The other day, someone at a store in a small 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 told him that I did have a drug problem when I was a
kid growing up on the farm. 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 if I uttered a profane
four-letter word. ( I do know what Lye soap tastes like.)
I was drug out to pull weeds in mom's garden and flowerbeds 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