Alien and Sedition Acts: A Quick Review

 

The year was 1798 and President John Adams was desperately trying to keep our young country out of another war. The majority of his cabinet firmly believed that – despite having helped us win the American Revolution – France was now planning to turn her guns on us and claim the young United States as her own.

Adams’ cabinet pleaded with him to sign a Declaration of War with France, but he staunchly refused. What he did do, however, was sign into law the Alien and Sedition Acts:

   - June 18, 1798, The Naturalization Act - aliens had to be residents for fourteen years – nearly tripling the previous five-year requirement – before becoming eligible for United States citizenship.

   - June 25, 1798, The Alien Act – The President could deport aliens he deemed dangerous to the security and welfare of the country. It was based solely on the president’s judgment, requiring little or no substantiation. When Moreau de Mery questioned why his name was on the list of French citizens Adams would like to see deported, what exactly was he charged with, Adams responded, “Nothing in particular, he’s just too French.”

And in a letter to Dickinson College students Adams advised “those in favor of France ought to be esteemed our greatest enemy.”

- July 6, 1798, The Alien Enemies Act - the arrest, imprisonment and deportation of aliens would be legal during wartime. Aliens could be arrested and imprisoned within minutes of the president signing a Declaration of War.

- July 14, 1798, The Sedition Act – It became illegal to write, print, or say anything that would weaken the government or defame its president. This was the final piece of legislation in the collective Alien and Sedition Acts.

Three days after Adams signed the Sedition Act, US Marshals arrested William Durrel, Republican editor of the Mount Pleasant Register in upstate New York, for criticizing President Adams. Mob fights broke out. The New York Times-Piece editor, John Daly Burke, was also arrested for sedition. Editors were seditious if they wrote negatively about the government – and suspicious, if they remained silent. During this period more than twenty newspapermen were arrested for sedition and their newspapers shut down.

 

All four of these Acts expired in 1800.

 

Gingerbread House: Cut-and-Paste Decorating

 

The holidays are sneaking up and, as usual, I’m planning my seasonal baking. Besides the traditional cookies and pies, this year I’d like a nice gingerbread house. Nothing too fancy, just a simple structure. But I confess: I cannot pipe decorative icing, the distinguishing feature of Gingerbread Houses the world over. I’ve tried. But the skill is not there.  

 

Does this mean I’ll have to do without? Nope, it does not. Because even though I can’t pipe, I have other skills. Skills I learned as a child. Skills I’ve honed over a lifetime. Skills that – okay, mainly, cut and paste skills.

 

I gathered a few rolls of bubble gum tape, some craft scissors. And, voila! Roof shingles. Or even window shutters.

 

From there I moved onto fruit strips, Tootsie Rolls, and more chewing gum. In the cereal aisle I grabbed Rice Krispies and Shredded Wheat Biscuits – the big kind, not those frosted mini guys.

 

In the end I came up with three kinds of Gingerbread Houses, each with its own unique character. Now all I have to decide is which one I want to do for Christmas.

  

 

A Garden Story

 

Once upon a time there was a parcel of land nestled deep in old farm country. On this parcel of land, hidden from anyone who didn’t bother to look, was a garden.

If a passerby took time to notice, there among the juniper and dogwood, just beyond the boxwood, was a little gray-haired woman who tended the garden.

In the spring, she picked up fallen twigs and stacked them near the fire pit. She pruned roses, cleaned bird boxes, and placed mulch around new daffodils poking up through hard soil. She hung geranium baskets along her tall wooden fence, and when the frosts finally receded, scattered zinnia seeds in the beds.

When the frosts finally receded, she scattered zinnia seeds in the beds

In summer, she filled bird baths, made hummingbird nectar, and weeded a path made from old chimney bricks. She pruned drooping hackberry limbs off her split-rail fence and watched the milkweed draw monarchs.

When autumn arrived, she kept feeders filled with nuts and seeds for migrators. Her sister, who knew of such things, bought her some bark butter. The little gray-haired woman spread it on the mulberry trunk for the white-breasted nuthatch.

Winter in the garden was mostly quiet. There were still woodpeckers and chickadees, cardinals and wrens. The little gray-haired woman mixed their bird seed with bacon fat and piled it on a wooden slab. She waited, each day, quietly watching the snow and ice, until it was time again to pick up fallen twigs and stack them near the fire pit.

