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 flowerbeds
and cocklebur's 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 everything 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.

(Thanks to Becky Collins for forwarding this one to me)