Friday, January 16, 2009

I thought this was worth posting.


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 country 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 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 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 flowerbeds and cockleburs out of dad's fields.

I was drug to 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 everything I do, say, or think. They are stronger than cocaine, crack, or heroine; and, if today's children had this kind of drug problem, American would be a better place.

God bless the parents who drugged us.