Meet the Duggans: The Worst Groundskeepers in the Neighborhood

I sometimes wonder what our neighbors think about our yard. We have at least one neighbor who sprays terrible toxic chemicals on the weeds that grow up through the cracks at the end of our driveway. My husband, Dan, tries to get to them with the weed whacker before it gets to that point because we are kind of anti-Roundup types (if you hadn't already guessed). But we have a hard time beating our neighbor to the punch.

But that is summertime stuff. The fall brings about its own set of challenges.

A few weeks ago, I thought that particular neighbor was out of town. I hadn't seen him doing anyone's yard work for a while.

"Oh, he's here," Dan said. "I saw him judging our tree yesterday."

Dan was referring to a strangely shaped evergreen in the corner of our front yard. Resembling a green, hairy version of Monty Python's Black Knight, it hangs over the sidewalk and declares to all joggers and mothers with strollers, "None shall pass!" It has to violate some homeowners association ordinance.

The other day Dan said, "I trimmed up that tree."

"You did? So it's not blocking the sidewalk anymore?" I added, giggling at my own wit, "Did it say 'It's just a flesh wound!' when you cut its branches?"

"Not that tree."

"Oh."

We also have a leaf situation mostly due to the fact that neither of us ever feels like raking. Dan did end up raking leaves last weekend. My sacred belief is you shouldn't have to do yard work but once a week. Anything else just seems like landscape overkill.

Friday evening, I exited through our front door for the first time all week and was greeted by a deluge of fallen leaves. Unable to see our paved walkway, I kicked through the leaves until I got to the sidewalk. There was an bright side though. One of my favorite fall activities is hearing leaves crunch under my feet anyway.

As I jogged around the neighborhood, I noticed that no other yard was as buried as ours, not even close.

"I think we might need to rake," I told Dan when I returned. "I almost drowned in a sea of leaves when I went for a run."

"It's not that bad, is it?"

I shrugged, "I guess it will keep solicitors away."

The truth is neither one of us have much initiative when it comes to fall yard or house work. At this time of the year, we would rather stay inside and watch the Syfy channel. But, partially due to this lack of motivation, staying inside was getting a little uncomfortable too.

A few days ago, the temperatures outside starting dropping to twenty and below in the mornings. We had the thermostat set to seventy-three, but our house was not getting above sixty-seven. We spent a lot of time thinking about whether or not it would snap out of it and work eventually. Then we spent more time wondering if we should call the furnace people or try other things first. Then Dan read owner's manual which suggested changing the filter and/or thermostat batteries. Finally, after about thirty-six hours of no heat and researching and weighing options and coming up with Plans A, B, and C, Dan changed the filter and batteries.

"The temperature's going up!" Dan said a few hours after the filter change.

"Imagine that. You follow the directions in the manual and. . ."

Then he began to wonder whether or not the problem had been the filter or the batteries. So he removed the new batteries, replaced them with the old batteries, and the furnace kept working.

"It must have been the filter."

"Just like the manual said," I pointed out. "Now we have a working heater and clean air."

What more could we want? Maybe we should get to that tree sometime . . . "Tis but a scratch!"

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Yoga Pants and Feminist Experiments

Last Saturday, my husband asked if I would like to go on a date, our first since I had been sick.

"Okay, I'll go," I said. "But I am going to wear what I have on." 

I still was not feeling completely well, and I was very comfortable in my yoga pants and oversize lime green t-shirt.

"You don't want to at least change into jeans?"

"What is that supposed to mean? I think I look just fine in yoga pants."

"You do look cute in yoga pants. It's just . . . well . . . it's not really date night attire."

Up until that moment, I may have considered changing my clothes. Instead, I decided to wage a battle against society's assumptions about the way a woman is supposed to dress. Dan, my husband, calls these campaigns my "feminist experiments." 

Once when we were arguing (yes, Dan and I argue sometimes; that's what happens when two alphas live together), Dan mentioned that he didn't like me doing my "feminist experiments" on him. He didn't mean this as a compliment, but I made the expression my own and have used it with pride ever since.

"You're not supposed to think I'm being funny when I'm angry with you," Dan said.

But the term stuck.

"If you're not going to shower, I'm not going to change," I announced. "I want to be comfortable."

"You could change into jeans. Jeans are comfortable."

"And I'm not putting on make-up."

Dan decided he couldn't take me to a nice restaurant even though it's Boise, Idaho, and people wear yoga pants all the time to nice restaurants. So we ate at Souper!Salad! which was fine with me since my appetite was not quite 100%.

