The other day, a man standing next to me at a store in our small town read that a meth 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 we were growing up?
I told him I did have a drug problem when I was a kid growing up.
I was drug to church on Sunday… morning and night.
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 upstairs to my room or 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 or smoked a cigarette (I do know what soap tastes like).
I was drug out to pull weeds in mom’s garden and flower beds and to clear cockle-burs 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 would be a better place to live today.