Winter in the garden was mostly quiet

But the garden was not always so. It had seen different days.

A hundred years earlier, a man rode down from Pennsylvania. He bought the parcel of land deep in farm country and built a house on it. He probably had a kitchen garden with vegetables and a few herbs. There was a carriage house for his buggy. He threw bits of trash in the back, old bottles, broken harness buckles, and a well-worn plumb bob. The man grew old, He sold the house and parcel. It changed hands over the years. Someone put in a fishpond. Another thought the pond a bother and took it out. The carriage house was knocked down and lawned over. Trash and forgotten things piled up: cinder blocks, broken pallets, old crockery.  

A man bought the parcel of land deep in farm country and built a house on it

When the little gray-haired woman and her less-little gray-haired husband bought the parcel and house, she cleared out what would not belong in her garden. Then she dug a hole. First in her garden was the leather-leaf holly. Then came the chokeberry bush. Next the lilac shrubs. A family of wrens cocked their heads and watched as she planted two apple trees.

First in her garden was the leather-leaf holly

The little women scooped more holes, added plants, and her garden grew. In came Caesar’s Brother, Joe Pye Weed, Beardtongue, and Blue-eyed Grass. Other natives arrived all on their own and she let them stay. There was fragrant honeysuckle, orange lilies, and sweet blackberries that cedar waxwings eyed once the mulberries were gone.

She filled large pots with oakleaf hydrangea named Alice and Ruby Slipper. Friends brought her hellebores and a small slip of beauty berry that grew large and graceful. Honeybees came and worked their way through her cosmos. The more she tended, the busier it got. And she was happy.

Cedar Waxwing in the Mulberry Tree

Others had once lived in the house on the parcel. And each of them had used the land as they saw fit. But now it was a garden. The little gray-haired woman would not be here forever, but for now, once upon this very time, she was here, and this was her garden.

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Befores and Afters

A few more scenes from the garden, with special thanks to all the birds and bugs who remind me daily that they were here first. 

Citizen Science: My 365 Days

American Goldfinch

I’m not a scientist. My dad was the scientist, a nuclear chemist no less. But not me. I’m the baker, the linguist, the gardener. I’m the one who gravitates towards the more liberal of arts. Those things typically left-brain. Or maybe it’s typically right brain. I don’t know. I’m not a scientist. 

Northern Cardinal

But for this past year I have participated in citizen science, collecting data in the natural world to be analyzed by the pros, the real scientists. Every day for a year, I observed birds: what kinds, how many, where and when I saw them. And every day I filled out a checklist and uploaded it—photos included—to the Cornell Lab of Ornithology via their app, eBird. 

Eastern Bluebird

My science venture was unplanned, and I only began watching birds beyond my backyard after a surprising little visitor spent the winter in our garden. Even then, the hobby took a slow start, doing a checklist maybe once a week, when I felt like getting out. Then it picked up steam and became every few days. By the end of last May the birding bug had bitten me deep and I was doing a checklist every day. Sometimes two. Occasionally three.

Tundra Swans

The days gathered into weeks. The weeks linked elbows and expanded to months, and as autumn rolled in, I’d gone half a year submitting at least one checklist every day. Rain or shine. Heat wave or cold snap. Unplanned.

Carolina Chickadee

My big idea was not to see a wide spectrum of species, but just observe local birds within 15 miles or so. There were those who stayed year-round, becoming the regulars I came to depend on, the little chickadees and hardy woodpeckers. Others, like warblers and grosbeaks, flashed through briefly during their gene-coded migrations. 

Rose-Breasted Grosbeak

But the variety in such a small radius stunned me. It was like peering into the woods and seeing a forgotten civilization living completely unfazed by our culture's growing intrusion. For, indeed, that's what I witnessed: bird culture, carrying on as it had for thousands of years, adapting as needed.

Brown Pelican

Despite not setting out to tally large numbers, I did travel around some, in the name of science (wink). Discovering parts of Virginia I’d never seen was an added bonus: the Eastern Shore and Northern Neck habitats yielded a breath-taking selection of shore birds and waterfowl I would not have seen otherwise.

Eastern Meadowlark

Closer to home I found myself gravitating to a handful of locations birding enthusiasts had already deemed hotspots. I fell in love with a small wetlands area near home and birded there over 125 times throughout the year. While every visit held treasure, one day in late March it yielded an unusual sparrow-like bird.  It was a rarity for that time of year and not previously reported for this part of Virginia: the dicksissel. Who knew? 

