Grandma and the Tornado

This is Chapter 28 - “Grandma and the Tornado” from my upcoming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone”

“There is a safe spot within every tornado. My job is to find it.”

—David Copperfield

“It's not like we're infested with them on a continual basis. But you learn to live with the warnings. And you learn what to do if one is coming your way. And then you cross your fingers and make the best judgments you can.”

—Mick Cornett

I have lived in Oklahoma my entire life…in the area known as Tornado Alley. Even though we lived in this region known for its many storms, actual tornado sightings were few and far between. Even when they were seen, we knew how to respond…mostly. So used to storms were we that on one occasion, Dad sent me to the pasture to fetch the milk cows. I will never forget saying these words, “But, Daddy, I can see four tornados!” And I was not exaggerating! I could see a funnel cloud extending down from the clouds miles away in all four cardinal directions! His response? “They’re not heading this direction and they’ll not make it here before you get the cows up. Now git to work!”

Reluctantly, I obeyed as I walked tentatively out the back gate of the barnyard and headed toward the pasture, hoping and praying they were not all the way in the back pasture. And, of course, they were! At least I had the cow-dog, Tillie, to walk with me. She did not seem to be fearful in the least, so this put me somewhat at ease, but as we plodded with purpose to get there and back with the cattle as quickly as possible my thoughts could not help but run rampant. Like an annoying rerun of the same commercial on TV, images from past on-the-scene newscasts after tornados were running through my mind.

Call it cliche’ or call it stereotyping, but all I could envision were the many interviews I had witnessed by those who had had their trailer homes (I call them tornado magnets) destroyed by a twister. Either ladies in curlers or men in their underwear, often with missing teeth, each saying the same thing as if in scripted tornado lingo, “It sounded just like a freight train and the next thang I knew, we was trapped under the kitchen wall!” Heading toward the back pasture, listening intently for the tell-tale wails of a wind-borne freight train, I found the cows and made it home without incident. That was just one day of many through the years in the life of one who dwells in Tornado Alley! That being said, there is one day that stands out above all other days in my memory as the most compelling of all my encounters with tornados…

Grandma Jernigan’s trailer home was located a mere hundred feet or so to the southeast of our farmhouse. At the northeastern corner of this little trailer house, my Dad had placed the small doghouse he had built for the bird dog named Buster that he kept chained there. Directly in front and to the left of Grandma’s home was a long, narrow barn where Dad worked on cars, trucks, tractors and various and sundry pieces of farm equipment that locals would bring for repair. This garage was in addition to the one in town that Dad ran with Leroy Cook.

This at-home workshop was spacious enough for two cars at a time. The floor of this workspace was dirt packed firm by the many hours Dad spent trampling it down as he worked on the engine repairs. This workspace extended into a longer room toward the west. This room was lined with Dad’s tools from floor to ceiling. The only windows were on the west end of the long structure. Overhead, an eight-foot fluorescent light was suspended directly above the floor and occupying the bulk of that floor space was the pool table my parents had surprised us with the Christmas before, making this room one of our favorite places to be.

My parents had tried finding a place for the massive table in our house, but it took up so much space that it was impractical to keep it there. They threw around the idea of using the big hay barn to house the table, but this was nixed due to the need for a level floor, of which the dirt floor of the hay barn was not. This, of course, made the work barn the most logical choice, due to the concrete floor on the west end.

It was a summer day. Warm and breezy with a few clouds in the distance, but nothing to be concerned with. So normal was this day that my brothers were working in the hay field across the ditch between the front and back pasture. The middle pasture was distinguished by the Conservation Era terraces that gently rolled across the field from side to side. Paul was mowing the tall grass and Bob was raking the grass that had been mown the previous day. Because this particular hay meadow was full of yellow hop clover, I had been relieved of hay-duty. Normally, I was the rake-man, but the last time I had raked the dry hay, my body had responded with a very intense allergic reaction: swollen eyes; scratchy, swollen throat; an itchy rash on my skin, coupled with congested lungs had ensured my banishment from the hay fields that week.

Needless to say, I was not very heart-broken over this turn of events. Happy to get out of such hot, sweaty work, I determined I would prove my worth around the house by doing some inside chores. Since my parents were gone into town for errands and had taken my little brother, Sam, with them, I was gloriously left alone to do my work out of the heat of the day. As I went about cleaning the kitchen and doing the dishes, as my Mom had instructed me, I could hear the faint and familiar sounds emanating from Grandma’s piano. Often during the late afternoon, Grandma Jernigan would sit at her piano and sing hymns and songs of worship to the Lord. These times I found very peaceful and comforting. Such it was this day. Peaceful and comforting…for a moment.

After only a few minutes of work, I decided to go to the laundry room to take the empty pop bottles out to the front porch so Dad or Mom would see them and remember to take them to be redeemed. In those days, you could get money for returning used glass soda bottles. As I entered this room, I could hear Grandma’s piano even more clearly since the windows facing her house were open to allow the coolness of the breeze to help vent the house from the summer heat. Without warning, the sweet tones of my Grandma’s music began to be drowned out by an ever-increasing sound of wind. The gentle breeze was no longer a breeze. It had suddenly been replaced by the sound of a mighty roar of wind! Growing with intensity, the roar of this wind became so deafening I could no longer hear anything but the sound that roared like a freight train barreling through!

Rushing out the back door to find out what was making all the noise, my eyes were met with a most astounding sight. Right before my eyes, that workshop barn where we kept the pool table, lifted slowly into the air! Watching in dumbfounded stupor, I saw the barn lift higher and higher before turning completely upside down and crashing violently to the ground in what seemed like millions and millions of shattered pieces! Completely obliterated and unrecognizable, the barn and all its contents, including our awesome pool table, were no more!

I had not had any other warning than the sudden rise of wind that day. All I knew was that somehow a twister had dipped down from the sky and had lifted the barn from the ground, rising as if my Dad had somehow attached rockets and boosted it from the earth! All this had happened so unbelievably quick that I had little time to be afraid, but when I was able to understand what had just taken place, fear soon took over. It was replaced, though, by the need to protect my little brothers who were out in the hay field, utterly exposed and without shelter! Without thinking, I went into full-fledged big-brother mode and ran as fast as I could toward the hay meadow!

I came to the fence between the house and barnyard and leapt right over it. Coming to the fence separating the barnyard from the front pasture, I did the same thing, feeling superhuman and operating somewhere outside of what was normal for me. Spying Bob’s head bobbing up and down on the International Harvester, my one goal was in getting to him with the warning, “Tornado! Take cover!” Of course, he did not hear me at first over the din of the engine, but when he saw me, he stopped. Again I said, “There’s a tornado! We need to take cover!”

From Bob’s expression, I could tell he thought I must be out of my mind, especially as he glanced from my face to look the direction I had been pointing and then back to my face with one of those “‘are-you-out-of-your-mind’” little-brother looks. By this time, I had been able to flag Paul down from where he was mowing. As he hopped down from the old Massey Ferguson, he asked, “What’s going on?”

Thinking to myself, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I reiterated what I had just said to Bob. “There’s a tornado! We need to take cover!” Giving me that same look of “my-brother-has-lost-it” as Bob had just done, Paul simply said, “Where?”

By this time, I was at my wits end with the lack of seriousness with which they were treating such a dire situation. I said with great emphasis, “The barn, the garage, the pool table! They’re all gone! A tornado smashed them all to smithereens!”

They still did not believe me, Paul chiming in with, “It got only the little barn?” As I looked back to take stock of the damage, I could clearly see that none of the other buildings had apparently been damaged. The main house was still visible. The main barn was still there. The only thing that could not be seen clearly from our vantage point was Grandma’s trailer, and at just that moment, Paul asked, “Is Grandma okay?” Grandma! How could I have forgotten Grandma?! But I had!

Running back toward the house with the same level of intensity that had carried me out to the pasture, I prayed, “Lord, please protect my Grandma! Please keep her safe! Please, Lord! Please!”

Clearing the same fences I had cleared on the way to my brothers, I leapt again consumed with the need to get to Grandma’s side and help her out of the rubble! But the only rubble was where the barn had been. The trailer house seemed to be perfectly intact! “Thank You, Lord!” I spoke in prayer as I raced around the front of the trailer and up onto the porch my Dad, my brothers and I had built for her. My two little brothers trailing behind, I got to the front door. As I turned the knob to open the door, I realized it was locked.

Frantically, I began pounding on the door yelling, “Grandma! Are you in there? Grandma, are you alright?!” Placing my ear next to the door to hear her response, I could tell she was shuffling toward the door, obviously not in much of a hurry. Finally coming to the door, I felt it gently open.

As she peeked out the door, she had not noticed the debris that used to be the barn directly in front of her home. “What is it, son?” she asked. Stepping back from the doorway so she could get an unobstructed view, she looked first at my little brothers and then to the place where the barn used to be and asked incredulously, “What have you boys done?!”

“No, Grandma! It wasn’t us! It was a tornado! A tornado, Grandma! Didn’t you see it? Didn’t you hear it?”

“What tornado?” she innocently asked. My brothers and I could not believe our ears! “You didn’t hear or see anything, Grandma?” I asked.

“Well…a few minutes ago, I thought I heard a ruckus outside…but I thought is was just Buster dragging his chain against the back of the house.”

Almost as if on cue, my parents and youngest brother, Sam, pulled into the driveway, dodging debris as looks of bewilderment enveloped their faces. They, too, could not believe what they were seeing and they, too, wondered what could have happened. My dad, asking as his mother did, “What have you boys done?”

That day proved the unpredictability of Oklahoma weather and it proved the power of determination to reach the ones you love when facing danger, and it proved that God must have a sense of humor! The only other people to see the tornado dip down from the small front that had blown through were the neighbors who lived almost a mile to the southeast of us, at last corroborating my almost implausible story! Thus the saga of “Grandma and the Tornado”…

Dennis Jernigan

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/images/download/pixel1-tornado-657633_1920.jpg

The Tree Patch

This is Chapter 27 - The Tree Patch from my upcoming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone”

“Consider a tree for a moment. As beautiful as trees are to look at, we don't see what goes on underground - as they grow roots. Trees must develop deep roots in order to grow strong and produce their beauty. But we don't see the roots. We just see and enjoy the beauty. In much the same way, what goes on inside of us is like the roots of a tree.”

—Joyce Meyer

“No one can reap the fruit before planting the trees.”

—Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva

"For you will go out with joy and be led in peace;

The mountains and the hills will break into shouts of joy before you,

And all the trees of the field will clap [their] hands.

—Isaiah 55:12 NASB

I have a friend whose grandfather was a lumberman, managing several groves of pine along with a small lumber mill. When he was a boy, his grandfather took him to plant a tree together. My friend tells me he asked his grandfather how long it would take the tree to grow before it could be harvested. His grandfather simply said, “That day will be long after I’m gone, son.” My friend then asked his grandfather, “Why are you planting a tree you will never get to see harvested?” His grandfather’s reply? “I’m not planting it for me, son. I am planting this tree for you.”

Now that Dad is gone, my mind floats back to scenes from my childhood more often than I imagined they might. Part of me is wistful and melancholy, yet the old man perspective gives way to the wonder of a child’s point of view as I gaze back in time.

When my father was just a boy growing up on the farm, his dad, my grandfather, had set aside a portion of the ninety acres for the sole purpose of planting trees. We called it the “Tree Patch”. The specific trees chosen for this small five acre forest were Bois D’arc. We called them “horse apple” trees. Other names for this tree are “bow wood” and “Osage Orange”. The Bois D’arc is a small deciduous tree that grows to maturity in a relatively short period of time, reaching heights between forty and sixty feet. Rife with thorns, the yellow center of the wood was often used to make dye by Native Americans who also valued the tree for the strong bows produced using the wood. Thus, the name “Bois D’arc”. Each fall, these large bushy trees would be laden with hundreds of rough, spherical, bumpy-to-the-touch, inedible fruit-like skin made of cobblestone. My brothers, cousins and I would use them as bombs for our many mock battles on horseback. Upon contact with the ground, or the back of one of my “foes”, these cannon balls would crack open, splattering an Elmer’s Glue-like latex that was difficult to rinse off!

Beyond their obvious use from a boy’s point of view, my grandfather had wanted to accomplish several things with these hardy trees. Since Oklahoma can be a windy place, a line of these hardy, bushy, brambly trees could serve as a windbreak form the harsh winter winds blowing down from the north across the plains. Even without their leaves, the Bois D’arc’s numerous and tangled branches could provide protection from the onslaught. Many farmers and ranchers would plant a row of these hardy trees running east to west in order to give shelter to their herds during winter blasts of arctic air blowing in from the north.

In the days following the Great Depression, frugality was the mindset of my grandfather’s generation, especially in places like Oklahoma, which had been hit hard by the difficulties of the Dust Bowl days. Steel fence posts were considered a luxury, so fence posts were made of whatever material could be salvaged. Since my grandfather raised cattle in addition to managing oil wells around the county, the need for sturdy fence posts was always a necessity, and the need to manage money was ever-present in his mind. The most affordable way to obtain fence posts was to grow them…and Bois D’arcs fit the bill.

My dad had helped Grandpa Jernigan plant the five acre grove sometime in the early 1950s. In very precise rows, they had painstakingly plotted out the rows to ensure enough room to grow to maturity yet making the most of the growing area, allowing space for a path one could barely ride through when on horseback.

Since dad raised cattle and since cattle need to be fed in the winter when green grass has turned brown and dormant, we had to keep the cattle fenced out of the hay meadows and, to keep cattle out of the hay meadow, required a good, strong fence. I still remember, as if it were yesterday, the time when we built the fence following the contour of terraced field between the front and back pastures. Dad told me we were going to fence off the hay meadow and that he needed my help. This meant a trip to the Tree Patch to harvest fence posts, something Dad had talked about for many months.

Telling me his dad had planted those trees for just this purpose even before I was even thought of was like being invited into a living legend! For so long, Dad had talked about the time when he and his dad had planted the forest and how one day we would be able to use the trees for the fences on the family farm. The stories were about to give way to reality and I was beyond excited.

By the time I was about eight years old, I was already driving the tractor and milking the cows, but I was not quite old enough or big enough to wield the chainsaw. Dad, my little brothers and I, hitched the flatbed trailer that Dad had fashioned from an old pickup bed to the tractor and headed toward the Tree Patch. Walking through the forest, I was excited about felling that first tree but anxious about what the demise of that tree would mean to the layout of my own private adventure land. After a few minutes, Dad decided to select trees from the outer rows to better facilitate their removal from the tangled mess of branches. I remember the relief I felt at the realization that none of the inner hidden secrets of the forest would be revealed—that the inner mysteries of the Tree Patch would remain intact!

Selecting trees whose trunks were approximately eight inches in diameter, Dad began cutting. I was captivated at the bright yellow saw dust that accumulated like fine golden snow all over dad’s feet and around the stump. My brothers and I played in the powdery snow while dad trimmed away the branches, adeptly leaving a roughhewn post of nearly eight feet tall. Covered from head to toe in yellow sawdust, my brothers and I methodically dragged the debris of branches into a burn pile while dad moved on to the next tree.

As soon as Dad had loaded all the yellow-centered fence posts onto the trailer, we drove the quarter-mile to the soon-to-be fence line. Dad then instructed me to get into the driver’s seat, explained to me the need to drive slowly along the side of the terrace in order for him to drag out the posts. Doing as I was told, I drove slowly along the side of the terrace while Dad walked along behind the trailer. Every eight feet or so, he would grab a fence post and pull it out, leaving a trail of posts in our wake. When the trailer had been emptied, it was back to the Tree Patch for another load. We repeated the process until enough posts had been laid along the entire fence row.

The next step required was the digging of the holes for the posts. Dad used a post hole driller attachment (an auger) connected to the power take-off of the tractor to dig the holes. He also used a manual post hole digger to fine-tune any holes, depending upon the characteristic of an individual post. Since no two trees are alike, some were perfectly straight, some had slight curves, some had a gnarled bend. Not wasting a single post meant adapting the shape of the hole to best accommodate the shape of the tree, with the final result being the erect stance of the post in as level a line as possible.

After the posts were placed in the holes, my brothers and I pushed the dirt back in the holes while dad tamped the dirt into holes as tightly around the posts as possible, securing them in place. After we were done, my brothers and I looked down the line of posts and imagined a line of soldiers standing at attention, awaiting the commands of their leader. Even in a fence row, the Tree Patch led us on never-ending adventures!

The next step in the process was the laying down of each strand of wire the entire length of the fence. Again, I drove the tractor while Dad followed along behind the apparatus he had created for the purpose. The spool of wire was too heavy for one man and certainly too heavy for a boy, so Dad ran a steel pole through the spool and attached each end of the pole to the draft arms (places to attach implements like plows, balers, etc.) and I drove the entire length of the fence line while Dad made sure the wire unrolled properly. Once this task was completed, Dad used wire stretchers to make the wire taut enough to endure a cow leaning against it. Allowing me to wield a hammer, he taught me to measure the distance from the ground to the the placement of the wire and how to hammer in the galvanized fencing staple, securing the wire to the post. We repeated the process for each wire until the entire fence was completed.

The Tree Patch had served its intended purpose, requiring the felling of many trees, yet it had not seemed to even dent the forest or alter its sense of mystery. If anything, the loss of so many trees for that fence line had only added to the intrigue and mystique of the Tree Patch. My brothers and I continued to build forts until we were well into our early teens. And I still remember the day I went hunting with my trusty old Daisy BB gun.

I was probably around the age of ten when I set out to conquer the forest on this hunting expedition. Stealthily, I stalked my prey. My prey? Whatever moved! I hoped for a rabbit but would have settled for a field mouse. Imagine my surprise when I heard a fluttering of wings somewhere above and just ahead of me…and the breathless anticipation and pounding of heart as the turtle dove sat on the branch well within range! Slowly and quietly, I aimed at the defenseless little bird. As the BB shot through the air, I remember thinking the world had gone into slow motion as I watched the small round missile fly through the air and then hearing the muffled thud and seeing the small explosion of feathers as the bird fell slowly from its perch to the ground below with a near-silent thud!

Imagining myself a great hunter, I proudly ran home with my prize. My parents were nowhere to be found, so I ran to Grandma Jernigan’s house and showed her my prize! She was so proud of me and offered to help me clean and cook it. After stripping the tiny carcass of feathers and properly gutting the bird, Grandma fried him up and served him to me! Feeling as if I was in the court of a king and as if being served the finest feast I had ever been served, I ate that dove and pondered my next excursion while simultaneously reliving the victorious hunt over and over in my mind! Ah, the Tree Patch…

Although the Tree Patch was created in the first place with a very practical purpose in mind, my fondest memories and, to me, its greatest assets, were the fun and adventures it afforded me and my brothers as we were growing up. After all, who can say they grew up with their very own private forest? I certainly can!

The Tree Patch had proven to be so much more than a forest of would-be fence posts to me and my brothers. It was a haven and an adventure land—a place where a boy could roam free for hours upon hours, playing and pretending, doing battle, hiding and seeking, riding and just dreaming. For years before we built the fence and for years afterward, the Tree Patch was a place to explore. I knew every pathway. I discovered hidden escape routes. I knew shortcuts. I knew the places I could squeeze through on horseback and places I could tether my horse from sight during mock battles with my cousins and brothers in order to carry out sneak attacks.

So well did we know the layout of the Tree Patch, my brothers and I could navigate its hidden twists and turns even through the dark of night. In the places where branches blocked the path, we knew when to duck. In the places where the turns were particularly treacherous, we knew how to nimbly and deftly wiggle through without a scratch, often leaving our pursuers trapped in a tangled mire of torturous brambles, making our escape all the more glorious.

Whenever I would feel sad or melancholy, I could find solace in the Tree Patch. Whenever I was filled with wanderlust and the need for adventure, I would head to the Tree Patch. Whenever I felt angry or whenever I felt betrayed or emotionally wounded, I would hide in the Tree Patch and somehow find release and healing for my boy-soul. Whenever I needed to explore the reason for my existence, I could find a measure of meaning in the Tree Patch. Whenever I needed to ask God the “why” questions, I could go to the Tree Patch and cry without anyone but God hearing my sorrow. Whenever I needed to get away from the other voices vying for my attention, I could find the quiet place of life and silence enough to hear my heart cry in the Tree Patch.

The wonder of a boyhood memory leads me to ponder that, somewhere in my granddad's mind and vision beyond a mere windbreak for livestock and beyond the utilitarian purpose of a fence post, my grandfather had his grandchildren in mind. I like to believe he saw the many hours of exploration and adventure that would be afforded to me and my brothers in the years to come. Even though I was the only one of his grandchildren my grandfather ever met on this earth, my dad made sure his legacy was passed on.

How do I know this? As of this writing, I am about to be a grandfather for the tenth time and my greatest desire is for my grandchildren to discover who and Whose they are, to have hours and hours of grand adventure, to be filled with a sense of exploration and wonder and to dream and to imagine and to know they are loved merely and simply because they exist! Since that is my heart as a grandfather, I like to believe that was my grandfather's heart as well.

