The Rona Chronicals - Part I: 2020

 

From the Journal:

3- 8-2020

Corona virus

Economy jerks

Like a body

Having a grand mal seizure.

Is it a coincidence that a shit load worth of derivatives mature 7-2-2020?
IF the WHO declares a pandemic before this date, then a derivative time bomb goes off.

3-18-2020

Day 3

Corona virus

Financial reset?

Day 4

Got hair done.

They are ordered to shut down at 8 p.m.

I got the last appointment!

Am I losing my mind?

Day 5

Went to Santori’s farm market & Petsmart with Betty

Feeling like news of martial law.

Military vehicles in cities.

Day 6

NJ governor says “Stay home”

Jon Rappoport says “PCR tests are unreliable.”

Whispers of martial law

Gun sales soar

Groceries being restocked except for toilet paper

Shore towns tell visitors to stay out.

Only 2000 tests are being processed, per day

How many labs are doing this work?

3 day wait for test results

Day 8

Martial law seems inevitable.

BUT

No one is on the streets.

The sabbath with no churches open

Day 9 (Monday)

Pajamas.

No bath.

Tanks on the street in Baltimore & Aramingo & Lehigh in Philly

Day 13 (Friday)

C – do rose hips

Liposomal – 1 to 2 teaspoons per day – is fat soluble

3-13-2020

Day 16 (Monday)

Lock down to continue through 4-30-2020, at least

Social distancing now the norm

Free money forthcoming for all

Day 22? Losing track. (Sunday)

War with Iran or Venezuela

Warrant out for Marduro as a drug trafficker

Food issues to come

Masks recommended by the CDC

Trump says, “I won’t wear one”

Can’t go into CVS in Miami without the mask

It feels lik 9-1-1

Day 27 (Good Friday)

Mask mandatory to do commerce in NJ

Shoprite shelves empty at 11 a.m.

Plastic barrier between customer and cashier

They still take cash

Gas under $2/gallon everywhere

Roadblocks on i-95 in Rhode Island and Delaware 

Day 28 (Saturday)

RFKennedy, Jr. has called out Bill Gates

RFK opposes 5G

The science must be there

Authority Bias. (reference, logical fallacies)

But he is credible

Credible people: James Corbett, Kerry Cassidy, RFK,Jr.
Man pulled off bus and manhandled by cops because he had no mask

Riot in Savannah Georgia Walmart

CBS caught showing multiple “wag the dog” photos of crises scenes.

In a past life I was a gnostic medicine woman.

Red Yellow Green phone app determines where you may move

You’re in a BOX!

(Birdbox.  On Netflix, 6 months ago. Predictive programming)

The Unibomber was right.

Read Urantia.

Richie from Boston

Government giving firearms to civilians

Day 29 (Easter)

Sheep. I am surrounded by fucking sheep.

Philadelphia rescinds mask on public transit mandate

After video or removal of a man from a bus (by cops) goes viral

Texas declares church an essential service

 

Ideological Subversion (from the Communist playbook):

1.       Demoralize. 15-20 years. ‘educate’ a generation. Exposure to true information will not be credible to these people.

2.      Destabilization 2-5 years. Bad: food, medicine, F:ghkleconomy, defense systems, foreign relations. Promise them money.

3.      CRISIS. 6 weeks.

4.      Normalization. E.g., tanks roll in (to Czechoslovakia). THIS is your new normal. Violent change in economy and government.

Americans don’t like to hear unpleasant things.

 

Day 31 (Tuesday)

Michigan residents socially distance to protest the lockdown

California governor says schools will do social distancing

New buzzword: “PPE”

Personal protection equipment
New heroes:

Doctors and nurses

Why does the media give Fauchi so much air time?

Another new buzzphrase: “track and trace”

This is worse than Groundhog’s Day!

Rita Wilson (Tom Hanks’ wife) recouped from the RONA with a malaria drug

Nausea, vertigo, more research is needed!

 

END of Month 1.

On Day 33 I made my first mask. To date, I have not spent one penny on any mask. Note, I live in a state where our governator has mandated masks as a condition of transacting commerce.

Anger

I have always been around angry people.

They have lived in my house.  I left one environment and saw the anger in the new living arrangement as normal, because it was my normal.  Red flags were waved in my face multiple times, early into the relationship. But I soldiered on.  Unwilling to admit I'd made a big mistake.