Dicksissel

In a year of unforeseen upheaval across the globe, when established routines were kicked down the hillside, daily birding re-created purpose and discipline for me in this, our natural world. There was the added benefit of—at my advancing age—to learn something new, to routinely test my memory, my vision, my hearing. And there were the healing benefits of bird watching, which those who know call Ornitherapy. Perfectly apt.

Blue-gray Gnatcatcher

My year of Citizen Science is now complete and I am happy to have contributed what little I could to the world of ornithology. I still go birding every day but have not decided to maintain this break-neck pace for a second year running. I might. I don’t know. I’m still not a scientist.

Trusty Binoculars and Example of Checklist

My Birding, by the numbers: May 2020 - May 2021

                                           688    Birding Checklists

                                  365    Days in a Row of Birding

                                  231    Locations (Hotspots)

                                  173    Different Species of Birds observed

                                      5    States visited (VA, OH, PA, MD, and MI)

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Cornell’s eBird is among the world’s largest biodiversity-related science projects, with more than 100 million bird sightings contributed annually by eBirders around the world. The data collected documents bird distribution, abundance, habitat use, and trends collected within a simple, scientific framework. Most recently, the data was used to determine a strong estimate of just how many birds are in the world, an astonishing 50 billion.

A Few Random Recommendations: 

• The Genius of Birds, by Jennifer Ackerman
• Visit your State/National Parks and Forests
• Invest in a decent set of binoculars; they are a gamechanger
• The Cornell Ornithology Lab and online app, eBird.org

                                       

Baseball, Birding, and the Healing Balm of Hope

 

“It ain’t over till it’s over!”

The time-tested battle cry is never truer than in baseball. I can’t even count the times my team rallied back bottom of the ninth, two outs, one man on. And I watch straight though until that last out is called because, in baseball, there is always hope: hope that my team will come from behind, hope that I’ll see something new (I’m still waiting to see a live triple play), and if my team doesn’t make it to post-season, hope for next year. 

Birdwatching is like baseball as it, too, fills me with hope. I’ve backyard bird-watched for years but am still new to the deliberate world of birding. This is the world where I traipse through woods, cross meadows, and straddle creeks to catch sight of something I’ve never seen before: a new species, a strange activity, an unprecedented flock. 

Even though I average 7 poor days of birding for every great day,  I am undeterred. Why? Hope. 

Tomorrow  holds the possibility of being better. The odds are in my favor. And I’m filled with hope, the healing balm that soothes the pain of losing. Or of losing out.

There have only been a few times I recall feeling hopeless. The most devastating, the time which cut the deepest, was losing my son. For over two years I – our whole family – hoped that chemo would work. We hoped the cancer would go into remission. We hoped for a cure. New remedies were being discovered every day. Just hang on, we whispered, until that next breakthrough. And then, sadly, one day it was over. And I had to do two terrible things: say goodbye and let go of hope.

The ancient Greeks understood hope’s magic. In the Myth of Pandora’s Box, a young woman is given a box and told under no circumstance is she to open it. Curiosity, of course, gets the better of her and she opens the box only to unleash all the world’s ills, mischief, and sorrows. Once released, they could not be re-contained. But when she looked close, in the very bottom of the box, there was one small, significant thing that remained: Hope.

Not only is hope healthy, it gives me reason to get out of bed. And who doesn’t need that these days?

I cannot replace what is gone forever, but I can – and do – hope for new things, good things, things that heal me like baseball, birding and the balm of hope itself.

 

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It’d be hell if there weren’t any birds -- and I’m not the only one who thinks so. In the old Japanese culture of Ainu on the island of Hokkaidu, one of their concepts of hell was the exact world in which they lived – but with no birds at all. No birds, and no hope of birds.

 

Hiking in the Time of Quarantine

Overlooking the Shenandoah Valley

Scarlet Tanager hidden in the green

**UPDATE** - As of June14, we have hiked 288 miles. With only 12 more needed to hit 300, I'm raising money to do so for the Sarcoma Foundation of America. If you've enjoyed seeing photos of our hikes, or your life has been changed by cancer, I hope you'll consider a small donation. For more information, visit my fundraiser.

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I'm one of the lucky ones, I know. 