This is the reason I have created the Forest of Bren. This is the reason I keep the cedar tree in the campground in the middle of the forest decorated all year ‘round, making it Christmas in Grandpa’s forest all year ‘round. This is the reason I have carved out two miles of trails and named them after my own grandchildren. This is the reason that generation after generation would never doubt they are loved beyond imagination and that they have a sense of purpose. As I want each of my children and each of my grandchildren to know, this sign is going up just past the entrance to the Forest of Bren, the generational Tree Patch of my clan, inviting each generation into the grand adventure of life:

Stop.

Lay down your logic.

Put on your imagination and…

Proceed.

The old Tree Patch has long been gone, the trees dying off and the area having been cleared away for pasture…but its dear sweet memory lingers in me, deep in un-damageable places where things like fear and betrayal and old age and harsh words and the fickle, selfish ways and wisdom of man cannot reach. I can go there anytime I want or need. Now I am old…and I still find solace in my own private tree patch where I meet with God often…and explore with my grandchildren…and create memories for them and the generations to come. I did not plant the trees or carve those trails for me. I did all that for them…just as it was done for me. It is joy and life to my soul…and I cannot help but think it was the same for my grandfather planting those trees back in his day—for me.

Dennis Jernigan

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/images/download/x-2938653_1920.jpg

Accidents Will Happen

This is Chapter 25 from my soon-coming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone”

“In a universe that's an intelligent system with a divine creative force supporting it, there simply can be no accidents. As tough as it is to acknowledge, you had to go through what you went through in order to get to where you are today, and the evidence is that you did.”—Wayne Dye

Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/w/waynedyer718096.html

Paul. Paul. Paul. I have to laugh when I think about it. While reading Dad’s last will and testament as my brothers and I became more aware that Dad was not going to make it, I chuckle at the very first words Dad wrote:

LAST WILL & TESTAMENT

OF SAMUEL ROBERT JERNIGAN

Of sound mind (I wonder sometimes) and sound body (wearing out)

Funeral Arrangements

DO NOT (I repeat DO NOT) put a suit and tie on me!!! If you do I’ll come back and haunt ye…

What made me laugh the most was that near the end of Dad’s life and while in and out of consciousness in ICU, Paul leaned down close to Dad’s ear and whispered, “You know I’m dressing your butt in a suit and tie.” I love my family for being able to laugh in the face of such life-altering moments. Paul told me on several occasions during Dad’s ICU stay how he and Dad had talked about his imminent death…and that Dad was ready to go.

Several things come to mind when thinking about my brother, Paul. Second-born of the four Jernigan boys, he was arguably the most accident-prone (Time has allowed me to threaten for that title on more than one occasion!). As monumental moments come in life, Paul has had more than his fair share, like the time when he was eighteen months old and Mom ran over him with the tractor.

Although I was only eighteen months older than Paul, I still remember that day quite vividly. There is something incredibly powerful that takes place when trauma occurs—something that sears a memory indelibly into the mind at a seemingly impossible young age. We were out on the farm that day with the intention of building a bridge across the small creek (we boys called it “the ditch”) just to the north of the stand of persimmon trees and the two front ponds.

This “bridge” was nothing more than Dad placing a tin-horn in the ditch and using the box-blade to cover the tin-horn with dirt. Once the dirt was filled in around and over the tin-horn, one could drive over the ditch, allowing access from one side of the ditch to the other. This eased access from the front pasture to the back pasture.

While Dad did the bulk of heavy work with the tractor, Mom would help with the shovel, throwing shovelfuls of dirt between the tin-horn and other side of the ditch. While she and Dad worked away, Paul and I played happily in the pasture, running freely and pretending, as little boys do, hiding from one another in the tall grass.

As Dad came to a place of completing all he could do with the tractor, he hopped to the ground and took a shovel and began helping Mom fill in the small gaps missed by the box-blade. Shoveling away, they left Paul and I to our play. After a short while, Mom took notice of the quiet. I remember her frantically asking me, “Where is Paul?! Where is your brother?!” I simply pointed to the pasture where I had last seen him. In a frenzy of mama-bear-searching-for-her-cub panic, Mom ran quickly around the pasture calling out for Paul and hearing nothing. Had he fallen into a hole? Had he somehow made it the quarter-mile back to the house? Had he been trampled by a cow? All she knew is that she had to find my brother.

Leaping onto the tractor to gain a higher vantage point, Mom could still not locate Paul. As she continued to call out his name, she yelled to me, “Dennis, go to your daddy and stay there!” While I ran toward Dad in obedience due to fear and the panic I heard in her voice, I heard the tractor crank to life as she started the engine. Turning around just in time to see her head out to the open pasture, I heard Mom scream as she quickly leapt from the tractor. My immediate thought in that moment? “Wow! Mom is really glad she found Paul!” No sooner had we heard the scream than my Dad took off toward Mom, leaving me frozen on top of the freshly buried tin-horn.

Mom had not seen Paul crouching in the grass, but she felt the moment the front tire ran over him. Not seeing him until it was too late, she had run over his head! My memories after that moment fade into watching Mom with Paul’s body dangling from her arms as she held him tightly while running to the pickup. I remember my Dad sweeping me up and running toward the truck as well, feeling like I could fly (Weird what one recalls of childhood memories, right?). I can still feel the exhilaration of fear that swept through me as we raced toward the ER. Memory fades even further as all I can recall beyond that point was hearing grown-up talk about his skull being cracked, and nothing more. I remember feeling very relieved when Mom told me Paul would be just fine. This was simply more proof to me that Paul was truly hard-headed!

Through the years, we became quite accustomed to Paul’s little, and multiple, mishaps. Now that I am older and wiser, I think Paul simply had an adventurous spirit, and maybe a bit of Type-A personality about him. Soon after the tractor incident, we were sitting in the family room of our little farmhouse when Paul suddenly began to convulse, turn red, and lose consciousness! Once again, I remember heading toward the hospital with my parents, my younger brother, third-born Bob, and me in the back seat while Dad drove and Mom trying to resuscitate Paul in the front seat. I can still hear the fearful concern in Mom’s voice as she cried out to my Dad, “Robert! I think he swallowed his tongue!”

While Paul’s lips and cheeks began to turn blue from a lack of oxygen, Dad yelled to Mom, “Use your fingers and reach down his throat and try to pull his tongue up!” After a few seconds of my mom frantically digging into my brother’s mouth, she was able to clear his airway. I knew everything was all right when I heard Paul begin to sob. Mom began to comfort him while Dad turned the car around and headed back home. Once again, my main memory is that of feeling relieved because my brother was going to be OK, and mostly because I could sense the relief of my parents. One would think one would get used to such moments, but thanks to the misfortune of my brother, I never quite got there!

In addition to the aforementioned moments of calamity, there were the “other” moments. Like the day I dared him to throw a rock at the wasp nest. I can still see Paul’s swollen and unrecognizable face after the yellow jackets were done with him.

And, of course, who could forget the time I created a simple fulcrum using a board and a brick? I discovered that I could place one end of the board on the ground and then place a rock on that same end, that I could stomp on the raised end of the board and launch the rock high into the stratosphere. My little brother watched in awe as I successfully made several launches. With great excitement, Paul cried out, “My turn! Let me try!” No sooner had he placed the stone on the lowered end of the board, he stomped on the raised end of the board with all his might sending the rock flying perfectly toward his face and directly into his front teeth! For several years, the fake silver tooth he sported reminded him, and our entire family, to be very careful when launching stones into the air!

Even as I commit these memories to written word, I see a sort of theme involving me! In other words, I cannot always blame Paul for being accident-prone, especially in light of the “Great Crawdad-Fishing-Incident”. By the time Paul was four and I was five and Bob was three, Dad and Mom had already schooled us on the finer techniques of and adventures to be found in crawdad fishing (For any city-slickers reading, by crawdad, I mean crayfish).

Our parents would allow us to go down to the little creek (the ditch) running through our property during lazy summer days and fish for the small crustaceans. We were taught early on how to wrap a pic of bacon around a hook, dip that hook and bait into the murky water and wait for that tell-tale sign of movement. Whenever any slight movement was detected, we merely raised the hook to find a crawdad, or several, clinging to the bacon with their powerful pincers. Like a crane on a construction site, we would turn the pole and direct the dangling creature into the bucket of water we kept ready nearby. Shaking the crawdad from the pole, we would repeat again and again.

On one such fishing expedition, I felt the need to demonstrate the latest casting technique I had witnessed my Dad demonstrate while on a fishing trip to the pond with him. Without checking my surroundings (as I learned to do from this day on), I slung the pole behind me with great flare. Casting the line forward with similar flare and great force, I sent the hook and bait flying toward the ditch, only to snag it on something like a branch, a fence post or a cow! Only when I heard my brother, Paul, cry out in pain, did I turn to discover where my hook had snagged.

Half-walking and half-running awkwardly toward the house with my pole in one hand and trying to slow my shrieking brother with the other, I tried to keep the pressure off the hook which had caught him squarely in the mouth, and now protruded prominently from his outer jaw! Dad came to the rescue with his trusty pliers, cutting away the barbed end of the hook and sliding it easily into and out of his mouth. Sorry, Paul!

Another incident worth mentioning in the on-going saga of Paul involved a horse. Though I do not recall this horse’s name, I can remember the gelding being a very beautiful paint with reddish-brown splotches on a coat of white. As we did on almost a daily basis for many years, Paul, our brothers, cousins and I rode around the property playing chase on horseback. As Paul raced through the yard in pursuit of a sibling or cousin, I decided I could lose him if I rode under the clothesline, knowing to follow me on such an unexpected path would surely slow him down enough to hasten my escape…

My plan worked perfectly. As I ducked under the clothes line and encouraged my horse to fly, I turned around to see if my plan had succeeded just in time to see Paul rein his horse toward and under the long, thick wires. Before I could say a word, Paul stopped in midair and was pulled violently from his horse’s back! Falling backwards onto the ground and writhing there in pain, my mind was drawn to reminiscences of Wile E. Coyote in pursuit of the Roadrunner. Although I must admit my first thoughts led me to chuckle at Paul’s “Wile E. Coyote” moment, his agony pulled me into reality. For the next few days, Paul walked around sporting quite a raised whelp that ran across his neck in a swollen and very visible red line. Once again, I was involved in a Paul-mishap and, once again, I thought to myself ‘it’s a wonder he didn’t break his neck’. But that day would come soon enough.

Speaking of a broken neck. Have I told you about the time when I was sixteen and Paul was fifteen when he actually did break his neck? I will never forget that day as long as I live. As was often the case in the summertime, our family could be found camping at Horseshoe Bend on the Illinois River, just above Lake Tenkiller in northeastern Oklahoma. On this particular trip, we had invited our friends Glen and Marie Myers and their daughter, Lory. One of our favorite things to do was to have someone take a bunch of us upstream along with our inner tubes and drop us off to then float all the way back to camp. On this day, my Dad took us boys, my Mom and Lory about 4 miles up river from the boat landing at Horseshoe Bend. The reason we even stopped at this particular place was because we had spotted a rope swing hanging out over the river. Just below this area were some excellent rapids for floating, so we decided this was as good a place as any to embark on our journey.

I remember we floated the rapids several times, floating down for the thrill of the rough ride and then walking back up to the head of the rapids to do it all over again and again! After we tired of this, Paul, Lory and I decided we would try out the rope swing. The swing was simply a long section of very thick rope which hung from a cottonwood tree that extended out over the river. By climbing up the fifteen-foot rock cliffs and launching from the top, we could swing out to the very center of the river and drop into the cool, clear water. After we had each taken several turns, we felt it was time to try something more daring.

Our plan was simple. We would all three swing to the center of the river while hanging from the same rope! Since we knew we could not all three begin from the edge of the cliff (the rope wouldn’t reach far enough), we decided Lory would swing out first then swing back in since the weight of the person on the swing would carry the rope closer to the next “swinger”. Then Paul would grab the rope and swing out with Lory and they would both swing back up to get me!

Lory was the first to swing. We were so excited! Here came Lory, closer and closer to the rim of the cliff. Paul readied himself at the edge of the cliff to grab the rope. Only Lory’s weight didn’t carry her as close to the edge as we thought it would. By this time, Paul had already leaned out over the edge in anticipation of grabbing the rope. Since Lory didn’t come quite close enough, Paul reached out to grab the swing just as the swing carried Lory out of his reach! Paul began to fall and he knew he could not get his balance so he attempted to make a dive out of his fall. And he dove, head first into the river’s shallow edge.

I remember feeling sick because I knew the water was only 3 feet deep at the most! My worst fears were realized, though, when Paul didn’t surface immediately. Lory, too, saw what had happened and jumped in to swim to Paul’s aid. Mama and Daddy saw it all from across the river where the boat was moored. Mom began to swim frantically towards Paul while still in her inner tube and I jumped as quickly as I could down the path from the cliff. I reached Paul first.

By this time he had managed to stand up. But I could tell he was badly hurt. There was blood everywhere. Since the water was so shallow, his head had landed on solid bedrock. His front teeth were cracked as blood flowed from his mouth. On the top of his head was a deep gash in the shape of a horseshoe, the flesh laid back like a flap, bleeding profusely. But most serious was the obvious damage to his neck. While nothing seemed wrong as far as cuts or bruises on the outside of his neck, we could tell by the way he stood so stiffly up that he was badly hurt on the inside.

By this time, my Dad had gotten the boat over to Paul. Mom was attempting to hold Paul as still as she could. Since there were many rough rapids to go over to get back to camp, my Dad instructed my Mom to get into the boat so Paul could lie down across the seats of the small aluminum dinghy. In this manner, she could rest his head and neck between her legs to hold Paul as still as possible. Dad told us to find our own way back to camp, which should have spoken to me of the seriousness of Paul’s injuries. We watched in silence and fear, all whispering a prayer under our collectively-held breath, as they slowly traversed the first set of rapids then sped out of sight down the river and out of sight.

We knew we were several miles from camp and that we either had to float back or walk over the thickly wooded hills to get there. As my thoughts began to settle, I began to regret not insisting that I be allowed to go back to camp in the boat, but knew my parents were depending on me to find a way back to camp for my little brothers and Lory. Besides, there would have been no room for me in that tiny vessel.

After several minutes of discussion, we decided the quickest way back to camp was to go “as the crow flies”—straight over the hills through the brambles and brush. The trek seemed kind of exciting at first, but after a couple of hours of tediously wrestling our way through the underbrush, the trek became more of a trudge. Not only was there much brush and the subsequent scrapes and scratches, but the humidity and heat began to take their toll on us. Coupling this exhaustion with the unspoken fear and dread involving all of us, we began to grow exhausted, and exhaustion soon turned into desperation. I recall praying silently, asking God to protect Paul and to provide a quicker and easier way back to camp. As quickly as those thoughts were “uttered”, we came to a clearing and a road! Before we knew it, we were able to flag down a passing pickup truck and, after quickly explaining our predicament, we were gladly driven back back to the campground.

After leaping from the back of the truck and a quick nod of thanks to the Good Samaritan, I expected to find news of Paul’s condition. Expected someone to have some news, but the lack of information sent my mind whirling out of control with worst-case-scenario imaginations. Was he paralyzed? Was he conscious? Was he…alive!? Running to the first adult face I saw, I asked Glen, “How is Paul?!” His response—a slow shake of his head from side to side—spoke volumes and sent unfathomable dread through my being. The thought of Paul dying left me faint and dumbfounded.

When I finally came back to reality, Glen assured me that Paul was alive when they had come into camp. He told me that I needed to drive home as quickly as I could and get my parents some dry clothes, to find Dad’s checkbook and go find my parents and brother at St. Francis Hospital in Tulsa. Serious news. Mind-searing news.

Driving the sixty or so miles gave me plenty of time to think about the myriad possibilities and to relive every conceivable outcome over and over in my mind, as a sixteen year old boy. Trying to quiet my mind and focus on what I knew to be true—that Paul was still alive—gave me a place to focus my thoughts—gave me something to put hope in. Driving and praying through those thoughts, eyes clouded with tears, I somehow made it home and retrieved all the items my parents had needed. Before heading for Tulsa, another fifty miles away, I regained enough of my senses to call my Aunt Patsy and fill her in on what had transpired. Since she lived nearby, she rode with me to the hospital, saying only a few words all the way there, both of us praying silently for Paul’s protection.

We found my parents and found out Paul had indeed broken his neck. Since the campground was near the small city of Talequah, they had taken him to that hospital first and were told his injuries were too severe to be dealt with at those facilities and that he might not survive, much less ever walk again. Paul was then transported by ambulance to St. Francis Hospital in Tulsa where we received much better news. Although he had cracked several upper vertebrae in his neck, my brother seemed to have complete use of his entire body below the break!

Upon hearing this wonderful news, I asked to see Paul. I remember Mom leading me to Paul’s room and how we seemed to be walking in slow motion. The closer we drew to the room, the faster my heart raced, and then Mom began to prepare me for what I would face. “Dennis, Paul looks different—very different—from what you are used to seeing. Just don’t let him see you act shocked or anything…”

Her warning was an understatement. The gap between what I had expected to see and what reality proved to be sent me into an emotional stupor. Like trying to focus one’s eyes after seeing something precious morph into something unrecognizable right before one’s eyes, I had expected Paul to be in some sort of brace, lying peacefully in his tranquil hospital bed, nurses lovingly attending to his every need. What I saw was my brother’s body suspended in midair, sandwiched between two boards, tubes running in and out of his body at various points! But what blew my mind and sent me into a tailspin was the shaven head with a metal screw protruding from either side of his head, which meant they had drilled holes in his head. Like a laser, my thoughts began to focus as I traced the cable attached to those screws to the weights attached to the ends of those cables, holding his entire body deathly still, motionless, in traction.

As my mind fought to take all this in, I began to grow faint and excused myself to the hallway as quickly as I could. It was there in that hallway that the full weight of my brother’s wounds began to come into clear and full focus and all I could do was cry, and cry and cry. In those moments, I let go of the fear and dread I had carried since the moment we loaded Paul into that little boat and replaced them with the dread and fear of seeing my little brother lying there helpless and in pain. Suffering. From that day forward, I could not bring myself to visit Paul in the hospital, choosing to drown my anxiety in chores and work and whatever else I could fill my mind with, reasoning that since Mom and Dad would need to spend as much time with Paul as they could, that I would keep up with the farm chores. The garden needed tending and the cows would still need to be milked. If I am honest, I regret not going to see him again, but God wastes nothing, not even my regrets.

During the next six weeks that Paul spent in the hospital, he grew several inches. My little brother was now taller than me! Upon his release, he was instructed to wear a special neck brace in order to keep his neck supported at all times. My brother had perfect posture after that brace had done its work, which made him appear even taller. I guess I allowed the shame of my regret to keep me from expressing what I felt toward my brother. For many years after the accident, I found it almost impossible to watch Paul participate in any kind of physical activity. But, Paul being Paul (and I would have done the same), he kept right on playing basketball, riding horses and right on doing all the things a boy does in his teenage years, like jumping from the ninety-foot cliff at Lake Tenkiller called, appropriately, “Big Daddy”!

Through the years since that time, we have had the privilege of looking back with a new perspective—God’s point of view. One such recollection sums it all up. When I asked Mom what had happened when they had gotten to camp that day—how they had been able to get Paul into the truck—her reply? “Angels”. She explained that when they had arrived at the boat ramp at the campground there were several men standing there as if waiting specifically to help. Neither Mom or Dad recognized any of the men, and usually we had been casually acquainted with other campers occupying the small camp area. Even after asking around, no one knew of any such men ever having camped or fished in that area that day. Everything had happened so quickly, as if by design, as if we had been among angels that day…

Paul went on to build an amazing marriage with Sandy, raise three awesome children, and now being a granddad to his grandchildren. All of these memories and more filled my mind with gratitude and wonder at the workings of God as I listened to Paul eulogize at our father’s funeral. As he challenged those in attendance to live life in a holy way like our dad had, I could not help but see the challenge to others his own life was and is. In that moment, I wanted to be like my little brother. That thought was fleeting as another picture invaded my reverie. Chuckling quietly to my big-brother self, I recalled the most recent Paul episode, when he realized something was wrong with the electric wire powering the gas well on his property. Not having a tall enough ladder to reach said wire, he positioned the pickup truck beneath the wire and then placed the ladder he did have in the bed of the truck. As he climbed the ladder, sparks flew when he made contact, plummeting his body toward earth, striking the truck on his way toward the ground of his living to tell yet another story on another day.

"I'm the oldest, I make the rules. I'm in the middle, I'm the reason we have rules. I'm the youngest the rules don't apply to me.”—Unknown 

Dennnis Jernigan

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/images/download/huskyherz-to-bathe-384121_1920.jpg

The River

This is Chapter 24 from my soon-coming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone”

“If my ship sails from sight, it doesn't mean my journey ends, it simply means the river bends.”—Enoch Powell

“For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.”—Khalil Gibran

As I look back upon my life, the more the journey through the living of my life seems like a river. At times, that river rages through overwhelming moments of flooding and raging uncontrolled chaos; while, at other times, it seems more like a shallow, drying stream with a trickle for its flow. Always running and never running dry, the river of my journey through life is anything but boring. Even though I have experienced those long stretches of life where monotony rules the day, I have always been able to count on the river eventually bending and twisting and turning its way as it courses along, carrying me on an endless flow headed straight for eternity.

