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The New American Digest

For Followers of Gerard Van der Leun's Fine Work

  • About American Digest
  • About New American Digest
  • “The Name In The Stone”
  • Remembering Gerard Van der Leun
    • from the website: Through the Looking Glass
    • from the website: Barnhardt
    • from the website: Neo’s Blog
  • Articles
    • The Overland Stage
      • The Holladay Overland Stage: 1 – The Central Route
      • The Overland Stage – 2 Company Operations
      • The Overland Stage – 3 Exploring The Route – An Overview
      • The Overland Stage: 4 – South Platte/Julesburg/Ft Sedgwick
        • Jack Slade
      • The Overland Stage: 5 – Julesburg to Junction Station (aka Ft Morgan)
      • The Overland Stage: 6 – Junction Station to Latham
      • The Overland Stage: 7 – Latham Crossing to Fort Collins
      • The Overland Stage: 8 – LaPorte to Virginia Dale
      • The Overland Stage: 9 – Virginia Dale to Cooper Creek
      • The Overland Stage: 10 – Cooper Creek to Pass Creek
        • Fletcher Family
      • The Overland Stage: 11 – Pass Creek to Bridger Station
      • The Overland Stage: 12 – Bridger Pass to Duck Lake
      • The Overland Stage: 13 – Duck Lake to LaClede
      • The Overland Stage: 14 – LaClede to Almond
      • The Overland Stage: 15 – Almond to Rock Springs
      • The Overland Stage: 16 – Rock Springs to Fort Bridger
      • The Overland Stage: 17 – Fort Bridger to Weber Station

I find I don’t wish to explore new lands, but to explore again those I have already passed through, trying to see what I’d missed in the first hectic rush … Gerard Van der Leun

Home→Author SK

Author Archives: SK

In A Foreign Land

The New American Digest Posted on July 3, 2025 by SKJuly 3, 2025

by SK via Comments

I am in a foreign land at the moment, staying with friends in a small town at the base of the Alps.

The heat you all are hearing about is real. The air is dry and the sun is scorching. Feels like desert heat. There has been rain but it mostly evaporates before doing the earth any good. Although lawns and fields are crispy and brown there is still a lot of green to be seen from heavy rains in May. The trees are huge and healthy. Oleander is in full bloom.

The food is delicious- fresh and simply prepared. No fussy sauces or dips, no crusts on fish or chicken. No gigantic appetizers. Ham is just air-dried or baked – no unpronounceable ingredients or plumping salt water injections. Good bread made from only 4 ingredients- water salt yeast and flour. No butter, only olive oil. Good yoghurt made from milk and active cultures, nothing else. People drink coffee, tea, water and wine, no fruit juices or soft drinks. They are on the menus but come in tiny tin cans if ordered, or fresh squeezed at breakfast. Fresh fruit is on every dessert menu. Berries are served in a bowl with lemon juice and a sprinkling of sugar.

Food is abundant and cheap. The fruit and vegetables are ripe and flavorful. The selection of cheese is dazzling.

Gas is crazy expensive and so is electricity. Few homes have air con. Windows are opened at night to let cool air in then shuttered in the day to keep heat out. Shutters and doors are always double locked and alarmed. Gardens are walled, fenced, gated and locked. There is an ancient, ingrained fear of invaders and thieves, now largely justified by the real invasion of folk from non Christian places.

People are generally cheerful and friendly. And slim. And patriotic. They all wear locally well made and beautiful sandals, shoes and boots. They walk a lot. Everyone talks about going to the seaside or the mountains for relief from the summer heat. A lot of very old people ride bikes on busy roads and up steep hills.

You dont need a watch. You can tell the time of day from the rhythm in the streets and the church bells that ring. The bells also announce funerals in long, slow, sad gongs. There are many, this is an old country.

No one seems deeply concerned about the world’s woes. Though you hear occasional anti Trump sentiment, fueled mostly by the press and their depiction of life in America or fear of tariffs, there is no real animosity, mostly admiration and fascination with the size and scale of everything American- it is still viewed as a land of opportunity and freedom. Mostly they talk here about food, music, football, cycling, beautiful women – but above all, food. It’s an obsession.

I’d say we still have a lot to learn from the old countries.

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Posted in Uncategorized | 7 Replies

but I want to talk about spring time!

The New American Digest Posted on April 24, 2025 by SKApril 24, 2025

Submitted by SK as a comment

Spring has almost sprung in my corner of the Midwest. The dance is always two steps forward, one step back. Then spring actually does arrive, stays briefly and suddenly leaps forward into full summer.

With these longer days of spring and the sun warming the earth there comes the urge to clear and clean, dig and plant. My indomitable English mother was always bottom-up in flower beds and vegetable patches from the minute the clock jumped forward while we children were tasked with picking up sticks and collecting branches that litter the lawn after winter storms.

I never quite remember exactly how my garden was the year before. The first day out in the spring is therefore all about pottering around trying to remember what worked well and what was left undone, taking mental notes and preparing for more important decisions to come later on when frost is no longer a threat. Gardens teach us great patience. You can spend all winter making the best of plans only to have them thwarted because of weather or pests or blight or other unforseens.

