My Parents Drugged me as a Kid

Weather: Rainy Day

Trail Conditions: No Dust

Something like 88 days before the snowmobile trails open.  Am I pushing it a bit? Thursday football season starts too.  The trees up here are starting to change colors, and Fall is in the air I guess.  It won’t be long and we will be freezing our asses off once again.  Yippee, my favorite time of the year.  But before that happens I have a lot of stuff I need to get done.



The other day I was in an old farmhouse in the adjoining county and someone asked me a rhetorical question: ‘Why didn’t we have a drug problem when you and I were growing up?’ 
I replied that 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 priest, 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.  I was drug to the homes of neighbors to help mow the yard, repair the clothesline, and if my mother had ever known that I took a single dime as a tip for this kindness, my dad 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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