"We're getting old. We go to buffets all the time," Dan said. (We had just been to Primo's the night before.)

"I still won't set foot in anything that says chuck or wagon or corral in the name," I said.

"If you would wear something other than yoga pants . . . "

That is when I started singing (because I could finally sing again) from my favorite feminist experiment, Free to Be You and Me:

"When we grow up, will I be pretty?/Will you be big and strong?/Will I wear dresses that show off my knees?/Will you wear trousers twice as long?/Well, I don't care if I'm pretty at all./And I don't care if you never get tall./I like what I look like, and you're nice small./We don't have to change at all."

"That song means I am allowed to wear yoga pants if I want."

The next day, Dan and I were getting ready for church, and Dan noticed I was wearing my wool pea coat. He, on the other hand, was wearing a black hooded sweatshirt.

"Should I wear my wool coat too?" he asked.

"We are going to church, you know. All that fuss over yoga pants, and you won't even dress up a little for God."

Who is looking too casual now?

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Heartbreak and a Little Grace

I saw a post on Facebook about "God's perfect timing." I admit I scoffed a little. I was recently a victim of very bad timing, timing that probably didn't have much to do with God since we tend to attribute things to God that we probably shouldn't.

I was supposed to sing the lead in an operetta at the end of October. I had been preparing the role since last year, and I was so excited to sing the part. My voice was in terrific shape, and I felt so healthy.

Around the first part of production week though, I felt a dreaded drip down the back of my throat. But I wasn't worried. I had sung through colds and allergies tons of times.

Then about three days into my head cold, I woke up and knew it had settled . . . in my throat. I was swollen. Any singer who has ever had laryngitis will know what I am talking about.

I still wasn't that worried. It was a head cold, which meant it would move to a new part of my body the next day.

It didn't.

So I went to the ENT. I would have to go on steroids, but it was the price I was willing to pay for opening night (which was the next day). The inflammation in my vocal cords was due to a virus and lots of mucus. I had nothing permanently wrong with me, no vocal abuse, strain, bruising, or nodes.

But the steroids didn't work. (I am probably the only person in the history of the world who is completely unaffected by 200 mg of Prednisone.) Neither did the 1600 mg of Advil or Mucinex that was later added to my cocktail. Neither did the steam treatments or iced lemon water or Throat Coat Tea.

My voice never recovered enough to sing during the run of the production. My heart was broken.

Eventually, I had to come to terms with the fact that I wasn't going to get to sing this part, this role that had become one my favorites over the past few months.

What does it mean when something that had seemed so serendipitous doesn't work out?

I say it means nothing.

"What is the reason for this? Doesn't everything happen for a reason?" I asked Dan (in a barely audible, very croaky voice) as he was driving me back from the theater.

"That's silly. There are lots of senseless things that happen in this world," he said.

Nature was taking its course. There was no miraculous intervention by a higher power or by the universe—just a virus that had to make its way out of my system on its own terms.

But here is what I discovered during this ordeal. People were there at the right time and in the right place. Maybe that is how God operates, through the people around us. Let me just throw out my entire Baptist upbringing about "sin nature" and postulate a more humanist approach. Rather than being a victim of a deaf God, I was a beneficiary of the inherent goodness of humankind.

• My friend and fellow cast member gracefully rose to the occasion and learned the role within a couple of hours.
• My husband, Dan, stepped in to cover one of the backstage jobs that opened up because of the giant snowball effect my absence was creating.
• Another friend followed up on my condition with the ENTs in her office throughout the week to see if there was anything else I could possibly do to bring down the inflammation.
• One of the cast members gave me a "get better" care package just because he is my friend.
• I received priesthood blessings from some of the LDS cast members that instilled in me a sense of peace and resolve.
• People from all belief systems and walks of life sent me countless prayers and positive thoughts.
• I was given a treasure chest and a scarf and sea shells and chocolate and a note that provided me with the confidence to try this performing thing again sometime. (I was ready to throw in the towel and never audition for another show ever.)
• The director handled the whole situation in an amazingly calm, gracious, and professional way, some of the best crisis management I have ever seen.
• The cast gave me beautiful flowers and a get well card at strike.
• And the male lead brought me out for the final bow on closing night even though I couldn't even muster a squeak by that time.

I made some of the best friends of my life. Nobody judged me or blamed me for causing such a dramatic ending to our production. Everyone was genuinely concerned for my well-being. And I got the impression that it went beyond simple sympathy, that my fellow cast and crew members were so empathetic, their hearts broke right along with mine.