Long ago, I learned to see the journey as more of an adventure to be enjoyed than a drudge-filled trek to be dreaded. It was the onset of adulthood and its varied responsibilities that sent me through seasons of forgetting to enjoy the journey as I once had. To be sure, in my youthful days before the full forces of life as an adult hit me squarely in the face, the days of childhood and eventual high school were quite the adventure I look back upon with fondness now. I appreciate those bygone days much more now that the process of aging has taken me once again to the place of joy, the place of enjoying the ride on this grand river called life. Though I am approaching sixty-seven years of age and my body constantly reminds me I am every bit this age, I find myself thinking less like an old man and more like a carefree boy. What is so crazy about all of this is the realization that my dad is gone now, and I wonder if he ever thought this way. Something tells me he did.

When I think like a child now, I have the advantage of coupling that wonder with the wisdom of having lived all these many years. The reality is that I approach the end of this river with each and every passing year, and the greater reality that God is in control and I am His for eternity brings me to the wisdom of wonder as an older man that says, “Yes, I am older now, and this river I call life is endlessly flowing toward eternity. And, all I do at that moment of stepping into eternity is the realize that the flow of my life journey just leaves one dimension, the physical, and exchanges it for the other, the spiritual.” As I ponder such things, my mind cannot help but be drawn back to my childhood days spent on the Illinois River.

The Illinois River rises from the springs in the Ozark Mountains of northwest Arkansas. Running from its source, it cuts a path through Arkansas one hundred forty-five miles long, making its way through northeastern Oklahoma, eventually emptying into the Arkansas River in eastern Oklahoma. The Osage Indians of the region named it Ne-eng-wah-kon-dah, which translates to "Medicine Stone River.” It was inadvertently called “River Des Illinois” by an unknown French explorer after wrongly assuming it was frequented by the Illinois Indians who were rarely in this region at all. Even as I write about the history of this most amazing little tributary, I am filled with a sense of wonder. Did the early Native Americans live along its banks? Did they fish in its waters? Did they play in its cool, clear flow on hot sunny days as me and my family did when I was a boy?

By the time I was about four4 years of age, I already had a basic understanding of how to get to ‘our spot’ on the river. It seems we were there almost every weekend during the summer months, though it was probably something less. The impressions of adventure were so great in my young mind that I relish such memories to this day as if they had just occurred. Such is the power of memory. I can still smell the smells of the trees in blossom, still see the brightness of green overwhelming me as the endless forests of oak, elm, willow and sycamore met my eyes on their endless cascade up one hillside and down the other. Even the smell of damp fishing gear transports me to those days spent fishing up and down that river. And, the smell of breakfast: bacon sizzling on the Coleman Stove, eggs being scrambled in the excess grease, and as many white Wonder Bread slices slathered with butter and grape jelly as our hungry bellies desired!

“Our Spot” was a bend in the river called Horseshoe Bend. Even though much work went into preparations for our trips to Horseshoe Bend, the work was always made bearable by the anticipation and expectation of adventure. I relished any amount of time spent with my family on the Illinois River. Just getting to the river from our farm was exciting. Long before the new highway between Muskogee and Talequah were constructed, the road was a simple, two-lane paved thoroughfare with no shoulders on either side to speak of. Piling into the back of our pickup camper and vying for position on the upper sleeping berth, my brothers and I would giggle and dream all the way to the river, boasting of adventures yet to be had.

Once we neared Talequah, I knew the road well enough to realize that we would soon turn off the main highway and drive a few more miles before turning off that road onto a dirt road that led another fourteen miles to our place on the river. By “our place”, I mean the campground at the boat ramp that was Horseshoe Bend. By campground, I mean the crude, seldom-mown five acre area where, if one was lucky, had a concrete picnic table or a crude fire pit fashioned long ago by previous campers. There was nothing modern about the campground, especially the outhouses—those smelly, stinky, disgusting outhouses that one only used when absolutely necessary. And, another reason to be glad to be born a boy!

Once we hit the dirt road, anticipation increasinglybuilt for me and my brothers! Even though the road was bumpy, dusty, twisty and turny, it meant anything was possible. My mind would go crazy with expectation at how this adventure would unfold. Peeking outside the little openings of the camper windows, I would strain to see if I might spy a deer, a possum, a raccoon…or Bigfoot! Can you see “The Legend of Boggy Creek”? After only a few miles down this gravel path, my fantasy became reality when we came to the place on the road where it became two rows for a few wonderful feet. Rounding the next bend, I knew we would come to the place where that huge and wonderful grand old oak tree rose squarely from the center of the road, forcing the road to split in two! For some reason, that was simply wonderful to me! The power of a tree refusing to bow down to the efforts of man infused this boy’s mind with awe and wonder miles before we ever set foot in Horseshoe Bend!

After we were past the mighty, defiant, road-splitting oak, my senses were sent into full overload. Curve after curve gave way to yet more curves. Up one hill and down the next gave way to yet more hills to fly up and over. Seeming more like our own private roller coaster, my heart felt as if it would leap out of my chest, such was the exhilaration it produced as my dad intentionally sped up as he drove downhill only to have our stomachs “taken away” by the G-forces put upon us as we careened upward again! We giggled and jostled our way for miles as dad and mom giggled and laughed in the truck’s cab. Ah, the days before car seats and child restraints…

After several more mile’s worth of ups and downs and twists and turns, we knew we were almost there whenever my dad would come to the top of the final and biggest of all the hills just outside the campground and yell back to us, “Hang on, boys! We’re at the Big Hill!” The sheer fear and terror this produced in my heart was always outweighed by the sense of conquest I felt as we slowly, methodically inched down that steep grade. At one point, I could look outside the camper window and see several hundred feet below me, which seemed like miles in my little-boy mind, over the treetops down to where the river curved around its horseshoe shape!

It was often as we went down this mountain-of-a-hill that my young mind was filled with awe and wonder as the tune of the Claude King hit of 1962, "Wolverton Mountain”, wafted through my mind. “Wolverton Mountain” is the story-song of a young man in quest of true love who is kept away from young beauty in the safety of Wolverton Mountain by the girl’s father. Based on a real person and written by Merle Kilgore, the song was a number one hit on the country charts for nine weeks in 1962, and lingering in airplay for years to follow. Needless to say, I heard the song and imagined living out that song as a boy. As we made our way down that final hill, without fail I imagined myself the singer of the song…

They say don’t go on Wolverton Mountain

if You’re lookin’ for a wife!

‘Cause Clifton Clowers has a pretty young daughter

and he’s mighty handy with a gun and knife!

Her tender lips are sweeter than honey

and Wolverton Mountain protects her there!

The bears and birds tell Clifton Clowers

if a stranger should wander there.

Well, I don’t care about Clifton Clowers!

I’m gonna climb up on that mountain.

I’m gonna take the girl I love!

I don’t care about Clifton Clowers!

Songwriters: C. KING, M. KILGORE © SHAPIRO BERNSTEIN & CO. INC.

For all I knew, the very mountain we were traveling on might be Wolverton Mountain! In my mind, I WAS there! And if I were on Wolverton Mountain, could it be that lurking somewhere in wait for me was Clifton Clowers with a gun and a knife?! In such moments, part of me wanted dad to hurry down that big hill, while another part of me felt exhilaration at the possibility of the words of that song coming true, even though my little-boy thoughts of love were less romantic and more focused on the maternal!

Once we had made our way to the bottom of the big hill, we were still not quite at the final destination. One last foreboding place was yet to be traveled through—THE TUNNEL! Though not really a tunnel, the long quarter-mile stretch of road before entering the campground was completely tree covered from both sides. Looking down that last bit of roadway reminded me of a group of giant dancers in the form of trees. Each tree from either side bending its branches over the road like arms stretching out to bow down. I could never decide if the bowing down was in our honor or in an attempt to capture us to keep us from entering!

Once through the tunnel of trees, we crossed a cattle guard and entered the campground. Passing by the only source of fresh drinking water, an old hand pumped well, we made our way to the prime campground, usually the furthest campground to the left of the boat ramp. The boat ramp was the place where the most noise occurred so we avoided the closest campgrounds, opting for the most secluded spot available. Near the well stood the two outhouses. One never went to the outhouse without grabbing a roll of toilet tissue from the camp supplies, due to the reality that it was non-existent in the outhouse!

As soon as we settled into a campsite, and even during the setting up, I was enthralled by the natural beauty of the river. On the far side of the river sheer rock cliffs rose for a couple of hundred feet. One of my earliest memories of one of these legendary river trips was my dad pointing to those cliffs and showing me the domesticated goats climbing among them, some farmer surely missing them from his flock. In those days, it was not lost on me at how the river seemed the same, yet always different. Depending upon the amount of erosion or the strength of the flow, one never knew if the gravel bars from the year before would be in the same place or at the same depth, making short work of the sheer pins in the outboard motor on more than one occasion! There were even times when I know for a fact the river had not forked into two channels the year before, yet this year it did! The changing nature coupled with the sameness, year after year, filled my soul with wonder and adventure at just what might lay in store for us.

Camp meals were always the best, as I have already mentioned. From breakfast to lunch to dinner, the aromas always seemed to lure us back into camp from one of our boyhood excursions. Cookies all day long and marshmallows roasting in the evenings after dinner were always part of the river experience, but so was popcorn. If you know me, you know I consider popcorn one of the staples of life! My mom knew this and gave me the job, whether at the river or not, of popping all the popcorn the family could eat, and we could eat a ton! Somewhere, she found a campfire corn popper for me to use. It was a small wire basket made of something like porch screen material attached to a long handle. I still laugh at my first attempts to use it, though, as I recall more than once the entire batch going up in flames as I lingered too near the fire for too long! I’ll be honest, I loved the popping of the corn almost as much as I enjoyed the eating of it!

Just as the smells of camp food, wonderful and lip-smack-inducing to hungry Jernigan boys, they also attracted the local wildlife. On one of those many trips, we found this out the hard way. After we had eaten our evening meal and after we had gorged on popcorn and cookies, we all settled into our sleeping bags. Even though we had placed all the food in what we thought were raccoon-proof andpossum-proof containers, we had not counted on attracting the “others”. Sound asleep from full, content bellies, my brothers and I were awakened by the most unexpected sounds that night.

My memory is of the sound emanating from the area of the pots and pans we had washed up from dinner clanking together and falling to the ground from the picnic table where we had placed them. Then, the sound of breaking glass and shuffling “feet” caused my mind to run wild! Who was out there? Who was marauding around and rummaging through our supplies? The next sound I heard terrified me. Shredding sounds as paper and cardboard were being ripped into what must be a million pieces. Who could it be? What could they possibly want? Would I survive?!

Dennis Jernigan

The Naked Truth

This is Chapter 23 from my soon-coming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone”

“Only when the tide goes out do you discover who's been swimming naked.” —Warren Buffett

“Naked dudes are inherently funny.”—Adam DeVine

Growing up in the country was one of the greatest blessings of my life and a huge part of why I live in the country to this day. It had much to do with why Melinda and I chose to raise our nine children in a rural setting. We live far enough outside of town to not hear the constant drone of traffic. We live far enough removed from city limits that the stars are not washed out by the glow of bright city lights. We live far enough in the sticks that we regularly see deer, possums, raccoons, bobcats, armadillos and wild turkeys. We can hear the nightly choruses of coyotes wailing in the nearby woods and the countryside we call home.

Where we live is so secluded that I can step out on my back porch and pee from the steps to the ground below with no fear of being seen by a neighbor…it’s a guy thing! In the winter time, I can do the same and write my name in the occasional Oklahoma snow without a passerby calling the police to report my indecency. Melinda just shakes her head and laughs as I think about how simple such moments of freedom are to a man. Each time I experience such freedom, I find my heart grateful for how simple things can mean the most to me. I have sung before millions through the years, but find joy, and relief, on the back porch of my house.

What I now experience every day and what I now call paradise, I took for granted as a boy. My brothers and cousins and I would spend literally hours on horseback each and every week, and during the summer, each and every day! If we weren’t rounding up the cattle to be sprayed for insects and parasites or for their vaccinations, we were most likely exploring the creeks and woods of the surrounding countryside.

Riding through the creek, we could explore to our heart’s content. Winding our way across the creek from side to side, up one bank and down the other, through the underbrush, coaxing our horses to step over the occasional fallen tree, we would sometimes take our fishing poles and test our luck in the murky waters of the many pools created by the lack of summer rain. Tethering our horses to a nearby tree, we would spend time catching grasshoppers to use as bait, seeing who could catch the most perch or who would snare the biggest catfish, and usually someone would initiate an actual real-life pissing contest to see who could pee the farthest across the creek. Simple things…

Always looking for new places to explore, one day we happened across a place in the forest surrounding the creek where a fence impeded our forward progress. As boys being boys will do, we proceeded to guide our steeds down the fence line looking for an opening. Before long, an opening appeared in the form of a break in a few of the wires. Dismounting, we could spread the top wire with one hand and depress the bottom wire with our feet and lead our horses through with our free hand!

Feeling a bit of “should-we-be-doing-this” guilt, our would-be guilt always gave way to our “what-could-be-around-the-next-bend?” curiosity! And off we went! After a few minutes of cautious riding, we came to realize that we had stumbled onto the back property of a local horse ranch. Reavis Ranch, owned and operated by Bob Reavis (a man who employed me as a hay-raker for many years), was known for the many horses that always occupied the pastures. Visible from the road as one drove by the ranch, it always seemed as if hundreds of horses inhabited this wonderful ranch. There were horses of every size, shape, and color. Quarter horses, draft horses, ponies and even a couple of mules! My favorites were the paints, especially the red, white and black ones. I recall how each time our family drove by that ranch, I imagined many grand adventures as I rode away on a paint in my mind.

And now, here we were! Right in the middle of this horse-filled wonderland! How many times had I imagined racing across the pasture on the back of one of those paints and now to be AMONG them! Amazing! As we rode through the pasture that day, imagine our astonishment at the discovery of what can only be compared to the finding of an unknown-of and suddenly-discovered hidden treasure! We had stumbled upon a racetrack!

Actually a training track, the oval dirt track was surrounded and enclosed by a white-washed fence made of pipe on either side. Looking for a way to enter the track, we came upon the most amazing apparatus, a four-horse starting gate! Of course, we took turns guiding our horses into the individual stalls and racing one another! Over and over, again and again, we raced that day. I can still see the mane of my horse, Sugar, flying up in my face as we coursed around the track. I can still recall the sight of my brother, Paul, on top of his horse, Ginger, as we battled for supremacy. Fresh in my hearing are the simultaneous sounds of the horses grunting and snorting amidst the laughter and shouting of boys running wildly around the track. Talk about the simplicity of freedom…

We had saddles for our horses, but more often than not, chose to ride bareback. This was easier on us, easier on the horses and easier to hide some of the evidence of our hidden boyhood agendas! Using the excuse of needing to make sure our horses were kept cool during a hot summer day’s ride, we would ride them into and across the pond. Since a saddle would have taken hours to dry out, it only took a few minutes of riding to dry off a wet horse and a wet boy, and any evidence of the deed having evaporated into thin air.

One of my greatest fears as a boy was to be found disappointing to my parents, and my parents had warned us ad nauseam about swimming without their permission. Funny how they thought that part of their job as parents was to protect me and my brothers. Of course I am being facetious, as once I became a parent, I totally ‘got it’! I absolutely loved riding my horse and I absolutely loved swimming and found myself in heaven at the combination of two of my greatest boyhood loves!

It had not taken long to discover another way to avoid detection. Around the age of twelve, my brother, Paul, cousin, Danny Joe and I came to the realization that we could cut down on the drying time of our clothes if we simply didn’t wear any! Our favorite place to skinny dip was the back pond, called the “back pond” because of its location in the back pasture. This pond was so enticing. Far enough from the house so as to not be seen or heard, we found ourselves taking our daily afternoon jaunts to the back pasture, making sure none of our girl cousins followed and making sure our younger prone-to-tattling siblings had not tagged along.

Tethering our horses to the fence, we quickly stripped butt naked and carefully laid our clothes across the fence. Taking one last glance back toward the farmhouse to make sure the coast was clear, we streaked across the pasture to the pond plunging into its cool, refreshing, murkiness! The feeling of the cold mud squishing between my toes and the joy of laughing with Paul and Danny Joe and the sheer joy of having gotten away with such a mischievous caper still fills my soul with delight to this day.

Muddy and snake-infested as it was, the pond and its refreshingly cool waters overrode any fear of the slithery threats. Reality was our mantra. “The snakes will leave us alone if we leave them alone!” We lived by that saying whether it was true or not. We played hide and seek. We pretended we were in naval battles. We even put a step ladder in the water to act as a diving platform. It had never dawned on us that the ladder protruding from the water might be a clue as to our activities that summer! But, whether we liked it or not, the naked truth was about to come out!

This day began like any other day that summer. Nonchalantly going for a ride, Paul, Danny Joe, and I headed for the back pasture. Once again, we checked for followers. There were none. Tethering of the horses. The stripping off of clothes. The mad dash for the pond. All was just as usual. The only difference from any other day was the lack of the awareness of time. On this day, the water was especially welcoming. The mud was especially cool. The fun and laughter went on and on and on for hours! We were carefree and completely wrapped up in the sheer joy of being alive! In those moments, we were living life as if it couldn’t be any better than this very moment!

We had not seen them coming. We had not heard them coming. We were rapt in naked joy…until we weren’t! I saw them first…coming over the rise between the front and back pastures was my dad’s pickup truck! Speeding toward us, a trail of dust stirred up like a plume of angry smoke trailing behind, was my dad! And in the passenger seat, my uncle Billy Joe, Danny’s dad! Even as I write this, I feel the shock of that moment going through my being! We had been found out! At least it was just our dads…but no, it was not just our dads! In horror, I shuddered to see my girl cousins in the back of the truck, laughing and pointing and giggling with glee, as I yelled to Paul and Danny Joe, “They found us!”

I can still see the look of horror freezing the faces of my accomplices as we all tried in vain to hide beneath the muddy waters! I can still hear the laughter and giggling of the girls as they continued to point our way each time one of us surfaced. “There he is!” shouted Donna. “There’s Paul!” yelled Diana. “And there’s Danny Joe!” laughed Patty Ann.

Still ringing in the halls of my memory to this day are the words of my uncle Billy Joe shouting matter-of-factly to us as we tried to keep our boy-parts concealed beneath the water and out of sight of the girls, “You boys get to the house! Your butts are in trouble!” Having mercy on us, they drove back toward the farmhouse, girls still cackling and giggling even as they drove out of sight. My only solace was that they had seemed to have mercy on us. Mercy? That they did not have us walk naked to our horses in front of the girls!

Fearing for our lives, my brother, cousin, and I walked shamefully back to our clothes, retrieved them from the fence, put them on, then hopped onto the backs of our horses for the long ride of shame back home. It felt like forever and like the blink of an eye as we road home. Forever in the sense that the ride home was long enough for our imaginations to run wild and like the blink of an eye in the sense that it had not taken as long as we needed to come up with a proper and believable explanation for our escapades.

Like condemned men in the old west must have felt when catching sight of the gallows, we each shuddered as we caught sight of our dads waiting patiently for us by the gate. Each holding a switch plucked from the mulberry tree, they glared at us with great dad-disdain and disappointment. With downcast eyes and drooping shoulders, we approached our fate. Surely, we would not survive. Surely, death would be better than what we were about to endure. Surely, this must be a very bad dream. And then just as we were about to meet our doom andjust as if it appeared we would be beaten to death, our dads burst into laughter!

After a brief lecture about swimming without permission and the danger of drowning, we were released from further punishment, our utter humiliation in front of the girls and embarrassment of facing our mothers being punishment enough. In actuality, our punishment was headed off at the pass by none other than my grandmother Jernigan. When she had caught sight of my dad preparing the switch to use on my skinny-dipping bottom, she had taken him to task with these words:

“I seem to recall seeing your bare little bottom shining in the distance, running along that same pond bank when you were a boy. Don’t touch those boys! They’re just being boys!”

My mother summed it all up rather nicely, though. When asked what she thought about catching the boys naked in the pond, Mom simply said, “I wondered why the boys were staying so clean this summer! Now I know why!”

Did we stop our skinny-dipping ways? Nope! We were just more careful. Knowing Grandma had our backs was almost like permission. Knowing my mom was glad we were staying clean was like the granting of approval. Knowing that our dads had done the same thing when they were boys made us feel normal, and free. Simple things bring the most joy. Simple things…and that’s the naked truth!

Dennis Jernigan

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Warren Buffet quote courtesy of https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/warren_buffett_383933

Adam Devine quote courtesy of https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/adam_devine_675538

The Incredible Journey

This is Chapter 22 from my soon-coming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone” - The Incredible Journey

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. —Lao Tzu

Growing up, I had heard the story (or maybe it was a movie I watched…) called “The Incredible Journey” which was about two dogs and a cat who somehow became separated from their master and are stranded far from home, and miraculously make their way back. Little did I know that I would have my own story to tell of my own incredible journey!

