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 every night to church revivals.
I was drug by my ears to another room for a hard spanking 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, spoke ill of my teacher or the preacher, or if I didn't do my best at everything I was told to do.
I was drug to the kitchen sink to have my mouth washed out with soap if I uttered a profanity. I was drug to the kitchen to help Mother with the dishes and then drug to bed early to get a good rest.
I was drug out to pull weeds in mom's garden and flowerbeds and cocklebur's out of dad' s fields. Every Summer I was drug to the garden to hoe weeds and then mow the lawn around the house.
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 found out I had taken one 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 everything I do, say, or think to this very day. They are stronger and more long lasting than cocaine, crack, or heroin; and, if today's children had the kind of drug problem we had back then, they wouldn't have the kind of drug problem they have today.
God bless the parents who drugged us.