The other day, someone at a store in our city read that a methamphetamine lab had been found in an old farmhouse in the  adjoining town 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 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 profane four-letter word. 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, neighbours to help out some poor soul who had no one to mow the yard,  repair the clothesline, or chop some firewood; and, if 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 behaviour 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, the world would be a better place.

Author unknown