Oh, angry people aren't always angry.  That's not the picture I need to paint for you to understand my experience.  They are mostly normal.  But you see, you never knew what would trigger the hormonal flow feeding the anger passion play.  You prayed that no one be injured.  If children were present, you do your best to shield them from the black energy swirling inside the car, or sitting in the living room, or situated at a table or booth in a restaurant, or at a store.  It could happen anywhere, anytime.  Over time, you learned there were triggers.  Insomnia.  Poor health.  Pissed off at someone else and you are a convenient and readily available receptor for the emotional venom.  Ran out of weed.  Thyroid meds need adjusting.

The emotional eruption isn't pretty.  The face contorts.  The voice changes, and typically oozes sarcasm, blatant ridicule, and  the volume elevates while the tone becomes harsh.  Objects can be thrown.  Although it didn't happen often, you could be physically attacked. When behind the wheel, it is arrest-able level road rage.  Sometimes its a verbal attack on your character, appearance or behavior.  Impolite language is typically the style of the logic.

 In the beginning, you fight back.  You try to defend yourself.... you feel your integrity, your character, your.... your.....  you're being energetically assaulted, and you feel the urge to return the barb.  You try to use logic to point out the overreaction you are witnessing, and the deterioration into a rant worthy of a senate filibuster.  You are emotionally exhausted when silence and free moving air returns to your space.  

After awhile, you learn to shut up, keep your head low, and hope the shit flows overhead.  If you are the target of the attack, maybe you can deflect the anger away from you and toward another person or situation.  Sometimes that works.... at least it works for you, for the moment.   

Writing

Amy Tan inspires me.

Michelle McNamara inspires me.

I can no longer write with a pen. My hand is unsteady. This makes the writing illegible at times. I used to enjoy feeling the pen glide along the paper…. But no more. Sometimes writing and signing checks is difficult.

But I struggle with what to make public. What to not write except in my mind. But I forget. When I write, I can relive as I reread the past. It comes back to life. But somethings are best left unwritten, I think.  Like, should I do an essay on “Me and My Men” and describe the romantic encounters of my life? I don’t think so…. And then other times, I think…… why not?  Should I write a treatise on “My Friends and Acquaintances”, and record the details of what others feed me, in terms of social interaction that I seek or experience?

I don’t think one person can provide a soul with all the human contact that it needs. We get little pieces for each relationship. Slivers from chance encounters. Sometimes chance encounters offer opportunity to resume a multi-life entanglement.

Like my 19-year-old self, at West Chester State College, a sophomore transfer and commuter student… with two hours to kill between classes…. Wandering in to the “commuter cafeteria” for coffee and a smoke.  Round tables, each seating 8 to 10, fill the large room…. Probably about 30 or 40 of them.  I find a table with Viet Nam vets, and Barbara and I take a seat.  Why? I don’t recall. Maybe she or I know one or more of the guys from a class in common? Actually, I think John and Skip were in my World Geography class….. maybe that was the link.  But I didn’t write it down at the time, so I really don’t recall what prompted the meeting.  Barbara was a 30-something year old, plum and matronly “alternative student” …. Was that what they called older women returning to college after having a family? But I didn’t write it down at the time, so I don’t recall the phrase used to pigeonhole Barbara and her kind.  She had a husband and two almost middle school aged sons. She was a primary school education major. That’s where I got to know something about John Lewis. He told me about this first encounter….. he told me years later that he looked at me, listened to me, and said to himself, “This one is different.”  His lives and mine are deeply entangled.

I recently watched “I’ll be gone in the dark”, a documentary about the Golden State Killer, based on Michelle McNamara’s blogs and ramblings.  When she died in 2016 from an accidental overdose, taken in attempt to tame her demons and relieve her insomnia, her friends dissected her electronic and paper notes that were her writings.  What the found is very similar to my stash of musings.  Outlines for unwritten books. Individual chapters, separate stories and disjointed streams of consciousness.  Yes, I think I have the basis for many books already written.  It just requires discipline and focus to pull them together.

