The Moms 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 did have 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 fields.
I was drug to the homes of family, friends,
and neighbors to help out som e 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.