The journey of and through life is fraught with moments of joy, despair, laughter, tears, happiness, sorrow, ecstasy, pain, life and death. The fact that life is a journey should bring us all joy, and any journey is best enjoyed when shared with another. As I sit here writing, I am thinking about all those who have gone through life and made it through successfully. Life has a way of teaching us to share the journey as when we were watching my dad lying on that hospital bed slowly fading away. Watching him breathe, many amazing and wonderful memories are conjured in my mind. As he stirs, I can’t help but wonder if he knows or senses what I am thinking and feeling. Watching my mom and brothers sit faithfully beside him taking turns holding his hand, makes the sadness of this part of the journey somehow more bearable. Watching my children and their children reaching out to touch him and whisper their “hellos” and “I’m here, Grandpa”, brings a wonderful aura of joy to the room. Having my wife walk the journey of life with me has been both life-giving and life-sustaining. I dare say, I might not have made it without her. In all honesty, this part of the journey sucks, yet brings me great joy at the same time. As I relive memories of my own journey, they intermingle with the knowledge that perhaps the joy of life is not the destination. Perhaps, the joy of life is found in the journey itself. My life has been anything but boring. Here is a brief story of an amazing part of my journey that involves the journey of another. When our journeys cross paths with others on the journey, be they people or livestock, I get the feeling that God is in the center of it all—like a maestro leading a grand orchestration that has become my life.

All of my early life included involvement not just with our horses, but with other types of animals as well. From the chickens my Grandma Jernigan used to raise, to the flock of domestic geese we kept on the farm; from the many dogs we had over the years to the cats that hid out in the barn; from the barn owls that lived in the hay loft to the rats that attacked my 4-H show chickens—I was constantly in some form of contact with all kinds of creatures. The animals I spent the most time with were the animals I raised as FFA (Future Farmers of America) projects, my show animals. There was my Charolais steer. And, there was Abby, my Hampshire lamb. But the animal I wish to tell you about now is my pig. I can’t remember this pig’s name, so for the sake of the story, we’ll refer to her as Petunia! Before I describe her, let me tell you why I even had this particular pig.

As I said, when I was in high school I was a member of the FFA organization. This program was designed to train young men and women in the vocation of farming and agriculture. We learned about the many different kinds of soil and how to judge which soil was better than another and what uses each type was best suited for. We learned all about the different kinds of grasses that were native to our area like little blue stem and big blue stem. We learned about the grasses that made the most nutritious hay for winter feed like alfalfa and sericea lespedeza. We learned how to operate and maintain farm equipment and how to conserve soil and water and the best ways to rotate crops. We learned about the anatomy and care of animals and how to keep accurate records of a farm’s operations and how to project crop and livestock weight yields. We learned which feeds were best for each animal, how to administer pest control and how to vaccinate for different animal ailments. We learned a lot about many aspects of making a living on the farm. And, we learned animal husbandry and how to judge, just by looking and touching an animal, which animals would improve a herd. This brings me back to the reason for this story. We learned about pigs!

Because we were required to pursue projects as part of our grade requirements, I decided I would like to raise a pig and train him for the spring livestock show in Muskogee. My agriculture teacher, Mr. Gene Ross, suggested we ask some of the local farmers if they had any pigs for sale that might be show quality. This couldn’t be your ordinary average pig. This little pig had to have potential!

After several inquiries, we discovered that one of my own classmates, Clifford Jackson, had some young pigs we might be interested in looking at. Clifford’s father, had raised pigs for many years and each spring always had quite a brood to choose from. So we went to see for ourselves, Mr. Ross and I.

To get to the Jackson farm, we drove north from our house to the section where my cousins lived. Instead of going left, or west, we turned right, or east, and proceeded over Cry Baby Bridge and two miles to the next section road. At that point we turned left, or back north, and drove another quarter mile to the Jackson’s, whose house was on the east side of the road. As soon as we stepped out of the truck we saw about fifteen little Hampshire crossbred piglets scurrying around the pig pen. As we walked through the pen, the mother pig, the sow, was being very protective of her babies and would only let us get so close. After several minutes, though, I had set my eye on a nice little female who was black on both ends with a white stripe around her girth. Mr. Ross also felt this pig had good muscle and length and showed potential of being a very good show pig. So I bought her for $25.00.

I then began the task of converting the old brick chicken house to a pig house! After putting hog wire around an area big enough for the pig to get some exercise, I built her a little feed trough out of two-by-fours and tin. I used an old trough my daddy had built from the inside of an abandoned hot water heater to hold water. And then I brought my new pig home.

I filled her water trough and her feed trough and stayed to watch her as she settled into her new home. Immediately, she began to root around underneath the fence to try and dig her way out! This made my dog, King, go wild. King, a beautiful German Shepherd, knew that I wanted the pig to stay put, so he decided it was his duty to bark until the pig moved away from the fence. The pig kept digging anyway! I asked my dad what I should do. Do you know what he suggested? Rings for her nose! Nose rings are metal wires which can be placed in a hogs nose which bring pain when they try to dig. After piercing her nose and being satisfied that she would not try anymore escapes, I went on about my chores and left her alone for the night.

The next day I went to check on her before doing all my other chores, but she was not there! Petunia had escaped! Can you guess how? My pig had jumped out of her pen! There was no tunnel I could find, only a place in the fence she had tried to climb over. After enough attempts, she must have worn the wire down low enough to make a running leap and she was gone!

As soon as I realized what had happened, I began an intensive search of the area around the pig house. I looked all around and through the bushes. I looked all through the barn and even walked the entire ninety acres of pasture in search of any signs of my pig. I even tried to follow her tracks. This proved to be impossible because of all the other animal tracks from cattle and horses that had covered hers. Then, I had the idea of getting my dog, King, to help with this search. Since King had taken such an interest in this little pig, I figured he would be the natural one to be able to track her down. The only problem was that I couldn’t get King to understand that I wanted him to lead me to the pig by following her scent. He would run around looking but would always wind up running back to me with an “am I doing good, Master?” look on his face. After many hours of searching, we gave up. Petunia was gone. In my estimation, this little swine would not last long in the wilderness. I thought she would probably get eaten by hungry coyotes or hungry farmers, whichever caught her first! So, I gave up on raising a pig to show in the Spring Livestock show.

After a few days, I had set my mind on other things besides my little pig. And, since I had given up all hope of ever seeing her again, the phone call I received a few days after her disappearance came as quite a surprise. In fact, I would call it a miracle! On the other end of the line was my friend, Clifford, whom I had bought the pig from in the first place. Can you guess what he was about to tell me? I thought you could! That’s right! He said my little pig had shown up back at his farm last night and that he had caught her for me. I was elated! The most miraculous part to me was that she had no idea where to go to get back to the Jackson’s. Since we had gone by road to bring her to our farm, and since I knew she had probably gone through fields and woods and crossed creeks to get back there, I was amazed that she had found her way back home. Before I went to get her, though, I fixed up a special place for her in the big barn. In one of the stalls that we had set up for feeding calves, I filled in the spaces between the fence boards with other boards so as to keep little pig from escaping. After moving her troughs, I went and brought my little piggy home. And she never escaped again!

Soon, the pig grew and grew and grew into quite a nice show hog. After the local show at Boynton, where she placed in the top three of all the pigs, I showed her in Muskogee. Even though she didn’t place in the top three, I felt she had done a fine job to have had such a shaky beginning.

It’s funny, the things you can think about when reminiscing about your childhood. It’s incredible the way God orchestrates the most random thoughts into melodies of grace. It was reassuring to watch my dad taking the next step in his journey surrounded by such a large and wonderful legacy of family who were his. Even the memory of Petunia’s incredible journey home reminds me of the way the love of God led me back to Him. It makes me long for and wonder what awaits me around the next bend in my own journey. All I know for sure is that, whatever lies ahead, will lead me all the way home.

Dennis Jernigan

Quote courtesy of https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/lao_tzu_137141

Photo courtesy of

This is Chapter 22 from my soon-coming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone” - The Incredible Journey

“The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. —Lao Tzu

Growing up, I had heard the story (or maybe it was a movie I watched…) called “The Incredible Journey” which was about two dogs and a cat who somehow became separated from their master and are stranded far from home, and miraculously make their way back. Little did I know that I would have my own story to tell of my own incredible journey!

The journey of and through life is fraught with moments of joy, despair, laughter, tears, happiness, sorrow, ecstasy, pain, life and death. The fact that life is a journey should bring us all joy, and any journey is best enjoyed when shared with another. As I sit here writing, I am thinking about all those who have gone through life and made it through successfully. Life has a way of teaching us to share the journey as when we were watching my dad lying on that hospital bed slowly fading away. Watching him breathe, many amazing and wonderful memories are conjured in my mind. As he stirs, I can’t help but wonder if he knows or senses what I am thinking and feeling. Watching my mom and brothers sit faithfully beside him taking turns holding his hand, makes the sadness of this part of the journey somehow more bearable. Watching my children and their children reaching out to touch him and whisper their “hellos” and “I’m here, Grandpa”, brings a wonderful aura of joy to the room. Having my wife walk the journey of life with me has been both life-giving and life-sustaining. I dare say, I might not have made it without her. In all honesty, this part of the journey sucks, yet brings me great joy at the same time. As I relive memories of my own journey, they intermingle with the knowledge that perhaps the joy of life is not the destination. Perhaps, the joy of life is found in the journey itself. My life has been anything but boring. Here is a brief story of an amazing part of my journey that involves the journey of another. When our journeys cross paths with others on the journey, be they people or livestock, I get the feeling that God is in the center of it all—like a maestro leading a grand orchestration that has become my life.

All of my early life included involvement not just with our horses, but with other types of animals as well. From the chickens my Grandma Jernigan used to raise, to the flock of domestic geese we kept on the farm; from the many dogs we had over the years to the cats that hid out in the barn; from the barn owls that lived in the hay loft to the rats that attacked my 4-H show chickens—I was constantly in some form of contact with all kinds of creatures. The animals I spent the most time with were the animals I raised as FFA (Future Farmers of America) projects, my show animals. There was my Charolais steer. And, there was Abby, my Hampshire lamb. But the animal I wish to tell you about now is my pig. I can’t remember this pig’s name, so for the sake of the story, we’ll refer to her as Petunia! Before I describe her, let me tell you why I even had this particular pig.

As I said, when I was in high school I was a member of the FFA organization. This program was designed to train young men and women in the vocation of farming and agriculture. We learned about the many different kinds of soil and how to judge which soil was better than another and what uses each type was best suited for. We learned all about the different kinds of grasses that were native to our area like little blue stem and big blue stem. We learned about the grasses that made the most nutritious hay for winter feed like alfalfa and sericea lespedeza. We learned how to operate and maintain farm equipment and how to conserve soil and water and the best ways to rotate crops. We learned about the anatomy and care of animals and how to keep accurate records of a farm’s operations and how to project crop and livestock weight yields. We learned which feeds were best for each animal, how to administer pest control and how to vaccinate for different animal ailments. We learned a lot about many aspects of making a living on the farm. And, we learned animal husbandry and how to judge, just by looking and touching an animal, which animals would improve a herd. This brings me back to the reason for this story. We learned about pigs!

Because we were required to pursue projects as part of our grade requirements, I decided I would like to raise a pig and train him for the spring livestock show in Muskogee. My agriculture teacher, Mr. Gene Ross, suggested we ask some of the local farmers if they had any pigs for sale that might be show quality. This couldn’t be your ordinary average pig. This little pig had to have potential!

After several inquiries, we discovered that one of my own classmates, Clifford Jackson, had some young pigs we might be interested in looking at. Clifford’s father, had raised pigs for many years and each spring always had quite a brood to choose from. So we went to see for ourselves, Mr. Ross and I.

To get to the Jackson farm, we drove north from our house to the section where my cousins lived. Instead of going left, or west, we turned right, or east, and proceeded over Cry Baby Bridge and two miles to the next section road. At that point we turned left, or back north, and drove another quarter mile to the Jackson’s, whose house was on the east side of the road. As soon as we stepped out of the truck we saw about fifteen little Hampshire crossbred piglets scurrying around the pig pen. As we walked through the pen, the mother pig, the sow, was being very protective of her babies and would only let us get so close. After several minutes, though, I had set my eye on a nice little female who was black on both ends with a white stripe around her girth. Mr. Ross also felt this pig had good muscle and length and showed potential of being a very good show pig. So I bought her for $25.00.

I then began the task of converting the old brick chicken house to a pig house! After putting hog wire around an area big enough for the pig to get some exercise, I built her a little feed trough out of two-by-fours and tin. I used an old trough my daddy had built from the inside of an abandoned hot water heater to hold water. And then I brought my new pig home.

I filled her water trough and her feed trough and stayed to watch her as she settled into her new home. Immediately, she began to root around underneath the fence to try and dig her way out! This made my dog, King, go wild. King, a beautiful German Shepherd, knew that I wanted the pig to stay put, so he decided it was his duty to bark until the pig moved away from the fence. The pig kept digging anyway! I asked my dad what I should do. Do you know what he suggested? Rings for her nose! Nose rings are metal wires which can be placed in a hogs nose which bring pain when they try to dig. After piercing her nose and being satisfied that she would not try anymore escapes, I went on about my chores and left her alone for the night.

The next day I went to check on her before doing all my other chores, but she was not there! Petunia had escaped! Can you guess how? My pig had jumped out of her pen! There was no tunnel I could find, only a place in the fence she had tried to climb over. After enough attempts, she must have worn the wire down low enough to make a running leap and she was gone!

As soon as I realized what had happened, I began an intensive search of the area around the pig house. I looked all around and through the bushes. I looked all through the barn and even walked the entire ninety acres of pasture in search of any signs of my pig. I even tried to follow her tracks. This proved to be impossible because of all the other animal tracks from cattle and horses that had covered hers. Then, I had the idea of getting my dog, King, to help with this search. Since King had taken such an interest in this little pig, I figured he would be the natural one to be able to track her down. The only problem was that I couldn’t get King to understand that I wanted him to lead me to the pig by following her scent. He would run around looking but would always wind up running back to me with an “am I doing good, Master?” look on his face. After many hours of searching, we gave up. Petunia was gone. In my estimation, this little swine would not last long in the wilderness. I thought she would probably get eaten by hungry coyotes or hungry farmers, whichever caught her first! So, I gave up on raising a pig to show in the Spring Livestock show.

After a few days, I had set my mind on other things besides my little pig. And, since I had given up all hope of ever seeing her again, the phone call I received a few days after her disappearance came as quite a surprise. In fact, I would call it a miracle! On the other end of the line was my friend, Clifford, whom I had bought the pig from in the first place. Can you guess what he was about to tell me? I thought you could! That’s right! He said my little pig had shown up back at his farm last night and that he had caught her for me. I was elated! The most miraculous part to me was that she had no idea where to go to get back to the Jackson’s. Since we had gone by road to bring her to our farm, and since I knew she had probably gone through fields and woods and crossed creeks to get back there, I was amazed that she had found her way back home. Before I went to get her, though, I fixed up a special place for her in the big barn. In one of the stalls that we had set up for feeding calves, I filled in the spaces between the fence boards with other boards so as to keep little pig from escaping. After moving her troughs, I went and brought my little piggy home. And she never escaped again!

Soon, the pig grew and grew and grew into quite a nice show hog. After the local show at Boynton, where she placed in the top three of all the pigs, I showed her in Muskogee. Even though she didn’t place in the top three, I felt she had done a fine job to have had such a shaky beginning.

It’s funny, the things you can think about when reminiscing about your childhood. It’s incredible the way God orchestrates the most random thoughts into melodies of grace. It was reassuring to watch my dad taking the next step in his journey surrounded by such a large and wonderful legacy of family who were his. Even the memory of Petunia’s incredible journey home reminds me of the way the love of God led me back to Him. It makes me long for and wonder what awaits me around the next bend in my own journey. All I know for sure is that, whatever lies ahead, will lead me all the way home.

Dennis Jernigan

Quote courtesy of https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/lao_tzu_137141

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/images/download/x-3770140_1920.jpg

Life in Black and White

The following is taken from my soon-to-be-released book called “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone” Chapter 21 - Life In Black and White

“If you spend any time with a man, you'll realize that we're all still little boys.”—Paul Walker

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Sometimes, it takes a lifetime to capture a moment’s worth of understanding. Sometimes a moment’s understanding heals a lifetime worth of pain. It is almost unimaginable how much time can be packed into one moment’s worth of revelation, like the moment in the “Wizard of Oz” when every thing bursts from the starkness of the grey tones of Kansas into the vividness and glory of technicolor found in the Land of Oz—until it happens to you.

My life was like that for far too long. Something deep inside of me told me life was to be lived in color, but reality spoke something less-than to my little-boy sensibilities. I saw what I saw. Sometimes the boy grows up on the outside while his little-boy soul gets left behind. Sometimes it takes little boys much longer to grow up on the inside. Funny how watching one’s dad lying asleep in ICU causes a grown man to somehow revert to and remember being that man’s little boy and magically relive a lifetime in the matter of a few second’s time.

Seeing this giant of a man in my little-boy eyes now working for every breath made me look back with a grateful fondness at just how rich my life truly has been. Thank God for such moments of color and clarity.

Far too many times have I heard the stories of men who lived their entire lives in the black-and-white of regret and unrealized dreams. Thank God for the pain of recollection that time and perspective have melted into the full-fledged color of the wonder of a life full of grand riches, grand adventures, grand treasures, grand memories and the audacious grandeur of simply changing one’s point of view!

Of course, I still see the little wounded boy running from the sexual encounter in the men’s room that day after the man did what he did. This time, rather than feeling the dread and fear that kept me from telling anyone what had just happened to me, I saw a before-unseen-hand protecting me from physical harm. In that one moment of clarity the little boy was transported back to the beginnings of life. Standing there on the edge of that precipice, something called me to step into the abyss of the canyon that once separated the boy from the man he would one day be. And step off, I did.

My little-boy life was amazing as I look back. Even though much of my life was relegated to the stark black-and-white of pain due to the secret I had kept, the re-living is in breathtaking color! As the labored breathing of my father fills the hospital room, I find its monotonous rhythm somehow comforting, and before I know it, I am lulled into a beautiful reverie.

Can you remember the days before remote control? Can you recall the days before color television? My children find it unfathomable and ancient that I grew up in such long-ago and backward days! I somehow find it incredible and worth the living-through now that I am nearing sixty-three years of age as of this writing (I am finally finishing the writing as I near sixty-seven!). We only had three channels and something called UHF, which stands for ultrahigh frequency, whatever that means! I took it to mean that a particular channel was only visible and discernible by dogs and space aliens! Having three channels and no remote control meant that when dad was sitting in his chair and needed the channel changed, I would hear the then-dreaded words, “Change the channel, boy!”

In those days, I quickly grew tired of the constant up-and-down of being the human remote control, but now…now that daddy is in ICU…I am somehow grateful for the memory and the interaction of the son and his father. In those days, my perception was that daddy only spoke to me when he needed me to do something for him, or when I needed to be disciplined! Now, I was grateful for the conversation, no matter how one-sided it seemed in those days.

Those were the days of rabbit-ears (antennae) that TV sets required to receive the magical signal from somewhere beyond little-boy understanding of such things. When the addition of tin-foil molded to the end of said “antenna" didn’t quite do the job, I was directed to hold the end of the rabbit-ears in one hand while standing in the awkward positions my dad would suggest! Rather than respond in the weariness I felt during such moments, I looked back with joyful gratitude that the recollection brought flooding into my soul. When my mom would see my exasperated look, she would suggest that I let go and see if it worked better now. And if it did not, she would often step in and rescue me, assuming the awkward position I had previously held! What a gift this memory now became…

Sunday nights after church meant going to the drive-in on one end of our small town for ice cream cones. It was always so funny to me that the same people we had just seen at church were always at the drive-in, too! I do not even know why it struck me in such a humorous way. It just did. Perhaps it was the comfort of seeing the same trusted faces I had just seen. Perhaps it was the simple joy of knowing one was loved. As difficult as it was to believe in those days that I was lovable, it appeared amazingly and achingly obvious as I looked back.

One of my favorite TV shows of the day was called “Flipper”. Even though I could not have explained my feelings during those days, Flipper somehow gave me hope. My feelings since that day in the men’s room had seen the innocence and trust of a child robbed and replaced with fear and longing to be rescued. As I prepared for 7:00 PM every Saturday evening to arrive, no one knew the need I had to watch the show, and the dread I felt if I missed an episode.

Porter Ricks, Chief Warden at the fictional Coral Key Park and Marine Preserve in southern Florida, along with his two sons, Sandy and Bud, went on amazing ocean adventures with their trusted friend, the bottle-nosed dolphin, Flipper. In my imagination, I found myself being pursued by the villain, or worse yet, the shark, in each episode. Never once was I disappointed! I sit in the ICU with my dad while mom goes for lunch…and I am re-living my adventures with a dolphin! I see my dad as the great Porter Ricks to my little-boy Bud. And rather than feeling like the hopeless little-boy I once was, I see the man I was rescued to become. And my dad is the hero I was in need of all along.

