. “It was because she lived in both worlds.” The magick was explained but the realm had already passed on.