The other day, someone at a store in a small 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 told him that I did have a drug problem when I was a kid growing up on the farm when I was young: I was drug to services. I was drug to weddings and funerals. I was drug to family reunions and community socials no matter the whether nor how I was feeling about it. 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 rabbi, or if I didn't put forth my best effort in everything that was asked of me.

I was drug to the kitchen sink if I uttered a profane, four-letter word. ( I do know what Lye soap tastes like.)

I was drug out to pull weeds in mom's garden and flowerbeds 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 fire wood, 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, and think. They are stronger than cocaine, crack, or heroin, and if today's children had this kind of drug problem, America might be a better place today.

Submitted by Doug C.