It is so amazing to believe that I once saw myself as I did. The little-boy taking the skiff out into the ocean. The foolish choices I made in jumping into those shark-infested waters. The fear I felt in all those years wasted of believing myself unlovable and my dad incapable of loving me, or even of saying the words. Even now as I watch him sleep, I am being rescued by the love he was incapable of expressing all those years ago, that now so indelibly speaks to me through time as I can now see the many ways his love was demonstrated in living color.

I see myself cared for in the multiple jobs he took on all at once to simply provide for me and my brothers and my mom. The hours away from home I took as a lack of love in those days now overwhelm me with the sacrifice he was willing to make on our behalf. Getting up before dawn to feed the cows and break the ice on the ponds for a place to drink on those cold Oklahoma winter days. Rising from the heat of a water-cooler-fanned night in the days before air conditioning to repair the many tractors and farm vehicles from around the countryside in his mechanic’s garage, and then tending to the fields of cotton and soybeans and baling the hay until it was time for bed on another hot night only to look forward to doing it all again the next day.

Somehow I am no longer on an episode of Flipper, but am in another well-loved and well-remembered show from my childhood. Every day after school and after chores, I lived the many adventures of Gilligan and his castaway companions: the Skipper, Thurston and Lovie Howell the Third, the Professor, Ginger, and Mary Ann on Gilligan’s Island! I recall many specific episodes and even the words to songs from the show, like the episode where Gilligan sings the line from Hamlet “to be or not to be” to the tune of the Opera “Carmen’s Habanera”, or the episode when the girls do a show as the Honey Bees and sing the words “Like a bee needs its buzz, like a peach needs its fuzz, You need me, You need us…” In almost every episode, they long for rescue. But the incredible thing I now remember is just how happy and joyful Gilligan was in spite of his circumstances. Even though I did not experience that same joy as a boy, I believe God was setting me up to live it as the boy gave way to the man.

One of the most amazing things that comes to light in such moments of recollection is how something so seemingly small and insignificant as a silly TV show or sing-song lyric can be used of God to bring about maturity and healing on an epic scale! I am at once reduced to wonder and gratitude. Wonder at the ability of our God to waste nothing, and grateful that He sees the smallness of me and makes a big deal out of it.

Just as I recall Flipper being in black and white and Gilligan being so happy in spite of his need for rescue, those memories used to be in the same monochromatic tones of gray, but now are somehow transformed into the glory of the colors of the rainbow as I re-live them in light of the passage of time. Perspective is everything. Rescue was there all the time. I may not have seen it then, but I see it now. And the black and whiteness of it all gives way to magnificent color. This is the story of taking back stolen ground. It is the story of how ashes can be transformed into heirlooms. It is the story of the incredibleness of seeing my life from a God-perspective. Incredible.

Bedtime

“A kid will run any errand for you, if you ask at bedtime—Red Skelton

The rest of this chapter is a short essay I wrote concerning memories that were stirred up as my dad was nearing the end of his time here on earth:

They sent dad home after two days in ICU. Mom said the doctor had prescribed home health care periodically to come in and tend to his needs. I could tell this relieved Mom’s heavy heart. Calling her the next morning, she told me Dad had had a restless night. Knowing my mom, I know she probably did not sleep much - if any…just like when I was a boy…

Mom was the one who always seemed to hear the faintest whimpers in the night. “What’s wrong, Den?” she would whisper. Those whispers were like booming thunder whenever the fear would overwhelm me - or if all I needed was a simple sip of water. Fear of imagined monsters. Fear of imagined alien abduction. Fear of the thunder and lightning booming across the dark night sky, shaking the little farmhouse to the rafters beneath which I slept…engulfing the room in momentary daylight, casting other-worldly shadows that danced menacingly around the attic room where I and my brothers slept.

I can still hear her sweet little voice singing through the night as she sat gently on the edge of my bed, her hand taking my little-boy hand and sending waves of calm assurance coursing through my entire being.

“Oh, be careful little eyes

What you see

Oh, be careful little eyes

What you see

For the Father up above

Is looking down in love

Oh, be careful little eyes

What you see…”

At the same time, I recall singing these same lyrics to my own children when they were trying to sleep through storms in their own nights. Even now, I sing those lyrics to myself, yet with slightly altered words…

“Oh, be careful little mind

What you think

Oh, be careful little mind

What you think

For the Father up above

Is looking down in love

Oh, be careful little mind

What you think…”

Just as these words echoed through my childhood mind, they still give me a place to anchor my thoughts about my dad and mom as they grow older and the inevitable awaits. My choice of thoughts? I choose to see an amazing God who will walk through the process of graduation to heaven with them. Just as I was never truly alone through the storms of my youth, my parents will not be alone through the storms of growing old. And neither will I.

Being born and raised in Oklahoma meant growing up in the direct line of fire called Tornado Alley, a path from west Texas northeastward across the southwest corner of Oklahoma all the way across Oklahoma to the northeast corner and beyond. Bedtime was always made more stressful whenever severe storms threatened. The stress was made palpable as I watched the local weather report with my parents on such evenings.

In those days there were no warning systems in place like all major cities have today. No sirens would sound. And even if there had been sirens in Boynton, that would have been no help to us since we lived so far from town. Our weather reports all emanated from Tulsa and the most trusted weatherman of the day, Don Woods, of ABC affiliate, KTUL-TV, fame.

Don Woods’s demeanor was always that of encourager and protector. His voice spoke with assurance and strength, but what made me want to tune in to the weather report each day - regardless of storm or not - was because Don ended each and every weather forecast by drawing a cartoon character he called Gusty. Right there on-air, Don skillfully rendered Gusty, depicting whatever the current weather conditions were! Like magic being performed right before my eyes, I sat glued to the TV set as Gusty held an umbrella or donned a ball cap and sunglasses or held onto a telephone pole as he held on while being lifted sideways into the air! And to top it all off, he always selected a lucky child from the viewing audience to send the signed drawing to! Though I mailed in my request on more than one occasion, I never heard my name called! The disappointment did not matter to me. Just watching Don Woods draw Gusty with such confidence and imaginative flair, filled me with creative wonder. So much so that, more often than not, I would break out my drawing paper and grab a pencil and try to draw Gusty just as Don had done!

So into Don Woods’ weather report was I that I spent many hours imagining myself a weatherman. In the days before all things digital, the forecast was drawn rather than digitally rendered. Using a map of Oklahoma, Don would use dry-erase markers to draw the lines of the front. Along a cold front, he drew triangles. Along a warm front, he drew semicircles. Often, as Don gave the weather report, I would draw the same fronts on the map of Oklahoma I had drawn by hand on my notepad in anticipation of the forecast! Watching and co-reporting with Don on the 6 o’clock evening news was always my pre-bedtime ritual. As long as Don told me what to expect, I could sleep with assurance.

Just as in life, one can always count on occasional storms in Oklahoma. As native son, Will Rogers famously quipped about our state, “If you don’t like the weather in Oklahoma, wait a minute and it’ll change.” This held true - especially in springtime. Try as I might to prepare for nature’s stormy onslaught, my well-made plans for escape were always thwarted by the first crack of lightning and booming thunderclap!

I remember many stormy nights when the rain would beat down so loudly on the roof directly above my face that I found it difficult to control my thoughts. Like machine-gun fire, the rain pounded on the roof as if it would break through. Between claps of thunder and the piercing darts of lightning I often warred with thoughts of crying out to my mom juxtaposed with thoughts of not wanting my little brothers to think I was afraid.

Don Woods had just told us to expect possible tornadoes, telling us to stay tuned to KTUL and he would keep us updated. Mom and Dad had sent us to bed with the assurance that they would get us up if a tornado warning came across the TV screen. As the wind howled like a thousand screaming demons on the outside of our small farmhouse, all my little-boy thoughts could see was our house being swept up like that little farmhouse in Kansas had been swept up in “The Wizard of Oz”! But I had a plan just in case my parents somehow failed to wake us up!


From my limited references gleaned from past news reports of the aftermath of tornadoes, my thoughts careened between women in curlers and men dressed in their “tightie-whities” reporting from their just-demolished trailer park, their words ping-ponging through my brain. “It sounded just like a freight-train…and then everything started flyin’ though the air around us!”

As the wind and rain pounded the roof above me, I strained intently for the faintest strain of a freight-train! My plan was simple. If I heard the tell-tale sounds of the oncoming “engine”, I would first awaken my sleeping brothers, then we would run downstairs and awaken our parents, then we would all make our way outside to the drainage ditch and the concrete culvert that me and my brothers often climbed though from one side of the highway to the other! I reasoned that once we were all inside the tunnel, the sucking power of the tornado could not reach us! Of course, I never factored in the flooding water that would be gushing through the culvert that would have most assuredly swept us out and into the drainage ditch!

When all else failed, I simply prayed thusly:

“God, if You will spare my life, I will...(fill in the blank with whatever hoop I felt I needed to jump through to please God at the moment)…”

Bedtime, though sometimes scary, was a time of peace in the midst of fear, if you can imagine that. And, imagine I did. Although I find it difficult to remember my dreams now, in the days of my youth, I could will myself to dream certain dreams. My dreams often coincided with whatever my latest reading material might have been. One night, I was running from wolves after reading Jack London’s The Call of the Wild. The next, I was riding through the countryside on the bare back of a horse after reading Anna Sewel’s Black Beauty or swimming across the coastal ocean channel with the wild horses of Marguerite Henry’s Misty of Chincoteague!

More often than not, though, my dreams took place on the starship USS Enterprise. My name was usually Will, my favorite character from the TV series “Lost In Space”. My father was Captain James Tiberius Kirk from "Star Trek”and my dream mom was Doris Day. Every night I found myself on a new adventure. Of course, each adventure consisted of me being taken captive by whatever alien race I had just watched on the latest “Star Trek” episode. The one thing I could always count on was that my dad, Captain Kirk, would always be there to rescue me. Each and every dream ended with my dad materializing with his phaser set not on stun but on destroy. As he dispatched the enemy and saved the day, my mom would appear in my dream singing “Que sera, sera! Whatever will be, will be!” And I woke up with a song on my heart, feeling rescued each morning!

As I think about my dad and mom now that I am becoming an old man myself, I find comfort in those long-ago dreams - and find myself asking God to give my parents such comforting dreams as they head toward Him.

Many were the mornings I was awakened by the sensation of floating and release, only to come to the realization that I had wet the bed. When I was four or five, my mom would patiently strip the sheets and encourage me that this stage in my life would pass…only to find myself stripping the bed as a ten year old hoping my mother would not find the wet sheets in the dirty laundry. If she did, she never let on. I suppose she chose to allow me the dignity of taking responsibility for myself, knowing I would grow out of it. And eventually I did.

Pondering such thoughts as an aging man, I once again find comfort in the memories of the little boy whose legs ached from growing pains and the faithfulness of my mother to gently rub my legs each night until the pain was magically taken by her faithful care and love. I hear the echoes of doing the same for my own children as I sang to them just as my mother had sung to me…as I have no doubt my children now do for their children.

Life goes on even as night approaches. God is faithful like that.

Dennis Jernigan

Red Skelton quote - https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/r/redskelton388247.html

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/images/download/x-7847114_1920.jpg

Searching

The material below is from my upcoming book “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - the No Parkinson’s Zone”

“The most beautiful things are not associated with money; they are memories and moments. If you don't celebrate those, they can pass you by.”

Alek Wek https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/a/alekwek783092.html

I met my mom at the ER of our local hospital to help her get dad out of the truck and into the wheelchair. Dad had not wanted to call an ambulance that night, opting for the comfort of the Ford Explorer. Waiting for several hours, we joked that he might be seen more quickly if we put dad back in the Ford and drive down the street and called for an ambulance!

Sitting in the ER that night brought the stark reality of life faced with the inevitable ravages of old age. I had never seen dad in any manner other than wise and practical. Now, his moments of incoherence caused my mind a bit of shock to say the least. Juxtaposed with my dad and the state of his health with the birth of my ninth grandchild early that same morning only caused the bittersweetness of melancholy to permeate my shocked mind.

Sitting there in that wheelchair connected to a bottle of oxygen, he began to push his feet back and forth as if he were trying to move. Fumbling with the air tank and hose connecting him to it, dad became more and more restless. Mom leaned over and gently asked him, “Where’re you going, Robert?”

“I’ve got to find the people I came with,” he replied.

The people he came with. That struck me so deeply in that moment. Mom came with him. My brothers came with him. I came into this world with him. How could he forget? I was taken aback by my dad’s confusion. Rather than focus on the darkness of that thought, I forced myself to think on the light. There in the ER I was at once with my dad in his present condition and at once back on the farm as a boy.

Our house. The old farmhouse. The house my grandfather, Samuel Washington Jernigan had built. The story goes that he had ridden his horse up from Mississippi during the 1930s and had settled on the 90 acre farm in Muskogee County three miles north of the small town of Boynton where he and grandma, Myrtle Mae (Snyder) Jernigan, had raised my dad and his two older sisters. Even though I was only 18 months old when my grandfather died, I somehow feel as if I knew him well.

I was told the story by both my mom and my grandma Jernigan of how proud my grandpa was of me. Of how he talked about me and bragged on me constantly to anyone who would listen. Of how he would tote me around and put me in the seat of the truck beside him and carry me all over the countryside, showing me off. Oh, the days before car seats and safety! Being with my dad in the ER somehow brought me to the comfort of such precious memories. And comfort me, they did.

For the first 18 months of my life, we lived in the former oil boom town of Glen Pool, just south of Tulsa. I tell myself that I remember those days, but more probably I recall the faded black and white photograph my mom has shown me through the years of that small gray trailer house with the small rickety swing set in the yard than actually remember. At any rate, I am there and I find peace in that memory.

When I was 18 months old, dad and mom bought the farm where daddy had grown up. The house was simple. No indoor toilet until I was 4 or 5. The water we drank still came from the well my grandfather had dug so long ago. As I remember the house I recall the winter winds causing the linoleum covering the kitchen floor to rise as the wind coursed through and between the cracks in the floor!

Mama had been so proud of the new cabinets daddy built in the kitchen and even more proud of the one room addition he made that gave us a proper living room on the east side of that little house. The living room was in the back of the house and everyone - even visitors - knew the back door was the official entryway. The living room gave way to the kitchen. Turning left from the kitchen was the freezer room where mom kept the large chest deep freeze where she stored the frozen vegetables raised in our garden and where dad stored the beef he had butchered each year.

Turning right from the freezer room, one came to the bathroom daddy added when I was a boy. No longer did we have to use the outhouse my grandfather had built back in the day. And now I chuckle to myself as I remember the day my mom came running from said outhouse as she pulled up her shorts screaming, “Robert, there’s snake in there!” Dad bravely dispatched the snake that had been dangling from the ceiling of the tiny one-seat toilet. Though I used to joke this memory had scarred me for life, I now saw the moment with deep gratitude. For what? Just the life it now infused with joy.

Just past the bathroom was dad and mom’s bedroom. Before it was their bedroom, it had been mine. In this moment I can see the gray wallpaper and the big leaf pattern that reminded me of elephant ears surrounding me with imaginary elephant stampedes. It was this room I shared with my aunt Carol Ann while she finished high school. As I think about those days, I am filled with memories that now seem quite absurd, yet somehow appropriate for a little boy. My bed was right next to the window. During my early childhood there seemed to be frequent UFO sightings. As the evening news detailed the reports of sightings and the occasional alien abduction, it was not lost on me that most of these abductions took place in rural settings…and we lived in a rural setting! Thank God no aliens ever actually appeared at that window - though I often thought they might!

After my aunt left and my brothers began coming along, this room became the bedroom of my parents. The same room I feared yet ventured into when I was about 12 years of age in search of my birth certificate. This was the age of conflict with my parents in which I was convinced I could not possibly have been born to such an uneducated people. The days in which I was convinced I was adopted! Rifling through their chest-of-drawers in search of documentation, I now find it hard to believe I ever had such thoughts! All it takes is one look in the mirror and I see both evidence of my dad and mom looking back at me! The older I have grown, the wiser my parents have become.

When my brothers began to come along, Daddy converted the attic space in that tiny farmhouse into a large room where I and my three little brothers slept. The room where I used thumb tacks to fashion myself a private room by hanging blankets from the ceiling! The same end of the room where I secured my privacy with the window facing the west where the woodpecker woke me pounding on the outside wall each and every morning! The same place from which I planned my escape whenever a tornado threatened. And just then, I am pleasantly startled from my journey through the old house.

After a couple of hours in the ER, my brother Sam and his wife, Leslea, join us. I find comfort in watching my sister-in-law take the initiative to relieve my mom in her effort to comfort my dad. Leslea is a nurse, but she is more. My dad and mom had four boys. Mom had often wished she had had at least one girl. And now before my very eyes, I realized her wish had come true four times over. As Leslea gently caressed my dad’s shoulder, I saw God’s blessing in a whole new dimension. Leslea was more than a mere daughter-in-law. She was a daughter-in-love. Quiet would be the way I have always described Leslea…but in that moment, I saw her as bold and faithful and gentle and strong and comforting and beautiful and needed and as being there - like a daughter to her father would be - should be - in such moments. I saw the blessing of God on our family. I saw just how blessed we are. And gratitude engulfed my soul. And, once again, I am seeing the old house.

Moving back into the kitchen and into the only other room - the front room we called it - one came to the west side of the small house. This is the room where we put up the Christmas tree each year - the tree my dad always fashioned a stand for with his own hands. The room where my mom would pin the many Christmas cards in row after row on the wall. The room where we kept the piano where I would find refuge in the coming years and their angst-filled days.

The actual front door of the house was more like the back door in our minds. If you came to this door and knocked, we knew you must be a stranger! It was in this room where my mom placed the coffee table daddy built for her in front of the small couch. The couch where she placed the two end tables he crafted for her, one on other end. The coffee table where mom kept the family Bible she read to us almost every evening. The room where the water cooler crouched like a dragon in the window spewing out that wonderful damp breeze on so many hot summer nights. The water cooler where me and my three brothers sat proudly dressed in only our underwear. The room outside where, on more than one occasion, I joined my dad and brothers as we peed off the front porch into the dark summer night.

I can still see the outside of the house, brown, grainy, sand-papery siding covering all four sides. The carport daddy built on the south side where he parked his welder and mom parked her car. I smell the dank mustiness of the times when my dad would have me crawl under the house through the tiny crawl-space to help him with plumbing repairs or rescue the puppies that had been born there. Like a maze, crawling beneath the floorboards always seemed so scary yet adventurous to me. Dad was always right there comforting me in the moment as he sensed my fear - and mom was doing the same from the floor above me, as she shouted her words of assurance from above. It was during such moments that I believed I could do anything…that I might find some undiscovered feature of the house…that I might uncover some long-forgotten treasure! Through the nooks and crannies between support blocks and floor joists, I wound my way below the house with my dad and glorious was the moment I emerged from each under-the-house adventure the conquering hero!

Glorious and relieving was the day my dad came home with the brand new antenna for the TV! Climbing up the ladder that day per his invitation to ‘help’ him secure the antenna and attach the wiring, all I could think was ‘I no longer have to stand with my hand on the rabbit-ears! No more antenna-boy for me!’ To me it was like we had just climbed the highest mountain or had touched the sky. I can still see myself up there with him as my little-boy voice cries out to my mom below, shouting, “Look at me, Mama! I’m up here! I can fly!”

In the front yard was a huge mulberry tree. Directly in front of that tree, between the house and highway 62 which ran north and south, we planted our first family garden. To the south, the highway led to Boynton and to the north, it led to Haskell. I recall thinking how busy that highway always seemed to be - until the day I realized just how much more busy traffic was in the big city of Muskogee in comparison! Later, that garden would be moved to the northeast of the house next to the old outhouse. I remember growing Indian corn and popcorn in that first garden from seeds I had planted with my own two hands!

Walking around to the back of the house in my memories, I find myself beside the old well-house and right next to the old elm tree where we had a tire swing. I can still recall the day dad told me when he and his dad had first planted that massive tree so long ago. Dad’s voice sounded so melancholy as he said, “I remember the day we first planted that seed, your grandpa and me. I could jump right over it…”, his voice trailing off in bittersweet memory.

That tree is gone now…but not the memory of it. Funny how certain memories never seem to fade. Memories of an old house. Memories of wind billowing up through floorboards. Memories of musty dirt as a boy crawls in its nether regions with his dad. Memories that bring comfort as I watch an old man who can no longer jump over an elm tree sapling and wonder, “Can you remember, dad? Remember?”

Why?

Why?

The following material is from my upcoming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone”

Why did I choose to write the first half of this book as a self-help book and why the second half as memoir? Quite simple. I decided Parkinson’s had robbed me of enough life after 6 and a half years and that I wanted to remember all the good things that happened in my life before the diagnosis. Those two things led me to want to live the remainder of my days with adventure and wildness and danger and meaning, dragging Parkinson’s along for the ride and not the other way around!

