Raisin in the Pun

By Robyn Anuakan, Ph.D.  A San Diego Sunday is best enjoyed in historic Balboa Park.    There’s a dog run on the West side, long rolling sidewalks up and down the hills adjacent to Sixth Avenue.    Drummers form a circle in a pine grove and meditate for hours on rhythms that only the sky seems familiar with, contesting for an audience with those on their way to museums.    Lovers hover around the base of grand Eucalyptus as the scent of spring oozes forth in March.  We were all taking a day away from politics. And then a tree falls; not the whole thing, but enough limbs collide to strip it of branches larger than a pick up truck.    We saw it descend on top of the couple sitting quietly, enjoying the calmest of days, where no rain and little wind caused any ruckus to warn the park.  There was no reason as far as we could tell.     Just a hill with arbors laboring to give us all shade in late afternoon.    And it told us we need to hurry up, to support the President’s plan of getting ev