In light of the publication today of the much-anticipated Mitchell Report, which links dozens of prominent major league baseball players to steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs, I thought readers would appreciate a little levity:
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. He asked me rhetorically, “Why didn’t we have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?”
I replied, I did have 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 even in inclement 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 pastor, or if I didn’t put forth my best effort in anything 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 lawn, repair the clothesline, or chop some firewood. Not only that, 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. But you know what, if today’s children had this kind of drug problem, America would be a better place. God bless the parents who drugged us.