I believe life is meant to be lived on the edge. The edge of adventure. The edge of danger and wildness no matter how long I am fortunate to live. I have SCUBA dived with sharks in the Bahamas. I have jumped out of a perfectly good airplane (That’s debatable) at 10,000 feet. I have explored caves which led me to crawl through excruciatingly claustrophobic passageways (My body would no longer fit through now, lol! And I can barely tolerate an MRI today!) following a only a thin strand of yarn for hundreds of feet before it opened up into a glorious cavern first discovered by the Spaniards in the 1500s. I have run from a lightning storm above 10,000 feet near Crestone Peak in Colorado. I Have peed from a mountaintop ledge above 12,000 feet (Because I am a guy, that’s why!). I have ministered on three different occasions at the Pentagon and have stood where Lt. Commander, Brian Birdwell, was doused with jet fuel and burned beyond recognition on September 11, 2001, yet he survived to tell about it. I have been escorted by secret service agents on several occasions as I shared my story of deliverance from same-sex attraction (Not a popular thing…) in Washington, D.C. I and some of my family have been purposely dropped off in a dark alleyway in a very pro-Palestinian area of Jerusalem (dangerous for Americans and Jews) only to be rescued by a friend who speaks the language and overheard the plan in the cab in which he and his family were riding. We were definitely not on Ben Yehuda Street.

I have run out of air while SCUBA diving twice now - both around 40 feet below the surface on Bonaire (Which I think is hilarious because Bonaire means ‘Good Air’). I have done several night dives - on purpose! I have raced my brothers and cousins through wide open hay fields letting our horses go with reckless abandon until tears of joy streamed down our faces due to the velocity. We used to play hide and seek on horseback through the forests. My cousin and I once found an old still on the bank of Cane Creek. We used to take a huge tractor tire’s inner tube and curl up inside of it while our siblings and cousins pushed us down a hill and over a short cliff into the Illinois River in northeaster Oklahoma. My brothers and cousin would have pissing contests out of the window of the barn loft (‘Cause we’re guys!). I started on the high school basketball team all four years and was fortunate enough to play in three state tournaments - which we never won. I was valedictorian of my senior class (all 12 of us!) as was my dad in his class of 52 members. My dad even played in the state basketball tournament when he was in high school…the same small school I went to.

I grew up. Went to college. Was told I had no potential as a song writer and was told I could not overcome same-sex attraction. I graduated. God gave me a new identity through faith in Christ. I began writing music. I married Melinda. We lived an adventurous life and raised 9 children together while traveling all over the country and eventually the world sharing my story and my music. Just a few days before my 60th birthday I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s - the diagnosis came on January 28, 2019 and my birthday is February 9, 1959. Then we were sold a preposterous notion by our government that we were in a pandemic by 2020 and for the past 6 and a half years it was as if the world was at a standstill.

The only problem with me is that I cannot come to a standstill. During that period of time I wrote 2 fantasy novels and 2 books on Parkinson’s, brain fog be damned. I have released 2 music albums from past demos and have about 10 more ready to go! I began writing this book even before brain surgery (DBS). Oh, yeah. Did I mention I had brain surgery? My point is that, for all intents and purposes, we had stopped living in many ways socially, at least - except for our amazing family.

If not for our family, Melinda and I might have dried up and withered on the vine, yet we managed a trip to Australia to see our daughter, her husband, our granddaughters and we managed a trip to see our amazing son and his amazing wife in British Columbia where my son and I managed to paddle board (even with PD!) in ice-cold water which made me feel like a eunuch. Just sayin’. Of course, we have been able to spend much time with our local children and their children and we keep a constant family chat going (By ‘we’ I mean ‘they’). Even having had brain surgery and ridding myself of the brain fog has not kept me from feeling overwhelmed by the constant stream of pictures and information. I have just learned to ask my wife to tell me what is going on and what I need to know! Just this past June, my daughter and I danced to “A Million Dreams” from the film “The Greatest Showman” and as we ended that dance, we went into a choreographed dance to Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” (Every pun intended, lol) and the place went nuts as our family went into full-on dance mode for the next 30 minutes. I did not fall once and got all the moves right! Talk about living dangerously and on the wild side! I was toast afterwards but it was completely worth it because of the memories we created for our family. I have never laughed and cried simultaneously for so long as I did that afternoon!

Because PD ravaged my voice, my public concert ministry came to a crashing and sudden halt. It has only been since my DBS procedure that I have begun singing and playing the piano again - at least making a joyful noise! I have even begun writing music again. This feels both adventurous and dangerous to me since I have no doubt people will judge my voice…and I couldn’t care less what others think or say. At least I am living my life out loud and do not intend on stopping any time soon!

Which brings me back to why I am writing this book as both a self-help book and a memoir. A couple of years before my diagnosis, my dad passed away on August 31, 2017. Both he and my mom had worked for me for about 25 years so to have worked so closely with 2 people who gave their lives up for me in very tangible ways for my entire life caused me to reevaluate my entire existence. What you are about to read is how I experienced walking through the shadow of the valley of death with my folks and how that affected the way in which I have continued to live my life. It is not morbid. It is melancholic in many ways, but full of joy as well. What you are about to read are my personal thoughts at certain points along that journey. My hope is that you will be encouraged to keep on living as if this were your last day on earth; that you would practically live your life in the ways I pointed out in the self-help portion of the book; that you would be constantly confronted with joy as you look at what you do have rather than what you don’t. Enjoy the journey.

Dennis Jernigan

The above material is from my upcoming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone”

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/photos/chicken-bird-poultry-livestock-7357303/

Parenting These Days

"A parent's love is whole no matter how many times divided." — Robert Breault, as cited in NDTV Profit 

“You never have the power to change the heart of your child - only God does. Parents must remember that they are instruments, not redeemers. This truth becomes especially important as children enter adulthood, when control must give away to prayer, humility, and trust in God's work.” Paul David Trip, Parenting.

When writing about my dad and mom in the past, I have alluded to the fact that I believed they did not love me…could not possibly have loved me at certain points in my life. I had believed a lie. I never heard those words ‘I love you’ from my dad until I was already married and had a family…yet he proved his love for me in the way he raised me…laying down his life for me. The reason I am even writing this chapter is that today believing such lies has become a cottage industry in the therapy world and it is designed to tear the family apart. I wanted to put that to rest. There are no perfect parents and there are no perfect families, but we can always work toward being the best we can be. To help illustrate my point, I am quoting from Instagram influencer Tania Khazaal at https://www.instagram.com/reel/DNrLkyOZGPj/?igsh=cnF4cDlmeW5qNmIz

“The Internet is full of ‘five signs your mom is toxic’ or ‘how to go no contact checklists’ and people eating it up like it’s candy. You know why? Because division sells. It's literally the devil’s work and they make profit off destroying families teaching kids to label, defame people who want to unite families, mock parents’ pain, and then discard their parents with zero effort towards repair and then they package it as ‘self-care’ or ‘boundaries’. But there's nothing healthy about encouraging permanent estrangement as the solution. Real healing is freaking hard. It requires communication, humility, forgiveness, and actual solutions. But notice what does go viral - the victim mentality. So instead they spread poison, encouraging children to cut off their families while parents cry themselves to sleep, wondering what went wrong and families deserve better than this reduced trend of pushing the narratives that aren't helping you heal they're actually destroying you.”

Again, I quote Tania Khazaal at https://www.instagram.com/reel/DPhmFUEkgDU/?igsh=MXZoaHk4NGUwaWV5cg==. She says,

“What if trauma that you've been healing from was never even real. In 1995, psychologist Elizabeth Loftus, ran a study where people were told 4 childhood stories. Three true and one completely fake and the fake one was that that they got lost in a mall at five years old and were rescued by a complete stranger. Twenty-five percent (25%) of them remembered it so vividly that they cried and described the details. Their nervous system reacted to it as if it actually happened. Your body can respond to a lie as if it's true. Today therapy sessions that are built on whatever comes up for you - guided, imaginary, hypnosis, regression, and people are treating every vision, every memory, and every emotion is truth and suddenly everyone's a victim now and traumatized.People are cutting off family labeling parents as abusers because of memories that might not even be theirs or twisted into saying that it was abuse. An entire mental health culture now teaches people to trust every feeling and thought as truth, but truth and emotion are not the same thing and this is why families are collapsing because false narratives and emotional reactivity has replaced discernment and forgiveness and connection, convincing them that they're healing when they're actually being programmed to hate to fear to cut off the very people who raised them.”

And one more quote from an Instagram influencer who happens to be a young man who , I would guess, is somewhere between Generation Z or Millennial, named Flamur Berisha at https://www.instagram.com/reel/DO1wWlBkazF/?igsh=MTcyY2tzaGFvbmlwdQ==

“One thing I just can't do is trust people who villainize their parents over every little thing. Seriously, if you turn your back on the people who raised you; on the people who sacrificed for you; on the people who worried while you slept; who can't you turn your back on? Why do you expect me or anyone else to trust you? And to me a part of loyalty means recognizing the people who invested in you, who believed you in good faith, even when their methods were flawed, even when they got it wrong. Turning against them over every small disappointment. That says more about you than it does about them. I'm not saying every parent is perfect, but most of the time blaming and claiming that they ruined your life is all misplaced because it ignores the fact that they sacrifice so much to give you a shot in the world. Standing behind your parents is as simple as seeing the effort behind their choices and not letting resentment ruin your life, and I wish more people had this kind of loyalty.”

Of course abuse can be real, but to call being told ‘no’ is abusive is childish; immature. One of the most mature things I ever did was to stop blaming my parents for my life choices and one thing I am so glad I never did was to cut off my parents. They were not perfect, but they were there. They were not perfect, but they were awesome in the way they provided for and protected my 3 younger brothers and myself. All I need to say is they were there for us. I just wanted to clear that up for any who think my words about believing my parents did not love me are disparaging. That was just a lie I chose to believe for a brief moment in my life.

"Family is not an important thing. It's everything,” according to Michael J. Fox. 

Dennis Jernigan

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/photos/baby-child-father-parent-2616673/

What Is DBS?

This is an unedited chapter from my upcoming book, Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/photos/doubt-portrait-doubts-idea-think-2072602/ You can listen to the 2 part series on The Dennis Jernigan Podcast for free at http://podcast.dennisjernigan.com/e/djs-brain-surgery-part-1-carry-me-away/

“They had me at ‘stimulation’.”

Dennis Jernigan

Recently (August 22, 2025), I underwent deep Brain Stimulation (DBS). It is a surgical procedure that involves implanting electrodes in specific areas of the brain to treat movement disorders such as Parkinson’s disease, essential tremor, and dystonia.

In a mentoring session with three of my grandsons just prior to the surgery, they were very curious about the procedure and I told them my doctor could even adjust the setting for my electrodes via a cell phone. Our grandson, Cullen, then asked, “What if he butt dials you while you’re driving?” That brought our mentoring session to a giggle fest between a 10 year old, an 11 year old, a 12 year old, and a 66 year old! I have since been assured that cannot happen…but it is fun to think about!

I have had Parkinson’s officially since my diagnosis on January 28, 2019. That is 6 and a half years worth of constant tremors and foggy brain and constant exhaustion, not to mention sleepless nights and a constant battle with constipation. The little things that don’t often get mentioned but tend to cumulatively take a toll. But the results of DBS, while understanding there is no cure for Parkinson’s, meant I could have a greater quality of life and besides, they had me at stimulation! I’m a guy, what can I say?!

What exactly is PD? Parkinson’s disease (PD) is a progressive neurological disorder that affects movement, balance, and other bodily functions. The exact cause of PD is unknown, but it is believed to be a combination of genetic and environmental factors. In the brain, cells called neurons that produce dopamine gradually degenerate, leading to a shortage of this neurotransmitter. 

Common symptoms of PD include Tremors (involuntary shaking), Rigidity (stiffness), Bradykinesia (slowed movements), Postural instability (difficulty with balance and walking), Slurred speech, Cognitive problems (such as memory and attention), Sleep disturbances, and very often constipation.

Essential tremor (ET) is a common neurological disorder that causes involuntary, rhythmic shaking or trembling. The exact cause of ET is unknown, but it is believed to be related to abnormalities in certain brain circuits that control movement. Genetic factors may play a role, as ET often runs in families. 

What is dystonia? Dystonia in Parkinson's disease refers to involuntary, sustained muscle contractions that can cause twisting, turning, or repetitive movements. It is a common complication of Parkinson's disease, affecting up to 50% of patients. PD affects each person differently.

To be honest, I believe my Parkinson’s was brought to the surface - if not outright caused by - the loss of my dad and my following knee replacement surgery. As I look back now, I honestly believe their were earlier signs of PD as a result of these two major upheavals in my life. The knee replacement just reminded me I was nearing old age. In fact, a doctor friend of mine who has since passed away asked me what my symptoms were. His response was, “Jernigan, you don’t have Parkinson’s. You’re just getting old!” I still get a kick out of that though because it rings so true and actually make me feel better about my situation. The loss of my dad meant I was next in line, so to speak. Basically, I was drained physically and emotionally and mentally and knew that Melinda was feeling the same way. PD does not affect just the sufferer but those who care for them and I believe it is equal in comparison.

It became my desire to look into DBS after a couple of friends told me of their experience with those who had undergone the procedure and how it had positively affected their quality of life for the better. As I said before, they had me at ‘stimulation.’

In order to be considered for the procedure I had to undergo a 4 hour neurological assessment to see if I was a candidate for the surgery. Math problems. Reciting stories word for word after I was told these stories. Drawing super-detailed drawings after being given only a few seconds to view those drawings. Child-like games that involved matching pictures. This was 4 hours of torture to assess whether I showed signs of dementia. It felt more like they were trying to drive me to dementia! Patients must have a severe movement disorder that is not adequately controlled by medication. My PD was not responding as it once did to the medication so my tremors were more frequent and were growing more intense. Candidates for DBS must be in good overall health and have a reasonable life expectancy. At the time, my neurologist as well as my PCP agreed now was the time for me to pursue DBS because of the frequency and intensity of tremors and because they both felt I could live another 20 years easily.

The patient also undergoes an MRI or CT scan to identify the target brain areas. Mine took place on a Saturday morning at the OU Health Center in OKC
During the actual surgery, a stereotactic frame is placed on the patient's head to guide the electrode placement. This was like a giant clamp that was bolted into my skull to ensure no sudden movements would take place during the procedure. Before the surgery, I was asked if I wanted just the areas of the incisions to be shaved. I told them to make me bald. Just for kicks.

Small incisions are made in the brain, and electrodes are inserted on both sides of the brain. The electrodes are connected to a neurostimulator during a separate surgery which took place on Monday, August 25, which is implanted under the skin near the collarbone, much like a pacemaker. Before this surgery I asked my surgeon just how he was going to get the wires down to the device in my chest. He asked, “Do you really want to know?” I said, “Yes.” He told me he would take the wires that led from the neurostimulators beneath my skin by using a long tool that basically had curves for maneuvering the set of wires just beneath my skin. What he was telling me was that he was going to be burrowing into my skin like the scarab beetles in The Brendan Fraser/Rachel Weise movie “The Mummy”. I just wanted you to get the full picture!

Of course they always have to tell you the risks that are involved with any surgery. There is always the risk of infection, bleeding, cognitive changes, side effects from stimulation, such as pain, muscle spasms, and difficulty speaking. Melinda’s main objections to the procedure was that it could possibly change my personality in some way. My response was, “How could it be worse than how PD itself has changed my personality?” She agreed with me on that one. It’s not so much that my personality changed, but the symptoms of PD had caused a suppression of my ability to joke around and even smile.

I am writing this chapter just short of the four week anniversary of my surgery. I had the implant connected to the device in my chest just a week ago (Monday) and have not had any tremors. I have begun working out again. The fog has cleared from my brain. I even led worship at our small home church Wednesday evening from the piano. I hadn’t done this in months, opting to play worship tracks from my past recordings because I was just too weak and my voice nonexistent. I just feel good now.

Patients typically stay in the hospital for 1-2 days after surgery. After one night I asked to be sent home. We can chalk that up to no rest at all even though I was in the ICU and it involved the need to be catheterized without knowing what the nurse was actually intending to do. Just suffice it to say, when someone takes a hold of your man part and begins to shove a tube the size of a soda straw into said man part, one does not enjoy an atmosphere where that is a constant possibility and reality!


Our youngest son, Ezra, recently moved home because he wanted to start his own company and because we had given him about 8 acres, including the barn in which my studio stands. He has become my landlord! It became a necessity for him to become our driver since I could no longer drive and since Melinda hates driving in the city. This also meant that, by de facto, he has become my backup care giver. I feel sorry for him…but not too much, because he is bluntly honest with me and because we share a very similar sense of humor.

This became quickly apparent as I was being released from the hospital following the initial surgery. He was assigned to help me get dressed. I was just glad to not being seen in my naked glory by one of the many female nurses who had attended to me all through the night. Because I was considered a fall-risk, I needed help with standing. His first job was to help me get into my shorts. I looked at him in my nakedness and said, “I’m so sorry you are having to see this, son.” He just laughed and proceeded to pull my first leg into my shorts. We said together, “One leg. Two legs,” and then we began to giggle like 12 year old boys as we said simultaneously as my man part came into view, “Three legs!” Melinda just looked at us and said, “There is definitely nothing wrong with your brain. Stop corrupting your son.”

Once we got home, it was decided that Ezra would sleep in the bedroom with me on a nearby cot so Melinda could get some rest on the couch. As I walked into the bedroom, it became obvious I was leaning toward the left due to the trauma I had undergone and I could understand why they thought I was a fall-risk. What I did not know was that Ezra had set up motion-detecting lights near my bed in case I got up during the night to pee (They had filled me with so many fluids in the hospital that it felt like I needed to pee non-stop for the next three days). Of course, I had to pee the very first night and thought I would not make it to the bathroom in time, but thanks to Ezra’s carefully placed lights, he was awakened and quickly made his way to his naked dad and took me by the hand and led me to the bathroom, saying, “Dad, you could fall without help.” I said, “I’m sorry you’re having to see me like this.” He just laughed and said, “It’s OK, dad. I love you. It doesn’t matter to me.” This went on for about 5 nights and then Melinda set up an air mattress in the bedroom so as not to disturb me. After the first night, she took away the motion-sensor lights and left me to my own devices! I could tell I was getting better if Melinda was getting tired of the lights coming on every time I needed to pee.

Less than three weeks later, it was time to connect the electrodes in my brain to the device implanted in my chest…and for my tremors to stop!Just before Melinda and I were headed to my neurologist’s office,  we made a video for social media in which Melinda made the statement, “We’re going to get Dennis turned on today!” I immediately snorted and she realized what she had said and then said, “Next week we’ll turn him on,” and I continued to laugh and reminded folks the surgery did include the word ‘stimulation!’

Within a couple of minutes of arriving at my neurologist’s office on the morning of September 12, 2025, we were met by the young man who activates the system as a rep for MedTronics, and my tremor was nonexistent. The young man, Bryan Martray, worked with my neurologist, Dr. Cattaneo, until they came up with just the right frequency for my brain. We have a video of the very moment my tremors ceased. It was very emotional for me and for Melinda as well. Over the next week I have resumed writing, playing the piano, singing, and exercising. My brain fog is gone as well and I can smile again! It’s absolutely amazing. Even though I know I still have PD, I do not feel as enslaved to it as once did.

At times I feel I have cheated the system because I feel so good now. I am exhausted but must remember I just underwent brain surgery - intentional traumatic brain injury that I paid someone to do. My body is also exhausted from 6 and a half years of constant motion in my right extremities. I am so grateful for my surgeon, Dr. Andrew Conner, my neurologist, Dr. John Cattaneo, my PCP, Jason Dansby, and for my on-call technician, Bryan Martray and their wonderful teams. I feel so taken care of.

Since the writing of this chapter, we have set the neurotransmitter to the adaptive mode which, being translated, means I am no longer operating at a certain frequency. The device now adapts to whatever my brain needs at any given moment. While Dr. Cattaneo and Bryan were making the switch, I asked them how long the neurotransmitter would keep the symptoms of Parkinson’s at bay. Their combined response? “Until the day you die!” I feel wonderful and so grateful and thank God for giving mankind the wisdom to create such mind-blowing (pun very intended) agents of healing.

As A Man Thinks

This is an unedited chapter from my upcoming book, Parkinson’s & Recreation 3 - The No Parkinson’s Zone

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/photos/doubt-portrait-doubts-idea-think-2072602/

Did you know that our brain and our heart can think independently of one another? As I came into the first three weeks after the initial implantation of the DBS device and before I had the device activated, I felt very, very slow mentally. This began to cause me concern as to whether I had done the right thing or not.

As I was growing up, it never dawned on me to think about my core identity—the deepest part of me that defines who I am. When puberty hit and my sexual identity became more solidified toward attraction to those of the same sex, I began to question a bit. Why was I attracted to other males? How do I fix this? It led me to beg God to change me. When nothing changed, I became disillusioned in my faith, concluding this was simply the way God made me. But the older I became, the less happy I was in a homosexual identity. This lack of happiness led me to question on a deeper level. Is this all there is?

As I became involved with other men who believed they were homosexual, I became more confused. I was constantly told that this was just the way God made me. I was constantly encouraged that I had no choice in the matter at all. Mulling such thoughts over in my mind, I could never quite reconcile these simple answers with the way I felt. This led me to the constant questioning of my homosexuality. Was this truly my nature or was there more to the story? The more I questioned my homosexual identity, the more desperate those questions became.

