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A Different Kind of Drug…
The other day, someone at a store in our town read a newspaper story 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 that I did have a drug problem when I was younger: 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 what the weather was like.
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, bought home a bad report card, spoke ill of the teacher or the preacher, or 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 outside to pull weeds in mom’s garden and flower beds and told to pick out the cockleburs out of dad’s fields. I was drug to the homes of families, 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 still affect my behavior in everything I do, say, or think today. 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 today.
God bless the parents who drugged us!
