The other day, someone at
a store in a small town read that a methamphetamine lab
had been found in an old farm house 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
did have a drug problem when I was a kid growing up.
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.
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 if I uttered a profane four-letter word (I
know what soap tastes like).
I was drug out to pull
weeds in mom's garden and flower 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 fire wood, 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 wood
shed.
Those drugs are still
in my veins, and they affect my behavior in everything I
do, say, and think. They are stronger than cocaine,
crack or heroin, and if today's children had this kind
of drug problem, America might be a better place today.
