GOD BLESS 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 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 flowerbeds and
cocklebur's 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.
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Not my words but I love the message.