The other day, someone at a store in our town read that a
Methamphetamine lab had been found in an old farmhouse in the
adjoining county and he asked me a rhetorical question, "Why didn't
we have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?"
I replied, I had a drug problem when I was young: I was drug to church
on Sunday morning. I was drug to church for weddings and funerals. I
was drug to family reunions and community socials no matter the weather.
I was drug by my ears when I was disrespectful to adults. I was also
drug to the woodshed when I disobeyed my parents, told a lie, brought
home a bad report card, did not speak with respect, spoke ill of the
teacher or the preacher, or if I didn't put forth my best effort in
everything that was asked of me.
I was drug to the kitchen sink to have my mouth washed out with soap
if I uttered a profanity. I was drug out to pull weeds in mom's garden
and flower beds and cockleburs out of dad's fields. I was drug to the
homes of family, friends and neighbors to help out some poor soul who
had no one to mow the yard, repair the clothesline, or chop some
firewood, and, if my mother had ever known that I took a single dime
as a tip for this kindness, she would have drug me back to the woodshed.
Those drugs are still in my veins and they affect my behavior in
every thing I do, say, or think. They are stronger than cocaine,
crack, or heroin: and, if today's children had this kind of drug
problem. America would be a better place.
God bless the parents who drugged us.
