The following letter, originally submitted by a concerned citizen, has been forwarded to me from far-flung places on several occasions over the last few months. As it actually mirrors, in precise verbal portrayal, my early upbringing, I pass it, with little change, on to you.
“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 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 preacher or if I didn’t put fourth 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 flowerbeds, and the cockleburs out of Dad’s fields.
“I was drug to the homes of family, friends and neighbours 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.
“These drugs are still in my veins and they affect my behaviour in everything I do, say, or think. They are stronger than cocaine, crack or heroin, and if today’s children had this kind of a drug problem, the entire American continents, from the Antarctic to the Arctic, would be a better place. God bless the parents who drugged us.”
That is fact, not fiction, folks. Anyone equalling my age, who, even on a clear day, will never see 76 again, will remember those days well. And might I add that I don’t think that any of our growth was stunted by the manner in which we were brought up. On the other hand, maybe we were all meant to grow ten feet tall?
Meanwhile, back on the farm front, everything is rolling along quite nicely. Each time we open the large overhead door, to let the low slant of the southern morning sunshine in, all the animals turn to gaze at the back farm snow-clad hills.
They, as I, are longing to get out and enjoy the freedom of wandering the slopes at will. This may take a little longer for them than for me, as the fences, too, were wiped out by the tornado.
Time will be needed to replace them. But there are hearts set on starting as soon as the frost is out and the ground firms up in the spring.
In the meantime, folks, I have taken on the responsibility of cutting the grass when needed during the winter and shovelling the snow all summer long. Whew. What a tough job!
By the way folks, mark your calendar March 16, 17 and 18, 10am to 4pm. Our Greenspaces for Wellington will be holding its ninth annual birdhouse and bathouse building workshop at Greenway Nursery, Shantz Station Road, in Breslau, within sight, on the right, south of Highway 7, east of Kitchener. See you there.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105