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 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.
By from the Eagles Newsletter