Desperation led me to wonder whether or not I might just have a choice in the matter after all. I will not detail my story here. If you want to know more about how I came to the place of belief I now walk, read my autobiography, Sing Over Me. Suffice it to say, I came ultimately to the conclusion that I did not have a choice as to what would tempt me (same sex attraction), but I always had the choice as to how I would respond to it. After coming to faith in Christ, my worldview became Christ-centered. This new focus became the bedrock from which I launched the journey of renewing my mind, completely altering the way I would think from that point on!

Where is core identity found? In our body? In our genitals? In our feelings? In our heart? In our mind? Is identity found in our culture—the way we were raised? Is it found in our ethnicity or our nationality? Is it found in our personality type or in our profession? Is it to be found in the way others perceive us? Does our sexuality define us? How about our religion? How about our language? Are we defined by our genetic code? Are we defined by our convictions or causes (pacifist, environmentalist, Black Lives Matter, conservative, liberal, etc.)? Are we defined by our looks? Some would say it is a combination of all these things that make us who we are. The scientific community would sum it up like this: identity is the qualities, beliefs, personality, looks, and/or expressions that make a person who they are. Identity is conscious awareness.

But let’s think logically about where all these various defining things emanate from. Do they not all begin and end with the way we think? Could it be our identity begins and ends with the mind? Could it be that in order to alter our undesired habits and ways of thinking about ourselves we need but change the way we think? I know this is easier said than done, but isn’t our well-being worth the work required to obtain it? Identity is conscious awareness as received in our thoughts. It is our human mind!

We are constantly thinking about ourselves. How does that person view me? What do I want to eat? What shall I wear today? Do I like hanging around that person? How will spending time with them benefit my life? Will this job pay enough to finance my vision for my life? Will that vaccination hurt me? How will this election affect me? Even in our sleep we never stop talking to ourselves. Never. The way we think about ourselves has a direct affect upon the way we live our life. The way we think affects our view of reality. My reality was forever altered the day I decided to live and think about myself according to the way my Maker designed me. Of course, this flew directly in the face of the way I felt. The best decision I ever made was to stop defining myself by the way I felt and start living according to the Truth as defined by God and His Word. This began the most incredible journey of my life!

What does it mean to know something in one’s heart? This can be confusing, yet we hear such questions all the time. How many times have you heard a question such as, How do I get that knowledge from my head to my heart? And that is a perfectly good question, especially when we hear of scientific studies proving that the heart does indeed have brain-like cells, giving it the ability to think independently of the brain!

Simply put, science is coming to the place of thinking that the thoughts produced by the heart act as a communication between the various cells and organs of the body, acting as a sort of synchronizing signal for the entire body! The way I think about this news is that the mind defines us in our core and the heart carries this information to the rest of our body! While this is fascinating to know, for our intents and purposes I will conclude that identity begins and ends with the way we think about ourselves in our mind. What does it mean to know something in one’s mind? Could it be said that one is defined by what one thinks of him/herself?

Could it be that, ultimately, we should define ourselves according to the way our Maker designed us? If we have as our thought-foundation a Christ-centric worldview, then we must come to this conclusion found in God’s Word:

For as he thinks within himself, so he is. (Proverbs 23:7)

In order to renew one’s mind, one must operate from some point of view. My freedom and new identity came from allowing God to define me—came from seeking to know His, the Maker’s, point of view concerning Dennis Jernigan. The following are some of the questions He confronted

me with accompanied by the answers He showed me according to His Word:

1. Why did God make man and woman?

From my own experience with and study of God’s Word, I believe there is a two-fold reason God made man and woman. This is what the Word of God says:

Be fruitful and multiply… (Genesis 35:11)

Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself up for her…

(Ephesians 5:25)

My conclusion after reading the Word and viewing my life from God’s point of view? Man and woman were created by God and commanded to make babies! If He created me to be a man, it was for the purpose of making more people! That cannot be accomplished according to God’s design by having sex with another man. Cannot be done. God desired more of us because He created us for fellowship with Him. The sin of mankind was the problem. Where does sin derive from? Man thinking it’s all about him! Sin comes from stinkin’ thinkin’!

2. What is the primary purpose of sex?

God made sex for the purpose of procreation. He made it pleasurable so we would want to experience it. Pure and simple, without sex there would be no more humans. There is nothing wrong with pleasure as long as it is derived within the confines of God’s ultimate design. After settling that God was God and that His design would define me, the questions became even more specific.

3. Did God give you a penis and testicles or did He give you a vagina and ovaries?

Having a penis and testicles defined me as being physically male. Being physically male made me wonder why I did not have feelings of attraction to the opposite sex. Concluding that I had been lied to was the first step in putting off the lies about the way I felt—or did not feel! Although I initially did not feel attracted to women, I did have the desire for a family. This led me to the conclusion that if that desire was there, then it must be part of my design to feel attracted to a woman. From that conclusion, I came to the place of realizing that my feelings of attraction to other men was simply as a result of wrong thinking. The reality became simple to me at that point. Whenever I felt attraction to another man, I renounced it as a result of wrong thinking and replaced that wrong thinking with simple thoughts like…God made me physically a man; therefore he made me to think like a man. I want to see a woman in the way God designed me to see her. Father God, please replace the wrong thoughts with right thoughts and replace the wrong feelings with right feelings.

The more I changed the way I thought, the more my true needs and desires were met. My despair over my feelings was slowly but surely being replaced with right feelings due to the way I was now thinking! God’s Word says in Psalm 37:4,

Delight yourself in the LORD; And He will give you the desires of your heart.

The more I sought relationship with Him through the ways I thought about Him and His Word and how it applied to my life, the more my feelings changed. Even my sexual attractions toward men began to be replaced by attractions to women. So much mental healing had taken place in my life from 1981 to 1983 that I was able to realize a dream I never thought possible due to my homosexual feelings. I was able to marry Melinda, and as of this writing, I have been married for over forty-two years, have 13 awesome children, and nine incredible grandchildren…so far!

The changing of the way I thought about myself actually began much more simplistically than that. To renew the way I thought about myself as a man, I asked the Lord to reveal any wrong thinking I had about myself. In order to do this, I realized that I had been listening to the liar for far too long in my existence. But how would I cut off the voice of the liar? I went on what would become a twelve year fast from all the other voices of influence that were not God centered. From 1981 until 1993, I did not listen to pop/secular music. I did not watch TV. I listened to only voices that built me up according to God’s design for my life. In the process, I learned to discern the voice and will of God more clearly.

As I silenced the other voices, I gave God the freedom to speak to me in any form He chose for me. His Word became alive to me. From reading God’s Word, I discovered how loving and for me He was! I discovered He was never disgusted with me but was disgusted with my sin. I discovered that I no longer had to perform for His love and acceptance. It had always been my choice to receive or reject! That Truth alone changed everything! Gone were the days of trying to prove my worth by my performance. This meant I performed because He loved me rather than so He would love me!

The more I discovered about Who He said He was, the more I discovered who He designed me to be. He is holy. I am set apart for His purposes in this life. He is righteous. I am to walk righteously. He is peace. He has planted a heart of peace in me and set my mind at peace. He is

Healer. I am here to be an agent of His healing power. He is Provider. I am here to be an agent of His provision. He is Shepherd. I am here to guide others to Him. He is always there. I am never alone. He is victorious over sin. I am no longer a victim of my own sin but am victor over it because

of Him!

Even though my circumstances did not change, the way I viewed them did! I could choose to think what thoughts I wanted to think. That was incredible news and incredibly freeing. Rather than overthinking everything about myself from a man-centric point of view, I could simplify my thought processes to such a degree that freedom was the result simply by allowing the Word and intended design of God for me as the filter through which I viewed reality.

So much healing has come to my mind to this point that it is difficult for me to believe I ever thought I was gay in the first place. Let that sink in. Freedom comes from the way we choose to think about ourselves. Will you allow stinkin’ thinkin’ to define you? Will you let past failure define you? Will you allow other people to define you? Will you allow feelings to define you? Will you allow temptation to define you? Will you allow bad habits define you?

If there is something that you habitually think about yourself that you do not desire, could it be said you are allowing that thought to define you? Why put up with that way of thinking? Does your desire for drugs define you or do they reveal a deeper need for thinking about your circumstances in a new way? Will you be content with being a victim of your own stinkin’ thinkin’ or will you choose to seek victory over that way of thinking? The choice really is yours.

One of the best things I ever did to facilitate right thinking about myself as a man was to enlist the help of others in my life. I felt guilty about the failures of my life, especially in regard to my sexual failure. I felt so much shame that I believed the lie that I was not worthy of someone else’s time or effort or love. Guilt is the awareness that I did something wrong. Shame is the belief that I am something wrong. We kick shame to the curb by getting to the Truth of God’s Word and the reality of His design for us as new creations. When I dealt with my shame in honesty and came to the mental confusion that Jesus Christ had born all my shame on the cross, I took the first step toward Truth and freedom: I got honest with myself. I got honest with God. I got honest with others.

One of my choices was to surround myself with people who would help me walk in the Truth of my God-designed identity. To this day, I practice this in my life. My wife and my children have the freedom to remind me who and Whose I am. One of my personal rules is that Dennis Jernigan does not get to call himself something his Father does not call him. I cannot even get away with little slip-ups like saying to myself, “Stupid idiot” when I do something boneheaded! My wife and my children automatically say to me, “Is that who you really are?” or, “Is that who God says you are?” And I love it because I know they absolutely love me and want nothing but what is best for me. Stinkin’ thinkin’ is recognized in the moment. I put it off and replace it with the Truth…and move on down the road to my whole identity in Christ!

No longer do I define myself as ex-gay. No longer do I define myself as a recovering or formal homosexual. No longer do I define myself. My Father has that place in my life, and He uses other people to help me. I am what and who His Word says I am. And so are you. Would you be willing to consider seeing yourself from a whole new point of view

The Road to Freedom

People ask me so often, “Was your healing instantaneous or was it gradual?" My answer to both questions? “Yes!"

I can honestly say that the power of perversion was instantly broken in my life because I suddenly had the power to rise above the most appealing of temptations. I now find it difficult to believe I was ever involved in any such perversion. I have been given a new nature - I am a new man!

Growing up, I often heard preachers speak about humankind having two natures. I always wondered what that really meant. Are there two Dennis Jernigans who make up who I am? That idea didn't make sense to me, but because I accepted what people told me rather than searching out truth for myself, the Enemy had me right where he wanted me- confused. Now I see that if I have an old nature and a new nature, then I am not really healed. I believe a better description of being born again is that there is a dead Dennis and a living Dennis. The old Dennis has no more power. He's dead. The power belongs to the living. Since I believed right away that I was somebody brand new, by faith I began to immediately see myself from God's perspective, placing his thoughts and proclamations about me above my own! Instantly!


But healing is also a process. I had lived twenty-two years believing one way about God and about myself. I told myself early in my journey that I was willing to walk out this process of freedom for another twenty-two years – or more – if that was what was required. Overcoming homosexuality was the easy part. Getting to the root of my self-destructive thought life was a different matter. Unless we kill the root of the weed of sin in our life, that weed will always sprout back up. God has taken me on a trip through the garden of my life, pulling up all sorts of weeds and he continues to do so.


God's Word says that "the fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge" (Prov. 1:7). I fear (or honor) God by putting aside what I once thought or believed and putting on what his Word tells me to be true. After all, his ways and his thoughts are higher than mine. He is God. I am not!


The journey of healing is much like the description of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. As soon as Lazarus was raised, he was living and free, but he was still bound by his graveclothes. To be raised from the dead is, in itself, quite an awesome thing; not being able to enjoy your life once you are raised up would be a shame. But as soon as the graveclothes were removed from him, he was truly free!


What were some of my graveclothes? Certain relationships. I had to cut off those who enabled me to sin. Certain music. For more than ten years I refused to listen to any music, secular or sacred, that led my mind away from truth. Certain mannerisms and attitudes. I decided that if God had brought about a change in my heart, then that change should logically be visible on the outside. Certain places, attitudes, and mementos from my past. I exchanged these for something better: God's best.


I now have years of freedom under my belt, but I still get up every day and realize that I cannot make it one step without God's love and power in my life. Apart from his grace, I would surely fall away. Does that statement mean I am any less whole? No way! Just dependent upon God's strength and not my own!


The journey toward Jesus, toward wholeness and freedom, is never-ending. When I fall or trip or make a wrong turn, I get up or steady myself or turn around and keep heading toward Jesus. The joy is knowing he will meet us at each place and will be faithful to complete the work he has begun in our hearts!


MEDITATION

• Is freedom a one-time occurrence or an ongoing journey?

• How has redemption changed your outlook upon life?

• How does this affect the level of hope you have?

• How does this affect the visions and dreams of your life?


TRUTHS FOR MEDITATION


The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge but fools despise wisdom and discipline.
Proverbs 1:7


If a kingdom is divided against itself, that kingdom cannot stand. If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand.
--Mark 3:24--25


He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.
-Philippians 1:6

Dennis Jernigan

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/photos/trees-forest-lake-road-painting-7710539/

Back to the Basics

I love basketball, and I love to play the game. You might even call me a basketball player. But is my skill such that I could play in the NBA? Hardly. The skills required to play the game and the skills required to play in the NBA are on totally different levels. Knowing God and walking in freedom are also on different levels. Our freedom can only rise to the NBA level as we practice being who he says we are.


One young basketball player neared the point of rage with himself as he once again missed what would have been the game-winning free throw. He hated the feeling of failure —the feeling of knowing he had disappointed his teammates, let his coach down, and snatched defeat right out of the jaws of victory! This young man overflowed with natural talent and had been endowed with a sixth sense for basketball. To look at him you would think, This kid is unstoppable. He can write his own
ticket.


He knew all the right things to do. Hadn't the coach told him and told him time after time? "Take a deep breath. Rest the ball in the palm of your right hand. Guide the ball with your left hand. Let the ball roll from your fingertips and follow completely through in one fluid motion." Yet he continued to fall
back into his old playing habits. Sensing his son's frustration and not wanting him to give up, the young man's father took him aside as the dejected home crowd slowly filed out of the gymnasium. "Son, I know you know this: You have been blessed with an amazing talent. But until you follow your coach's instruction, you will never realize your fullest potential --you will never be what you have been gifted to be."


The boy's heart had been broken. "Dad, what can I do? I really want to change. I just don't know how."
 The crowd was all gone now. The boy and his father were left standing at the free-throw line. "Son, explain to me the proper technique of shooting a free shot." The boy spoke all the right words and even pantomimed the technique for his dad. “Now, son, pick up the ball and show me the proper form for shooting a free shot." The boy threw the ball- and missed!


"Don't you see, son? You say all the right things, but you don't do all the right things. Until you can put off your bad habits and put on the good ones, you'll be just another basketball ‘wannabe.' Is that what you really ‘wannabe' ?"


From that night on, the boy diligently practiced his technique… in front of his coach… in front of his dad… even in front of the bathroom mirror! Soon, the old habits became so distant in his memory and the new habits brought such success that it was as if he had never struggled to shoot a free throw in
his life. He was soon given another opportunity to win a game at the free-throw line. And the ball went in! There would be other times as well. Some he won. Some he didn't. But in putting off the old and putting on the new, he was never again haunted by failure because failing only reminded him to go back to the basics and rest in what he knew was right.


True freedom will only bloom in your life when you put on the truth of who God says you are. Knowing who God wants you to be is not the same as practicing who he wants you to be. When life gets complicated and failures abound, turn your heart and mind back to the basics. Remember who you are in Christ, practice being who God says you are, and in time, you'll be walking in the NBA hall of freedom.

MEDITATION


What of the old you was washed away?

What can you do to help the maturing/growth process of your identity along?

Are there any old habits you need to take off?

What truths do you need to put on in their place?

Do you feel truly free in Christ?

TRUTHS FOR MEDITATION



Clothe yourselves with the Lord Jesus Christ, and do
 not think about how to gratify the desires of the
 sinful nature.
 -Romans 13:14


For the perishable must clothe itself with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality. When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable,
and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: "Death has been swallowed
up in victory." "Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?" The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to
God! He gives us the victory through Our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my dear brothers, stand firm. Let nothing move you. Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.
--1 Corinthians 15:53-58


You, however, did not come to know Christ that way. Surely you heard of him and were taught in him in accordance with the truth that is in Jesus. You
were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.
 -Ephesians 4:20--24


 Allow the Lord to show you areas where you have not taken off the old. Then receive the new and put it on in the place of the old.

Dennis Jernigan

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/images/download/x-5083097_1920.jpg

Make Me More Free

What is freedom? Is freedom the opportunity to do anything you want as long as it feels right? No.


Freedom means not being imprisoned or enslaved. Jesus set me free from sin and the bondage of my old identity. I thought I was free when I could do as my body and soul dictated. This type of "freedom," the freedom to sin, only led me to death and destruction. True freedom always results in life. Always.


Freedom means being at liberty. At one time I was controlled
by the Enemy to a certain extent. He knew how to get me to
think wrong thoughts. I was controlled by my feelings rather
than by God's feelings for me. Jesus set me free to submit will-
fully to his control of my life. This type of free submission always leads to life. Always.


Freedom means to be governed by consent. I was not set free to become a mindless zombie for the Lord. The beauty of the freedom we find in Christ is that we have the choice to follow him. Submission to love and holiness can by no means be compared to the bondage of sin. I submit to Christ and to my new identity because he loves me dearly. I can follow a love that lays down its life for me.


Freedom means not controlled by obligation or the will of
another. Jesus offered me salvation and a brand-new identity as a free gift. I did not have to earn it. All I had to do was receive it. I willfully follow him because of the love and faithfulness he has demonstrated to me.


Freedom means not being affected or restricted by a given condition or circumstance. The things that used to affect my behavior and restrict my ability to function rationally -- bitterness, lust, disappointments, and emotional wounds -- no longer affect me as they once did. I have seen them for what they are — powerless!
 Freedom means not being subject to external restraint. No outward circumstance- - even prison- can affect my inward identity. Nothing. Why? Because I am free!


How free do we have to be to be considered free? When a
mighty oak tree bears fruit and a seed is produced, new life
begins for a brand-new oak tree. Everything that oak will ever
be is already inside that seed. You could truthfully hold up an
acorn and say, "Look at this mighty oak!" No, the tree is not
actually grown yet, but with each phase of growth, the tree
becomes more of what it already is. We, as new creations, are no different. You could look at a baby in Christ and say, "Look at
this mighty man of God!" That new creation is every bit a child
of God as the believer who has known Christ for fifty years!
With each phase of growth, the new creation becomes more of
what he or she already is. Identity cannot change once we are
in Christ; levels of maturity and understanding can.


When I was first set free, I was as much a new creation as I
would ever be. Why did I still struggle with sin? Because I had
been ingrained for twenty-two years with the notion that I was
homosexual, yet in an instant that identity was changed. I was like a baby learning to crawl and then stand and then walk
and then run ... and then soar above the old me! I was alive yet
bound up in all the lies and misconceptions about myself and
God. I wanted more than just to be alive. I wanted to use that
aliveness, that freedom, to spread my spiritual wings and soar
above sin and sorrow and the cares of this world. I wanted life,
and I wanted it abundantly.


By putting off the old and putting on the new, I spread my
wings of faith and soared above sin and sorrow to discover new
vistas of reality I never dreamed possible.

I am no longer bound to sin or its power.


I have power over sin!


I no longer fear the risk of rejection love brings.


I willfully lay down my life like Jesus.


I no longer wonder about why I exist.


I know beyond a shadow of a doubt because I know


the One who gave me life.


 I know my Creator in an intimate and freeing way! He has
made me to soar with wings of faith. Like an eagle soars over the
rocky crags and treacherous cliffs, I now set my eyes on Jesus and
spread my wings. I am learning to ride the winds of the Spirit
and soar above the temptations of life. Trials and tribulations
now represent opportunities to experience God's grace, and
each encounter with my God leaves me amazed that life just
seems to keep getting better and better!
 This is freedom. To know God and to be known by him sets
me free. I only want more! Make me more free, Father. I love you!


MEDITATION

What does freedom mean to the world?

What does freedom mean to you?

What are some areas in which you would like to experi-

ence more freedom?

What does freedom have to do with identity?


TRUTHS FOR MEDITATION


Do you not know? Have you not heard? The Lord is
the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the
earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his
understanding no one can fathom. He gives strength
to the weary and increases the power of the weak.
Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men
stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will
renew their strength. They will soar on wings like
eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will
walk and not be faint.
-Isaiah 40:28—31


 Ask the Lord to allow you to sleep and dream of all the
things you want to soar above in this life. See it as the truth
and let this truth set you free!


“Even in their sleep…”
--- Psalm 127:1 NASB



Dennis Jernigan

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/photos/woman-jump-backpack-jumping-leap-1868817/

We Are Strong in the Lord

2 Corinthians 10:3-5 NIV 3 For though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. 4 The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. 5 We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

This song came to me on August 8, 1989. Here’s how the song was born: While leading the body of Christ in praise, it became apparent to me that part of my job as a worship leaded is to encourage the body of Christ to rise up and assume the identity God has given them. Overcomers. Victors. Mighty Men and Women of Valor. We are triumphant because Christ is triumphant over sin, over death, and over the enemy!

