The 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 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 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.