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 that 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 also was "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 lower 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 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.