The director put it best: "This is what a theater family does for each other." And she was right.

Everything may not have meaning, but I can learn from anything even if it doesn't make sense.

I heard Anne Lamott say once, "I asked a priest after Newtown, 'Is there meaning after Newtown?' And he said, 'Not yet.' Meaning will come."

Even so, I just wanted to experience and impart the art and beauty of that music. But maybe meaning will come . . . later. And even if it doesn't, at least I experienced a little grace.

Get Well Gifts

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POST RERUN: The Halloween Candy Dilemma (FROM 11/4/11)

As my husband and I prepared for Halloween, I was consumed with a nagging sense of guilt that had been festering over the last few years.

My students get almost more excited about Halloween than they do about Christmas, all that frenzy over a pillowcase full of free sugar. On top of that, on Fridays at my school, the kids can buy popcorn, Popsicles, and - on special occasions - cotton candy. This year, the "special occasion" happened to fall on the Friday before Halloween - as if they weren't going to be eating enough junk already.

Of course, I suppose I contribute to this problem. I have a couple packages of Dum Dums and Smarties (notice the cute juxtaposition) hidden in my classroom for students who help me move instruments or risers around.

Our school also sponsors a special trick-or-treat night where the kids can parade through the school, after hours, in their costumes, while the teachers stand in front of their classrooms and pass out candy. It actually makes for a fun evening, and it's a great excuse to see the kids in their Halloween best. But it also means kids get two nights of trick-or-treating or, in other words, double the candy.

I started to reevaluate my feelings about handing out candy on Halloween. Plus, I was not happy with the Hershey Corporation's recent use of foreign student slave labor. How could Dan and I promote a healthy lifestyle and be socially responsible on Halloween, the sugariest night of the year?

On Cotton Candy/Popcorn Friday, I discussed my misgivings with my co-workers in the faculty room. One teacher said that she and her husband give their grandkids graham crackers and a couple of pieces of candy. Another teacher said that she buys playing or trading cards at Costco as alternatives to sweets.

"I'm thinking about handing out apples and toothbrushes this year," I lied, knowing I would never have the guts to do that.

“That's a good way to get your house egged," said one of the student teachers.

Dan and I had just watched a TV show the night before where one of the characters decided to give full-size candy bars to the trick-or-treaters.

“I’m going to be the hero of the neighborhood,” the guy announced proudly, accompanied by a laugh track. Dan and I - sheepishly - shared that sentiment.

We didn't want to be the uncool, granola neighbors. I had heard my students talk about those people.

"Oh, you're that house," one of my former students said when I told her I had considered handing out fruit this year. "Some hippie lady gave us organic chocolate, and it's disgusting."

"One lady said she ran out of candy so she gave me an apple instead," another student once told me disdainfully.

So, Dan and I found ourselves at the grocery store staring at shelf after shelf of chocolate gluttony.

"We could get sugar-free candy,” Dan suggested half-heartedly.

"That's almost as bad as giving them dental floss."

"It's kind of the parents' job to monitor how much candy their kids eat."

With that part of my conundrum rationalized, we took up the daunting task of deciding what kind of candy to buy. As I said earlier, we were boycotting Hershey this Halloween. Dan also said he had heard socially irresponsible things about Nestle.

"I don't know about Mars. It's probably just as bad," Dan said.

"Well, ignorance is bliss, I guess."

(And yes, I discovered later, Mars Incorporated has had similar labor/fair practice issues in the past. It is supposedly taking steps to rectify this, not that my expectations are all that high.)

Then we had to decide how many bags to buy. The big bags were 30 cents per ounce, and the small bags were 20 cents per ounce.

"I'm not spending that much on these weirdo kids just so they can have free candy and get diabetes," I said, reaching for the small bags. "No more than one - two pieces max."

"It's okay if we have leftovers," Dan hinted.

"Yeah, we can just eat it all to keep the kids from making bad nutritional choices."

It took the first little Woody from Toy Story ringing our doorbell - "Twick ow Tweat!" - to make me forget about my aversion toward the candy industry.

"You want a piece of candy? Here, take four or five!"

We ended up running to the store and buying two more bags.

At school the next day, one of my fourth graders brought me an apple. She was only the second student to bring me an apple in my ten years of teaching. Did she really love me, her wonderful music teacher? Or did she just make the mistake of trick-or-treating at the neighborhood hippie house the night before?

For the latest blog updates, visit and "like" Rebecca Turner-Duggan.