Reynolds’ History

My grandparents’ (Ellsworth Pancoast Reynolds and Merle Brown) farmhouse, built in 1732 by Bartholomew Coppock, Jr., still stands (and is lived in) at 815 Springfield Road in Delaware County, Marple Township, Pennsylvania. . Near the Lamb Tavern. Built from ballast brick. From ships. The Morris House in Philadelphia has architecture and interior features that are in many ways similar to the farmhouse on Springfield Road.  The title company presently situated across the street was a house of ill repute. The property goes back to a William Penn land grant of 433 acres to Bartholomew Coppock, Sr., who willed 188 acres and "the Plantation" to Seth Pancoast (1741 - ?). My grandfather recited tales told to him of how they hid the silver during the Revolutionary War. In the 30s and 40s my father told me how they took their farm products by truck to the reading terminal market each Friday. Thursday was the day they killed the chickens, and they grew corn and asparagus. The buildings where they killed the chickens are still there, and used as garages.... I'll bet they have no idea how these structures used to be used!! They sold the farm in the mid 50s. Moved to 610 Centennial Avenue in Media.

I am Jennifer Jean Reynolds. Born to James Lewis Reynolds (1926-2005) and Jeanne Clara Cullis (1929-).  James Lewis Reynolds was born to Ellsworth  Pancoast Reynolds and Merle Brown Reynolds.

 

Ellsworth was born in the barn in 1897. His mother, Carrie Butcher Reynolds, gave birth to triplets. She was recently married to William Reynolds, and this was her first pregnancy. She and one baby died in the barn. A second triplet was never really right, and died at age 7. The third was my grandfather. His father, William Reynolds, gave the 2 babies to relatives to raise, and moved on, marrying and having more children. (He built the dark stone duplex houses on one whole side of the street, North Jackson Street in Media, between 5th and 6th or 6th and 7th I think they are. Also at least a few of the bungalows at the top of the hill on the west side of Centennial Avenue. Ellsworth was given to William's sister (Araminta 'Minnie' Reynolds Pancoast 1870 - 1939), who was married to Seth Ellsworth Pancoast (1861 - 1934)....owner of the farm. Ellsworth was raised along the side of his cousin, Miriam "Pank" Pancoast Dunlap (1897-1959); daughter of Seth and Minnie. When Seth passed, Ellsworth took over the farm. Ellsworth (everyone called him Jim) died in 1960 of cancer....likely exposure to first generation of chemicals used on farms. William’s son from his second marriage, and  Dick Reynolds, and his wife Minnie, were active members of the Media Quaker Meeting.

Merle Brown (7/9/1896-6/16/1988) was from Philadelphia. I am told she was related to Benjamin Rush, a signatory to the  Declaration of Independence. Her parents died when she was a teenager in the Spanish Flu epidemic, and she was given to spinster aunts, who made the marriage to Ellsworth when she was 27.  She had a few older brothers, but never kept in touch with them. Her death certificate reveals that she was the daughter of Daniel Webster Brown and Valeria Eme????.

 

Ellsworth Pancoast Reynolds

descended from Carrie Butcher and William Reynolds.

 

William Reynolds

descended from Elizabeth F. White Reynolds (1849-1887)

and David Lewis Reynolds (1843-1877)

 

Elizabeth F. White Reynolds

descended from Margareta V. White (1823-1882)

and John White (1837-1882)

 

David Lewis Reynolds

descended from Sarah Barlow Reynolds (1813-1893)

and William Reynolds (1811-1864)

 

Sarah Barlow Reynolds

descended from Lydia Burnet Barlow (1780-1848)

and Aaron Barlow (1774-1860) 

Growing up in Alabama

I moved to Mobile, Alabama in 1957 when I was 3 years old with my mother and father.  We returned in 1966 to southeastern Pennsylvania, where my parents had been born and raised.  My father was a maintenance guy, and later the maintenance supervisor, at Scott Paper's pulp mill. My mother was a housewife, as were most white women of her day.  I have a few vivid memories of witnessing what has turned out to be historical, and I document them now so they will not be forgotten. These lessons are so deep that I know they will remain with my soul after death.

My father had an employee from Citronelle, Alabama, home of Harper Lee.  Before To Kill A Mockingbird was published, he told my father a story about getting in trouble with the law, and paying the local lawyer with bags of pecans.  It's in the book.

Upon arriving in the deep south, my mother went to register to vote, and was shocked at having to pay a poll tax and take a literacy test.  The test questions were, of course, not written, and adjusted to the color or the applicant. (Although poll taxes and literacy tests were abolished by the Voting Rights Act of 1965, the practice continued in Alabama through 1966.)

