I got a note from one of our blog readers, Mrs. Sandra Callison, who shared the following story. I was nodding my head and ‘Amen-ing’ after about the second line and I wanted to share it here because I suspect there’s a sentiment in these lines that most folks who would care to read about Appalachian history would probably share.
I tried to research the author of this story but could only find that several other folks around the web had also shared it with no author’s name.
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 cockle-burs 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.