I live in Virginia and, as such, have access to long miles of hiking trails through deep green forest, along burbling creeks, and across thick meadows. Currently unable to gather in crowds, during lockdown, I turn to nature. 

I have done my best these past 12 weeks to revisit the outdoors quiet, its calm, its buzz, and yes, its hyperactivity. 

Because while our nation's daily work life is stalled by pandemic, life goes on else-where. In fact, it's thriving. 

Hikers hike for different reasons. Some do it strictly for the challenge, both physical and mental. Others take to the trails to view emerging plants and wildflowers. And others go outdoors to watch for butterflies, bugs and birds. For me, it's a combination of these -- with a strong emphasis on bird watching. 

Quantico Creek in Prince William Forest

As far back as I recall, my soul's compass has pointed me toward the outdoors, if just to the garden. Now I find that hiking is as close as I'll get to viewing the innards and edge of an enormous universe.

I am not a religious woman, but immersed in nature is where I hear God the clearest. Because in spite of the man-made maelstroms we create, the black-and-white zebra butterfly is completely oblivious. Regardless of voter polls and market drops, bankruptcies and analyses, the speckled wood thrush couldnt care less. They have their own lives. 

There are creature cultures out there -- just a few feet away -- unaware and unconcerned with our problems right now. And I wish to watch that world, unplugged and unencumbered, for at least a few more hours. It's an escape, I admit. But I gotta have it. 

Zebra Butterfly

In Virginia's Commonwealth, our state parks remain open during the quarantine. Not only do the parks have well-marked trails, but you can download a map showing which trails are rated easy, moderate, and difficult. Wildlife Management Areas throughout the state also have some good hiking trails, as do local forest areas. Even parts of the Appalachian Trail remain open allowing hikes into neighboring states. And there's always the walk down a country road to soothe and satisfy. 

As of this posting, I have hiked more than 160 miles since the end of February. Some of the reasons I love it can be found here: 

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Appalachian Trail Overlooking Potomac River

If you're new to hiking, here are a few tips:

• Wear loose (not baggy) clothes to allow movement to bend, squat, pivot, etc. You never know what you'll see or where you'll see it. 
• Although not mandatory, a good pair of hiking boots is worth the expense.
• Hydrate. Bring water with you and have it handy. A couple of natural and/or high protein snacks are usually a welcome treat as well. 
• Pack In/Pack Out - Take out any trash you have. This includes - but not limited to - drink bottles, snack wrappers, hand wipes, tissues. Nothing makes hikers cringe like seeing trash on the trail. We're all adults here.
• If the trail name includes words like crest, ridge, or overlook, you're probably in for a steep climb. I learned this one the hard way. 

For more information about Virginia State Parks, visit their website. 

Me and Rex, my delightful husband and hiking partner who often claims
"The agony of hiking is the joy of hiking."

A Stranger in East Berlin

An afternoon trip to East Berlin and a random glance out the window would forever change my view of patriotism.

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Looking across the wall into a bleak and dismal East Berlin

Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap.

I leaned against the window of our duty bus and glanced out. It was the spring of 1982 and we had just pulled up to a red light in East Berlin. There was a young couple in the car beside us. Cramped in the back was an old woman. I watched as she steadily tap-tapped her window.

I had arrived at my West Berlin duty station a few months earlier and, like most, was curious to see Communist East Germany. So when our flight chief announced a day trip to East Berlin I signed up. For security reasons we wore dress blues that day, no name tags, and were ordered to stay together in pairs. There was a preassigned itinerary including a list of places we could and could not visit. “Don’t wander off,” our leader had warned. “Don’t converse with the locals. Don’t give your name. Don’t ride the S-Bahn. Don’t drink the soda pop, there’s something funny in it. Laxative, I think. And for God’s sake, stay together.”

Charlie Flight in our dress blues. I'm front row, far left

Our first group stop was the Soviet War museum where the Russian doyen proudly walked us through room after room explaining how the resilient Soviet Union single-handedly defeated fascist Germany in the Great Patriotic War, or World War II. Next we were driven to the Karl Marx Plaza, the “showcase to the west,” with its dismal store displays and long queues of East Germans hoping for something – anything – to arrive in bulk. I bought a cheap notebook, its paper flecked with wood pulp. When the clerk handed me my change I thought the coins were fake, they were so lightweight and flimsy.