The great thing about gardens is that you are never lonely. You are always in the company of bees, earth worms, beetles and birds, all of whom have something to tell you about the state of the things if you are quiet enough to listen.

The birds arriving from their winter places are always a joy. Skeins of geese honk overhead - it's a stirring, ancient sound that we on the ground have heard for eons. Usually the first song birds to arrive in my part of the world are the redwings. They stand on the tip of reeds at the edge of the marsh and sing their happy blackbird tunes.

One of the few Apps I have on my phone and use often is the Merlin Bird app. For those of you unfamiliar with it, the app permits you to record bird songs and then identifies for you, with names and photos, all the birds it hears. One late spring morning I set my phone on a table outside. The app identified 23 different birds in an 10 minute recording. I was astonished because I hadn't heard nearly that many. The result that morning on the app encouraged me to listen more carefully, beyond the songs of bluejays, cardinals, chickadees etc that one becomes accustomed to hearing as daily background noise in the garden.

The University of Texas, last May, published an interesting article on the subject of birdsong and the human voice. They conducted, as part of a study, high-resolution anatomical scans of syrinxes from hummingbirds and ostriches — the world’s smallest and largest bird species — and the discovered that the syrinx of birds and larynx, the vocal organ of reptiles and mammals, including humans, share the same developmental programming.

The genetic connection between the vocal organs, said one of the professors involved in the study, is a new example of “deep homology,” a term that describes how different tissues or organs can share a common genetic link. In short, birdsong and the human voice share the same genetic blueprint. Here is a link to the article:

www dot jsg dot utexas dot edu/news/2024/05/birdsong-and-human-voice-built-from-same-genetic-blueprint/

Looking for more information about this, I came upon a site about bird and animal music and the name of a Canadian composer and "zoomusicologist", Emily Doolittle (what a perfect surname), who creates music from bird song. She has a website (emilydoolittle dot com) where you can listen to examples of her music, some of which I have included below.

The music is unusual, evocative and quite beautiful. Seems at times similar to the dream like music of Claude Debussy. It struck me as something perhaps the music lovers on this site might enjoy and something Gérard might have considered for one of his "Something Wonderful" posts.

How dull would life be without birds!

youtube dot com/watch?v=-E1Kg4J41-c

youtube dot com/watch?v=KF7IlH03UwE

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Posted in Uncategorized | 11 Replies

Easter Grub

The New American Digest Posted on April 15, 2025 by SKApril 15, 2025

So you've paid your taxes and counted your remaining pennies and now Easter is coming and Lent is almost over. Time to make, what?
What Easter specialties do folks here prepare?

My favorite Easter sweet is home made hot cross buns served warm with butter.

Hot cross buns
Hot cross buns
One a penny
Two a penny
Hot cross buns
If you have no daughters give them to your sons!

On the Canadian island where I was born the Easter "scoff" (big meal) included flipper pie prepared with onions, turnips and carrots. Harp seal flipper that is. It's a dark gamey meat not to my taste but the dish goes far back in history and many islanders still love it even if animal rights activists now object to its consumption.

In England no Easter Sunday lunch would be complete without fresh pea soup made with mint and spring onions. So delicious.

And then there's lamb that is traditional everywhere.. roasted leg of lamb, roasted or grilled shoulder of lamb , griĺled lamb chops, lamb burgers.

In northern Italy, there is the delicious Colomba di Pasqua (Easter Dove). It's a sweet bread with dried fruit or candied citrus that is sprinkled with sugar and almonds, like a panettone but shaped like a dove. In the unlikely event you can't finish it all it makes great French toast or bread pudding.

In the south, Easter luncheons almost always include deviled eggs. The Scandinavians do deviled eggs deluxe for Easter with shrimp or fish roe added on top.

Personally, I'm just looking forward to my first glass of wine in 40 days. I'll be happy to have it with nothing more than potato chips.

I've included links for recipes in case anyone is interested, but not for flipper pie!

www dot kingarthurbaking dot com/recipes/colomba-pasquale-easter-dove-bread-recipe

www dot countrylife.co dot uk/food-drink/recipes/how-to-make-homemade-hot-cross-buns-25333

www dot southernliving dot com/recipes/classic-deviled-eggs

www dot bbcgoodfood dot com/recipes/pea-mint-spring-onion-soup-parmesan-biscuits

www dot recipetineats dot com/rosemary-garlic-grilled-lamb-chops/

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Posted in Uncategorized | 2 Replies

About Fiddlesticks

The New American Digest Posted on April 13, 2025 by SKApril 13, 2025

Submitted as a comment by SK

That was a word permitted when we were children (as opposed to many others that were not) as an expression of frustration at some ridiculous situation.

I looked up its origin because seeing it in print made me laugh. Hadn't heard it in ages. The only people I know who still use it are all English.

According to an etymological web site, he term seems to derive from the bows that are used to play violins. Those have been named in English since the 15th century – then as ‘fydylstyks’.