When I was perhaps 7 or 8 years old, I witnessed a black boy of the same age as me walking down the highway across from my house.  He was all alone, and it was very odd, because the only time I ever saw black people was when I visited a playmate's home, and the black maid was present, doing her child care and housework for the family.  The maids were present in my playmates' homes most every weekday, and sometimes on weekends too.  I can't imagine who put him out on the street in a white neighborhood, or why.  I watched him walk up to the water fountain outside the gas station, which had a sign on the wall behind the fountain, more aptly described as masking tape with a handwritten message in pen, which said:  "WHITES, AND I MEAN WHITES ONLY!"  The boy was clearly tired, sweaty, and lost, and as he approached the water fountain to take a drink, the owner of the gas station chased the boy with a stick, cursing him and swinging the stick.  He skedaddled down the road, without his drink.

The most accurate depiction I have ever seen of the black maid culture and racial attitudes in the deep south was depicted in the movie, The Long Walk Home.  Sissy Spacek and Whoppie Goldberg play out a story of the drama that ensued in the community following Rosa Parks refusing to sit in the back of the bus in Montgomery, Alabama.  The year was 1955.  For a year, the black maids participated in the bus boycott, and had no way to get to their white employers' homes, except to walk.

My father was a square dance caller, and every Saturday night he and my mom went out.  He called, and she danced.  Often, he was a guest caller at other clubs, and sometimes, I got to go with them while my baby brother was left at home with a sitter.  I recall one night we got lost.  We were looking for a community hall where the dance was to be held, somewhere around Chickasaw, Alabama. We were driving around, lost in the black part of town, and we passed the schoolhouse.  It's walls were made of cardboard, the roof was a thin sheet of tin, and there were no windows; the ground around the building was red dirt. I was shocked. I still see the scene in my mind's eye.

A fellow square dancer invited my father to join the Ku Klux Klan, and he declined.  He had to then lay low for quite a while to avoid white retribution.

Our family doctor's office was at the intersection of Spring Hill Blvd and Grant Street.  (Yes, the Grant Street that Bob Dylan sang about....)  Inside the office, the receptionist and office workers sat behind an opaque glass privacy window that slid open and closed from the inside.  One day my mother went the wrong way in the parking lot and ended up driving through the rear of the building. And what did we see?  A "Colored Only" waiting room.  Next time my mother was at the open reception window, she noticed an identical opaque glass privacy window on the opposite side of the room.  Dr. Wright was a brave doctor.

Although public school segregation was held unconstitutional in the 1954 U.S. Supreme Court Brown vs. Board of Education decision, the reality of this change in culture did not reach Alabama until September 1963, when I was in 5th grade. On September 10th, in 1963, 20 black children were scheduled to enroll in white public schools in Birmingham, Mobile and Tuskegee Alabama. I came home from school soonafter, and asked my mother, "Mama, what are my Orders?"  "What do you mean?" she replied.  This exchange went back and forth several times, until she finally pulled it out of me.  "All the other kids have Orders from their parents, but I don't.  What do I do if they bring a black into my classroom?  Do I get up and walk out with everyone else, or do I have to stay?"

We left Alabama soon after this, in December 1965, for a variety of reasons.  But one of the most pressing causes was this: if you are white but not racist, where can you safely send your children to school?  I was in 7th grade, my brother was about to enter 1st grade, and my sister was a few years behind my brother.  White students were being withdrawn from public schools and sent to be educated in the spare rooms of churches and community centers with unqualified and inexperienced white teachers.  The public schools were rapidly turning into segregated black schools.

My years in Mobile are remembered as carefree and happy.... and that is largely why I returned to Mobile for my freshman year, at Spring Hill College.  Spring Hill, a Jesuit institution dating back to 1830, led the way in desegregation among Southern colleges and earned the respect of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who mentioned the moral significance of Spring Hill’s initiatives in his 1963 “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.”  In 1956, Ms. Fannie Motley became the first African American graduate of the college. She was one of only two Mobile area graduates to graduate with honors that year.  I entered in the fall of 1971, and was told stories of what it was like when the institution became the first southern white college to integrate..... it was an open campus, with small roads connecting the communities on either side of the school.  So there was a little local traffic.  But after integration, pick up trucks with good old boys armed with shotguns in the cab were frequent sights on these roads.  They were looking to pick off black students.  One evening, we decided to order pizza and dine in the dorm.  A black student, who was from Mobile, was going to go get the food and bring it back.  I said, "I'll ride with you."  And she quickly replied, "You're out of your mind! A white man sees us together, and you're dead.  A black man sees us, and I'm dead".  Such was the state of race relations in 1971.  I left in 1972 and never went back.