We are strong in the Lord, not by our own strength, but by His. We are called to be warriors who do not allow the enemy to overrun us. Rather, we are called to storm the very gates of hell. This song came as an admonition to believers to walk in their true identity. It is a song of boisterous praise to our God, boldly proclaiming who we are as a result of who He is!

One of the things my wife and I practice is speaking the truth out loud to God, to our own minds, and to the Liar. We verbally and mentally and spiritually put him and his lies underneath our feet by faith in the Word of God. We also remind ourselves of who and Whose we are - out loud. There just is something powerful about speaking God’s truth into our own atmosphere. And even when we fail or when we fall or when we feel wounded by the lies of the enemy, we do not become victims. We rise up as victors over the Liar and his lies by getting up from where we fell and heading with all our might toward the finish line. And what is that? Jesus! We head right to Jesus! The only failure is the man or woman who falls or gets knocked down and just decides to not get back up.

Let’s be the soldiers of the cross we are called to be and let’s boldly speak forth the word of truth in spiritual warfare against the enemy. And while we’re at it, let’s help others in their battles. Fight for your spouse. Fight for your children and grandchildren. Fight for your friends. Help bind up the wounds of the fallen and help them get back up and get back to fighting. I’ll tell you this: Knowing Jesus Christ intimately is worth every battle and every struggle I have ever had to go through. To Him, I was worth dying for. To me, He is worth dying for…and worth living for.

And remember this: the loss of one battle does not equal the loss of the war. Just keep getting back up. War is devastating at times, yet necessary in the spiritual realm in which we live our true reality. Don’t be a timid warrior. Be a bold and relentless warrior in the army of God. That’s really who you are.

Dennis Jernigan

You can find my music on Spotify, Apple Music, iTunes Store, Deezer, Amazon Music, YouTube, Soundcloud, and Tidal.

Dennis Jernigan

You can hear this song and worship along by copying this link and pasting it into your search field - https://youtu.be/LC8aZTrE02s?si=0sqnvxonU734-cJh



Ephesians 6:10 NIV 10 Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power.

We Are Strong in the Lord WORDS & MUSIC Dennis Jernigan August 8, 1989


Verse

We wrestle not with flesh and blood
But with the forces of night,


We've overcome them by the blood
Of the King Lord Jesus Christ!

Chorus
We are strong in the Lord in the strength of his might!


Strong in the Lord we will stand and fight!
Strong in the Lord as we stand and sing!


Strong in the Lord as we praise the King of kings,
Lord Jesus Christ!

Verse


Stand firm in the armor of our God

,
And pierce the darkness with light.


All praise to the overcoming God;
Let us lift our sword and fight!


Chorus
We are strong in the Lord in the strength of his might!


Strong in the Lord we will stand and fight!


Strong in the Lord as we stand and sing!


Strong in the Lord as we praise the King of kings,
Lord Jesus Christ!

Getting My Wings

I’m going to share a little story with you that describes how I felt when I was trapped in the bondage of sin. It’s about a little boy who thought about himself the way I once thought about myself.

The boy had been raised by creatures of the darkness. Yet he was not one of them.
 These evil creatures lived in a cave beneath the surface of
the earth and only ventured beyond their self-imposed prison in 
order to capture others and indoctrinate them, enslaving them 
to their dark way of life.


The boy had actually come from a race of winged men,
 those who were born to fly. But the creatures of darkness had 
bound his wings, and they were dismissed as useless appendages that had lost their usefulness through the evolutionary process.


He soon learned it was better not to mention the wings - to
 deny their very existence. The dark ways seemed right to him, 
and his life seemed "normal." It was all he knew. So what if he 
tripped and fell a lot? So did everyone else. So what if he was constantly bombarded by injuries and the limits of the dark life? 
So was everyone else.


His painful, dark life continued until the day he caught a 
glimpse of fluttering whiteness streaking by the cave entrance.
 Captivated and curious, he approached the surface and was
 again surprised by the brilliant whiteness and graceful motion of 
wings! Wings just like the ones on his own back…wings that
 were no longer useful wings that were a part of his long-
forgotten identity. In a daze over what he had seen, he was
 astonished and blinded as one of the winged men snatched him 
from the pit and began bathing him with pure light. Wanting to 
fight at first, his fears melted into peace as the winged men surrounding him began to unbind the clothing of darkness that 
bound his wings.


He knew that he was somehow seeing himself in their face, 
yet he could not move until he accepted the truth: He had
believed a lie about himself. He had been born to fly yet had 
given years to the darkness and its misery, thinking that was all
 he deserved. As he embraced his true identity, his wings began 
to move and the boy ascended above the darkness and took
 his rightful place among the winged men!


Isn't that a true picture of our lives in sin? Even after we are
 saved, we often grovel in the darkness of the past since that is 
all we have known, since that is who we believed we really were. 
Yes, perhaps I was once homosexual, but that was not God's
 intention for me. When he redeemed me, he gave me a brand-
new identity (see 2 Cor. 5:17). Having a brand-new identity
after living my "old" life for so long was quite revolutionary. I had believed that I was born homosexual, yet God said my 
homosexuality was part of my old nature and that he had given 
me a new nature! That meant I had to put off a lot of what I 
formerly believed to be true and, in turn, put on what he now
 revealed to me to be true! Yes, just as I had to learn a whole new
 way of thinking about who God is, I also had to do the same in
regard to my own character, or nature.

I also had to face the truth that I could not have two
 natures. There is only one "me." The old me is dead and buried
with Christ. The new me is learning -- much as a child learns to
 crawl, walk, then run -- how to live my new life! If God is all he
 says he is, and if I am his child, then certain things are part of
 my heritage -- they are my birthright, my identity as being "of 
God" -- and I must cling to the truth of who I really am! Failure
 or sin on my part does not constitute a rejection of that identity. 
It simply reaffirms my great need to be in close relationship with
 my Father. After all, the gifts and calls of God are irrevocable!
 You are who he says you are no matter what you feel or perceive!
 (see Rom. 11:28--36).


We really have only touched the tip of the iceberg of who 
God is. But what does that mean for us? We have only touched 
the tip of the iceberg of who we are! I find it easier and easier to
 put off the old me because I like who God is showing me I am!


Do not give up in your quest to know him. As a warrior, he
 has fought and won the war, and he will lead you through your
 personal battles. He will give you your wings!

 Here are a few questions to help you mediate on who you are as a new creation in Christ.

Where would you be without Jesus Christ?

Luke 7:47 tells us that those who understand that they have been forgiven much, love much! How much do you love him?

What does it mean to be his child, his possession, a new creation, a royal subject, a priest, a warrior, accepted, beloved, his servant, his delight?


Here are some basic truths from God’s Word to, again, help you meditate on who you are as a new creation in Christ:


You have made known to me the paths of life; you
will fill me with joy in your presence
---Acts 2:28


We proclaim to you what we have seen and heard, so
that you also may have fellowship with us. And our
 fellowship is with the Father and with his Son,
 Jesus Christ.
--1 John 1:3

Ask the Holy Spirit to show you your spiritual wings. As 
you sleep, spread your wings of faith and discover more of your 
true identity in Christ.


Dennis Jernigan - an excerpt from the Dennis Jernigan book, This Is My Destiny.

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/photos/feathers-wing-angel-wings-wood-4661244/

Count Your Blessings

1 Thessalonians 5:15-19 NIV

15 Make sure that nobody pays back wrong for wrong, but always strive to do what is good for each other and for everyone else. 16 Rejoice always, 17 pray continually, 18 give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. 19 Do not quench the Spirit.

Something I have recently been made aware of is just how inspiring a positive point of view is. As I watched a John Eldredge video in which he simply felt led to count his blessings in preparation of the coming new year, it dawned on me that having a grateful heart - regardless of my circumstances - had always been a great part of my creative process. In fact, it is one of God’s admonitions for all believers to ‘give thanks in ALL circumstances’. I decided to kick off 2026 by doing just that. What I discovered was that I have so much to be grateful for that I won’t bore you with everything I came up with. Just the highlights!

Of course I began with my relationship with Jesus and His saving grace and then immediately thought of my wife of 42+ years, our nine children and their spouses, our 13 grandchildren - so far - extended family, friends, Keith & Melody Green, Annie Herring and 2nd Chapter of Acts, clothing, food, shelter, water, provision, a godly point of view, good health in spite of Parkinson’s, my recent brain surgery, the many books He has inspired and allowed me to write along with all the music, and I can keep going, but, as I said, I do not want to bore you. I can honestly say that every book I have written along with every song I have received have come as a direct result of simply counting my blessings.

Of course, there have been so many other people in my life that have caused me to count my blessings. Something that has made me even more grateful is to look at the lives of many celebrities who either suffer with or suffered with Parkinson’s. I am not grateful they got the diagnosis but I am grateful to see how others have dealt with it. Michael J. Fox (diagnosed at age 29 in 1991. As of this writing he is 64 years old…two years younger than me), Alan Alda (diagnosed in 2015), Muhammed Ali (diagnosed in 1984), George H.W. Bush (diagnosed with vascular Parkinsonism in 2012), Neil Diamond (diagnosed in 2018), Brett Favre (diagnosed in 2024), Billy Graham (diagnosed in 1993), Linda Ronstadt (diagnosed in 2012), along with so many others I had no idea about.

As I have thought about the many blessings of my life I would also have to include the many years I lived in the depravity of my sin, being bullied when I was younger, death threats due to my testimony along with being mocked, rejected, scorned and the like. Why would I include these among my blessings? Because they each, when placed in the hands of God and seen from His point of view, have been used of God to mold me into the man I am today and that tends to inspire me to want to be a blessing to others.

If you want to be inspired to greater depths of creativity, just begin to count your blessings. The view from this vantage point is beyond inspiring. It is life to me.

"Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered." - Proverbs 11:25

"Give away your life; you'll find life given back, but not merely given back—given back with bonus and blessing. Giving, not getting is the way. Generosity begets generosity." - Luke 6:38 MSG

Dennis Jernigan

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/photos/worship-god-religion-christianity-2775770/

As A Man Thinks in His Heart

Did you know that our brain and our heart can think independently of one another? As I came into the first three weeks after the initial implantation of the DBS device and before I had the device activated, I felt very, very slow mentally. This began to cause me concern as to whether I had done the right thing or not.

As I was growing up, it never dawned on me to think about my core identity—the deepest part of me that defines who I am. When puberty hit and my sexual identity became more solidified toward attraction to those of the same sex, I began to question a bit. Why was I attracted to other males? How do I fix this? It led me to beg God to change me. When nothing changed, I became disillusioned in my faith, concluding this was simply the way God made me. But the older I became, the less happy I was in a homosexual identity. This lack of happiness led me to question on a deeper level. Is this all there is?

As I became involved with other men who believed they were homosexual, I became more confused. I was constantly told that this was just the way God made me. I was constantly encouraged that I had no choice in the matter at all. Mulling such thoughts over in my mind, I could never quite reconcile these simple answers with the way I felt. This led me to the constant questioning of my homosexuality. Was this truly my nature or was there more to the story? The more I questioned my homosexual identity, the more desperate those questions became.

Desperation led me to wonder whether or not I might just have a choice in the matter after all. I will not detail my story here. If you want to know more about how I came to the place of belief I now walk in, read my autobiography, Sing Over Me. Suffice it to say, I came ultimately to the conclusion that I did not have a choice as to what would tempt me (same sex attraction), but I always had the choice as to how I would respond to it. After coming to faith in Christ, my worldview became Christ-centered. This new focus became the bedrock from which I launched the journey of renewing my mind, completely altering the way I would think from that point on!

Where is core identity found? In our body? In our genitals? In our feelings? In our heart? In our mind? Is identity found in our culture—the way we were raised? Is it found in our ethnicity or our nationality? Is it found in our personality type or in our profession? Is it to be found in the way others perceive us? Does our sexuality define us? How about our religion? How about our language? Are we defined by our genetic code? Are we defined by our convictions or causes (pacifist, environmentalist, Black Lives Matter, conservative, liberal, etc.)? Are we defined by our looks? Some would say it is a combination of all these things that make us who we are. The scientific community would sum it up like this: identity is the qualities, beliefs, personality, looks, and/or expressions that make a person who they are. Identity is conscious awareness.

But let’s think logically about where all these various defining things emanate from. Do they not all begin and end with the way we think? Could it be our identity begins and ends with the mind? Could it be that in order to alter our undesired habits and ways of thinking about ourselves we need but change the way we think? I know this is easier said than done, but isn’t our well-being worth the work required to obtain it? Identity is conscious awareness as received in our thoughts. It is our human mind!

We are constantly thinking about ourselves. How does that person view me? What do I want to eat? What shall I wear today? Do I like hanging around that person? How will spending time with them benefit my life? Will this job pay enough to finance my vision for my life? Will that vaccination hurt me? How will this election affect me? Even in our sleep we never stop talking to ourselves. Never. The way we think about ourselves has a direct affect upon the way we live our life. The way we think affects our view of reality. My reality was forever altered the day I decided to live and think about myself according to the way my Maker designed me. Of course, this flew directly in the face of the way I felt. The best decision I ever made was to stop defining myself by the way I felt and start living according to the Truth as defined by God and His Word. This began the most incredible journey of my life!

What does it mean to know something in one’s heart? This can be confusing, yet we hear such questions all the time. How many times have you heard a question such as, How do I get that knowledge from my head to my heart? And that is a perfectly good question, especially when we hear of scientific studies proving that the heart does indeed have brain-like cells, giving it the ability to think independently of the brain!

Simply put, science is coming to the place of thinking that the thoughts produced by the heart act as a communication between the various cells and organs of the body, acting as a sort of synchronizing signal for the entire body! The way I think about this news is that the mind defines us in our core and the heart carries this information to the rest of our body! While this is fascinating to know, for our intents and purposes I will conclude that identity begins and ends with the way we think about ourselves in our mind. What does it mean to know something in one’s mind? Could it be said that one is defined by what one thinks of him/herself?

Could it be that, ultimately, we should define ourselves according to the way our Maker designed us? If we have as our thought-foundation a Christ-centric worldview, then we must come to this conclusion found in God’s Word: For as he thinks within himself, so he is. (Proverbs 23:7)

In order to renew one’s mind, one must operate from some point of view. My freedom and new identity came from allowing God to define me—came from seeking to know His, the Maker’s, point of view concerning Dennis Jernigan. The following are some of the questions He confronted me with accompanied by the answers He showed me according to His Word:

1. Why did God make man and woman?

From my own experience with and study of God’s Word, I believe there is a two-fold reason God made man and woman. This is what the Word of God says: Be fruitful and multiply… (Genesis 35:11)

Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ also loved the church and gave Himself up for her… (Ephesians 5:25)

My conclusion after reading the Word and viewing my life from God’s point of view? Man and woman were created by God and commanded to make babies! If He created me to be a man, it was for the purpose of making more people! That cannot be accomplished according to God’s design by having sex with another man. Cannot be done. God desired more of us because He created us for fellowship with Him. The sin of mankind was the problem. Where does sin derive from? Man thinking it’s all about him! Sin comes from stinkin’ thinkin’!

2. What is the primary purpose of sex?

God made sex for the purpose of procreation. He made it pleasurable so we would want to experience it. Pure and simple, without sex there would be no more humans. There is nothing wrong with pleasure as long as it is derived within the confines of God’s ultimate design. After settling that God was God and that His design would define me, the questions became even more specific.

3. Did God give you a penis and testicles or did He give you a vagina and ovaries?

Having a penis and testicles defined me as being physically male. Being physically male made me wonder why I did not have feelings of attraction to the opposite sex. Concluding that I had been lied to was the first step in putting off the lies about the way I felt—or did not feel! Although I initially did not feel attracted to women, I did have the desire for a family. This led me to the conclusion that if that desire was there, then it must be part of my design to feel attracted to a woman. From that conclusion, I came to the place of realizing that my feelings of attraction to other men was simply as a result of wrong thinking. The reality became simple to me at that point. Whenever I felt attraction to another man, I renounced it as a result of wrong thinking and replaced that wrong thinking with simple thoughts like…

God made me physically a man; therefore he made me to think like a man. I want to see a woman in the way God designed me to see her. Father God, please replace the wrong thoughts with right thoughts and replace the wrong feelings with right feelings.

The more I changed the way I thought, the more my true needs and desires were met. My despair over my feelings was slowly but surely being replaced with right feelings due to the way I was now thinking! God’s Word says in Psalm 37:4,

Delight yourself in the LORD; And He will give you the desires of your heart.

The more I sought relationship with Him through the ways I thought about Him and His Word and how it applied to my life, the more my feelings changed. Even my sexual attractions toward men began to be replaced by attractions to women. So much mental healing had taken place in my life from 1981 to 1983 that I was able to realize a dream I never thought possible due to my homosexual feelings. I was able to marry Melinda, and as of this writing, I have been married for over forty-two years, have 13 awesome children, and nine incredible grandchildren…so far!

The changing of the way I thought about myself actually began much more simplistically than that. To renew the way I thought about myself as a man, I asked the Lord to reveal any wrong thinking I had about myself. In order to do this, I realized that I had been listening to the liar for far too long in my existence. But how would I cut off the voice of the liar? I went on what would become a twelve year fast from all the other voices of influence that were not God centered. From 1981 until 1993, I did not listen to pop/secular music. I did not watch TV. I listened to only voices that built me up according to God’s design for my life. In the process, I learned to discern the voice and will of God more clearly.

As I silenced the other voices, I gave God the freedom to speak to me in any form He chose for me. His Word became alive to me. From reading God’s Word, I discovered how loving and for me He was! I discovered He was never disgusted with me but was disgusted with my sin. I discovered that I no longer had to perform for His love and acceptance. It had always been my choice to receive or reject! That Truth alone changed everything! Gone were the days of trying to prove my worth by my performance. This meant I performed because He loved me rather than so He would love me!

The more I discovered about Who He said He was, the more I discovered who He designed me to be. He is holy. I am set apart for His purposes in this life. He is righteous. I am to walk righteously. He is peace. He has planted a heart of peace in me and set my mind at peace. He is Healer. I am here to be an agent of His healing power. He is Provider. I am here to be an agent of His provision. He is Shepherd. I am here to guide others to Him. He is always there. I am never alone. He is victorious over sin. I am no longer a victim of my own sin but am victor over it because of Him!

Even though my circumstances did not change, the way I viewed them did! I could choose to think what thoughts I wanted to think. That was incredible news and incredibly freeing. Rather than overthinking everything about myself from a man-centric point of view, I could simplify my thought processes to such a degree that freedom was the result simply by allowing the Word and intended design of God for me as the filter through which I viewed reality.

So much healing has come to my mind to this point that it is difficult for me to believe I ever thought I was gay in the first place. Let that sink in. Freedom comes from the way we choose to think about ourselves. Will you allow stinkin’ thinkin’ to define you? Will you let past failure define you? Will you allow other people to define you? Will you allow feelings to define you? Will you allow temptation to define you? Will you allow bad habits define you? If there is something that you habitually think about yourself that you do not desire, could it be said you are allowing that thought to define you? Why put up with that way of thinking? Does your desire for drugs define you or do they reveal a deeper need for thinking about your circumstances in a new way? Will you be content with being a victim of your own stinkin’ thinkin’ or will you choose to seek victory over that way of thinking? The choice really is yours.

One of the best things I ever did to facilitate right thinking about myself as a man was to enlist the help of others in my life. I felt guilty about the failures of my life, especially in regard to my sexual failure. I felt so much shame that I believed the lie that I was not worthy of someone else’s time or effort or love. Guilt is the awareness that I did something wrong. Shame is the belief that I am something wrong. We kick shame to the curb by getting to the Truth of God’s Word and the reality of His design for us as new creations. When I dealt with my shame in honesty and came to the mental confusion that Jesus Christ had born all my shame on the cross, I took the first step toward Truth and freedom: I got honest with myself. I got honest with God. I got honest with others.

One of my choices was to surround myself with people who would help me walk in the Truth of my God-designed identity. To this day, I practice this in my life. My wife and my children have the freedom to remind me who and Whose I am. One of my personal rules is that Dennis Jernigan does not get to call himself something his Father does not call him. I cannot even get away with little slip-ups like saying to myself, “Stupid idiot” when I do something boneheaded! My wife and my children automatically say to me, “Is that who you really are?” or, “Is that who God says you are?” And I love it because I know they absolutely love me and want nothing but what is best for me. Stinkin’ thinkin’ is recognized in the moment. I put it off and replace it with the Truth…and move on down the road to my whole identity in Christ!

No longer do I define myself as ex-gay. No longer do I define myself as a recovering or formal homosexual. No longer do I define myself. My Father has that place in my life, and He uses other people to help me. I am what and who His Word says I am. And so are you. Would you be willing to consider seeing yourself from a whole new point of view?

Dennis Jernigan

This is an excerpt from my upcoming book, “Parkinson’s & Recreation 3: The No Parkinson’s Zone”, available later in 2026

Photo courtesy of https://pixabay.com/images/download/x-7314501_1920.jpg