The word was appropriated to indicate absurdity in the 17th century.

Thomas Nashe used it that way in the play Summer’s Last Will and Testament, 1600:

"A fiddlesticke! ne’re tell me I am full of words."

There’s nothing inherently funny about a violin bow. It seems that ‘fiddlestick’ was chosen just because it sounds like a comedy word, like ‘scuttlebutt’ (a cask of drinking water), ‘lickspittle’ (a sycophant) and ‘snollygoster’ (an unprincipled person).

In the same way the ‘I don’t give a fig’ was originally ‘I don’t give a fig’s end’, that is, it referred to something insignificant, ‘fiddlesticks’ was originally ‘fiddlestick’s end’, that is, it was a reference to something paltry, trifling and absurd.

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An Enormous Old Shaggy Barked Hickory

The New American Digest Posted on April 3, 2025 by SKApril 3, 2025

There is an enormous old shaggy barked hickory at the bottom of the hill behind my farmhouse. That tree has provided joy and shelter to now four generations of my family and many more generations of squirrels and birds. It stands alone, tall and noble, tough as old Andrew Jackson, enduring long frigid winters and fleeting summers.

Watching it through the seasons each year reveals miracles of nature and lessons of life. In the spring, the hickory stands patiently waiting for just the right warm day. Then the moisture drawn from the earth into its vast root system begins to flow and the sap rises, inch by inch, up its immense trunk along its many branches and into the high broad reaches of its canopy. A marvel of architecture and hydraulics.

Little by little its beautiful leaves appear. They peep out usually in late spring as tiny yellow mouse ears when fear of frost has mostly passed, eventually turning a deep glossy green. The leaves are compound, elegant, consisting of many smaller leaves on one stem alternating in odd pairs with a leaf at the tip.

In years gone by the hickory had two friends nearby. One another tall and graceful hickory and the second a massive white oak. Those two trees lost their lives to lightening from violent summer thunderstorms sweeping across the prairies. Barely missing the barn walls, each fell, one summer and then the next, with a shocking crash and a thud that shook the ground and reverberated across more than an acre. But Andrew Jackson, my old hickory, stayed firm, tall and straight.

In the summer the hickory’s wide branches wave in wind cooling the air around it, the leaves rustle with the breezes and flutter with the wings of myriad birds. The crows love its height. They can watch the red tailed hawks from on high and send out their warnings, shrieking to all who will listen. Ants do their military marches up and down the trunk. Bees and butterflies hum and flitter around the yellow, catkin like flowers as they bloom. Fungi form on rotting fallen branches lying in the surrounding grass. Little marble colored weevils and occasionally stag beetles creep among the fungi.

Foxes stalk the tree’s base in early morning looking for foolish squirrels or careless rabbits. Flocks of wild turkeys gobble peacefully but warily by and deer rest in its shade on hot summer days. The tree is the lynchpin of an ecosystem for creatures large and small, winged and footed, it creates habitats to suit all manner of flora and fauna, including my family.

As summer passes the hickory nuts begin to fall and the leaves turn a deep, dark gold. Squirrels and chipmunks scurry around their cheeks fat with the treasure to be buried, hidden away, for winter sustenance. The nuts they’ve missed get shot around loudly like bullets as I mow the lawn. We take bits of the shaggy bark, soak it and use it to smoke fish and sausage for our winter stores, much like the squirrels.

When the leaves drop as cold weather approaches and the skies go grey, the old hickory reveals its great black bones. A massive skeleton sometimes cloaked with snow or glistening ice, it towers over us casting long shadows in the low sun of the Midwestern winter. That magnificent hickory. It asks so little, just some sun, soil and rain, and time to rest and refresh each winter, and then it gives us so much.
I pray that tree, that loved and venerated old tree, outlives me.

1000038775
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Rules

Gerard Van der Leun
12/26/45 - 1/27/23


Gerard's Last Post
(posthumous): Feb 4, 2023
"So Long. See You All a Little Further Down the Road"

When my body won’t hold me anymore
And it finally lets me free
Where will I go?
Will the trade winds take me south through Georgia grain?
Or tropical rain?
Or snow from the heavens?
Will I join with the ocean blue?
Or run into a savior true?
And shake hands laughing
And walk through the night, straight to the light
Holding the love I’ve known in my life
And no hard feelings

Avett Brothers - No Hard Feelings

The following was posted along with the announcement of Gerard's passing.
Leonard Cohen - Going Home

For a 2005 interview with Gerard


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Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man,
play a song for me
I'm not sleepy
and there ain't no place I'm goin' to

Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man,
play a song for me
In the jingle jangle morning,
I'll come followin' you

Take me for a trip upon
your magic swirling ship
All my senses have been stripped
And my hands can't feel to grip
And my toes too numb to step
Wait only for my boot heels to be wanderin'

I'm ready to go anywhere,
I'm ready for to fade
Unto my own parade
Cast your dancing spell my way
I promise to go under it


Men who saw night coming down about them could somehow act as if they stood at the edge of dawn.


From Gerard's site. The picture always caught my eye.

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