Parents who Drugged Us

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 flower
beds and cockleburs out of dad's field. 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.