My friend Rex and I grabbed lunch at one of the few approved cafes, declining the soda. We poked around another shop or two, its wares just as depressing. I was taken aback by a small silver plated dustpan and brush for sale. It looked out of place next to the thick wool stockings and cheap alarm clocks. But for centuries the eastern part of Germany had been home to its aristocracy.

Now, the eastern part was Communist and there was no call for silver-plated anything. So someone’s family heirloom sat on the dusty shelves with scant chance of finding a new home.

After a short walk, Rex and I headed back to the duty bus. East Berlin, unfortunately, lived up to everything I had read.

At the end of World War II, Germany had been divided by the Allies. The western half worked to become a free democracy aided by Great Britain, France, and the United States. But the eastern half had fallen to Communism. The city of Berlin itself, although geographically located in East Germany, was also divided.

West Berlin, a little “island city” behind the Iron Curtain, was still part of West Germany and therefore free. But that had not been the Soviet Union’s intent. 

Immediately following the war the Soviets halted all western traffic into the city by road and rail. They tried to choke off supplies to the city’s western half in order to ensure its downfall. What they had not counted on was overhead airspace. Within weeks, planes from the US and UK began flying into West Berlin delivering cargo to keep the bedraggled city running. The year-long airlift brought everything from dry goods to canned goods, wheat, fat, fish, milk, coffee, coal and books. Aircraft came in so steadily that at the height of the airlift a plane landed once every minute. And there was the beloved Candy Bomber who had dropped chocolate bars from the sky, each equipped with a tiny parachute. All told, nearly 400,000 tons of supplies were delivered during the Berlin Blockade. Those who lived through it never forgot. 

The American Candy Bomber dropped chocolate bars each equipped with a tiny parachute

Twelve years later, with the Allies still firmly entrenched, the Berlin Wall went up -- virtually overnight. East Germans were told it was to keep corrupt western capitalists out, but most understood it was to keep themselves in. Those who were able, quickly grabbed what they could and had fled to West Berlin, to loved ones, to freedom. Unfortunately, many older folks, perhaps like the woman tap-tapping her window, could not move that fast. Once the cement had dried on the wall, there was little to no chance of ever getting out.

By 1982, West Berlin had risen from the rubble to become a thriving cosmopolitan city again. But East Berlin paled in comparison, like a malnourished cousin. Walking through its streets I noticed very few advertisements on its beige buildings. Clothing was outdated and ill-fitting. Music in shops was sparse, very little modern and nothing at all from the west. Propaganda signs, however, were prominent in the east, touting the virtues of soviet reform.

The graves of those killed trying to escape to West Berlin. "Unbekannt" means unknown.

Our bus was headed back to West Berlin now, to our barracks, to a vibrant downtown, hopping bistros, and bulging department stores. I continued to watch the old woman as she tapped. I tapped my window and waved. She looked up and, smiling, waved back. Then she pointed to something just below my window and, to my surprise, began crying.

There was a small American flag painted on the side of our bus. She pointed again and saluted. Then I understood. 

She must have been a young woman when Allied forces marched in at war’s end. Perhaps she had watched as our planes brought life-saving supplies to Tempelhof Airfield. Maybe she stood in line waiting for her daily rations. And when the wall went up in 1961 maybe she had had small children and couldn’t get to West Berlin fast enough in a last-ditch effort. Maybe she tried but just couldn’t. So she had stayed in the east. Trapped behind the Iron Curtain.

I like to think when she saw our little painted flag she once again felt hope. I like to think she still felt kindness toward an ally who had nothing to gain but goodwill and gratitude. 

We could not have been at that red light for much more than a minute, yet I still sense the impact. I was proud to be a very small cog in our post-war mission in Europe. Proud to help stem the tide of Communism that had washed over Eastern Europe; to stand fast surrounded by opposition. But it pained me to see this frail woman saluting our bus, tears streaming down her face, knowing she had so little hope.  

It’s been almost 35 years since she and I waved, and I will never know if she lived long enough to see the wall come down in 1989. I’ll never know if she reconnected with family living in West Berlin. Or West Germany. I don’t know if she thought of escape or was ever able to leave the city. But I have never forgotten her tap-tap-tap. And I’ve never forgotten why I served our country.

1982 in my fatigues right before going on a 

swing shift in West Berlin

This story was first published on the National VFW website in honor of Women in the Military, March 2017.

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On a Side Note . . . 

Rex and I were married September 1982 at Rathaus Steglitz in West Berlin