Bicycle Morning Bicycle Morning

The work of good garden-keeping...proudly made in the USA

Lisa Campbell — Wed, 22 Feb 2017 17:27:54 +0000

It's been a crazy whirlwind of winter of politics, pundits and protests-lots of ugliness and conflict. But it's also been warm with ample time for long walks, rallying together, marching arm and arm, garden prep, and spring flowers blooming a bit early. Difficult physical, emotional and intellectual challenges mixed with loving connections, humor and light. As the bulbs bravely push through the winter soils, the democratic spirit in many of us is compelled forward, working to nurture this thing we love so fiercely, American liberty. Gardening and democracy it seems require a good bit of hard work, persistence and stick-to-it-ness--spades, rakes, hoes and a sizable amount of wit are necessary. I was reminded by an experienced gardener, Mary Mason Campbell, "...Weeds, before going to seed are far better in the compost pile than in the garden, where they deprive the cultivated plants of moisture, food, light, and space."

“There is deep pride in being a good garden-keeper.”

— Mary Mason Campbell

“As long as the roots are not severed, all is well. And all will be well in the garden. Yes. In the garden, growth has it seasons. First comes spring and summer, but then we have fall and winter. And then we get spring and summer again. There will be growth in the spring!”

— Chance, The Gardner, Being There by Jerzy Kosiński

“...and such gardens are not made
By singing: — ‘Oh how beautiful!’
and sitting in the shade.”

— Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

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Driving the Byways

Lisa Campbell — Wed, 14 Oct 2015 13:47:55 +0000

There is a sort of person who loves a road trip. The idea of a wide open road stretched out like a crisp blank curl of paper; an unused but perfectly sharpened yellow No. 2 pencil; the dense aroma of muddy coffee as it percolates but before the first steamy sip; the sound of the cracking spine as you ready to read the fist page of the anticipated new book; slipping into freshly washed, slick white percale sheets; these delights are akin to the road trip for that certain sort of person. The thrill of rounding the corner to see that breathtaking vista of trees and mountain cliffs, or a simple slightly slumping red barn. The joy of finding that quaint restaurant that perhaps no one but you has discovered, or at least that's how it feels as you pull in next to the only car in the lot, a 1978 red and white Ford Bronco. The silly fun of singing aloud to every song you ever knew, and the pride that comes with remembering the words, even the words to Paradise by the Dashboard Lights, or Seasons in the Sun, or really any song from the 1970's. These are the feelings, if not the actual happenings, on a road trip. I am that sort of person.

As September unfurled, I began planning a car trip up the east coast. It would be a history meets literary meets antqiuing meets ancestry trip. First the navigational plan, I needed maps--actual paper maps that I could spread out on the dining room table to plot the best route. Maybe even a good old fashioned Atlas--I wondered if they still printed such antiquities. This was not a task for Google. I wanted to pick the best road, not just the scenic alternative, although that was important, but equally important the route that would allow just enough accidental site seeing to satisfy but also allow me to fit in the key stops within a two week tour. I felt two weeks was about as long as I could be away without to much annoyance and just enough for the missing me to kick in.

I also needed to plan a route that would be safe and allow me to stay in modest spots so as to stretch the budget. Many hours were spent reading reviews of this hotel and that one, trying to guess which were truly quaint (not falling apart), clean (not bare and cold), with comfy beds, and of course good water pressure in the shower. I planned to take my own granola, fruit, peanut butter, chocolate, emergency coffee and wine because the best Best Western could not be relied on to provide these critical creature comforts.

The fist stop on my agenda: Williamsburg. While my planned start time of nine o'clock came and went I rationalized that packing the car like a jigsaw puzzle was equally important as getting off early. Day One was eight hours of non stop driving if I was to reach old Virginia by nightfall. Heading north on I85 was not the most beautiful highway but it was serenely navigable without many trailer trucks, and when driving midday on a Monday, fairly empty. As the city suburbs gave way to the foothills of the mountains, I listened to NRP, satellite radio, and finally settled into a good audio book: Living History, written and read by Hillary Clinton. (Already a fan, I highly recommend this book as a great way to learn about the personal history and motivations of this intelligent, dedicated and purposeful leader.) I travelled through Greer, Charlotte, and Greensboro, and finally through Richmond and over to the Atlantic coast. The first night I stayed in a small Holiday Inn Express. Night had fallen slowly as summer lingered, and I had a real sense of travel mission so I didn't go out for dinner, opting instead for peanut butter crackers and a glass of wine, the perfect gourmet road trip pairing. Off to bed early, I was giddy for the first day of touring.

Day Two, I was up early, freshly showered and ready as if heading off for the first day of school. Practically first in line as the Colonial Williamsburg gates opened, I determined a one day pass was the prudent choice. One of the satisfying things about a solo road trip is that every decision is unanimously agreed upon--little compromise is necessary. The sign at the entrance was a little challenging--one day was not enough time? Harrumph...we'll see about that. Off I went down the dirt path to start the day with interpreters reading the Declaration of Independence. First stop bakery and latte, pretty sure the early Puritans didn't offer these treats so neatly packaged for carry out? But it was easy to slip back in time. Before I knew it, I was tearing up watching actors portray George Washington and Patrick Henry. Funny how this land of America sneaks up on me, flaws and all. Patriotism often gives me a slight nudge from behind, sparking awareness of the freedoms I enjoy. As I walked down the main thoroughfare, Duke of Gloucester Street, I tried to imagine what it must have been like during those times, the early 1700's. Dirty roads full of rocks and weeds, sun blazing and mosquitoes circling, horses and all that goes with them, inn keepers, farmers, soldiers, and artisans. Did they know that it was a time of historical importance? Did they understand their role in shaping what would become one of the most dynamic democratic societies in the world?

In addition to historical and anthropological curiosity, I was also armed with genealogy, thanks to my mother, Gayle. She has meticulously and lovingly spent years researching family trees to uncover and discover the personal stories of our forefathers and foremothers. In Williamsburg I was searching for clues to the Maupin family, Gabriel and Marie Hersent my the 8th great grandfather and grandmother, who immigrated to Virginia in the late 1600's by way of France and then Great Britain. Their son Gabriel Maupin owned and operated a a tavern in Wiliamsburg called the Market Square Tavern. It is one of the restored homes in the village and I was able to walk through the hallways and on the grounds where my colonial relatives once lived. There is something magical about remembering those who came before you. Trying to imagine what they might have been thinking when they walked through those doors out into a city on the precipice of a revolutionary war. Were they excited, frightened, or inspired? What was going through their minds as they gathered eggs, or bathed children, tended sheep or mended a torn skirt?

According to my mother's research, Gabriel Maupin purchased the property "for the purpose of Keeping Tavern" as noted in a newspaper article (that I viewed--a facsimile copy--at the John D. Rockefeller, Jr. Library). He also operated a harness and saddlery on the property and Patrick Henry was one of his customers, according to actual receipts for payment that are also archived in the library. Another restored property, The Custis-Maupin House was also owned by the Maupins and has been reconstructed to specifications of a home built in 1840 by John M. Maupin. It was intriguing to walk through the gardens envisioning the family as they carried out their daily chores and routines.

I also visited the Bruton Parish and inquired about Maupin gravestones. One of the curators overheard me asking about the Maupin family and volunteered that his wife was also distantly related to the Maupins. Did I wish to speak with her on the phone? Of course! I wound up talking with a lovely woman about the history of the Maupin family and her knowledge of their homes in Williamsburg over the years. She also clued me in to a Maupin cemetary that could be found, but was not obviously marked, behind the Custis-Maupin homestead. I walked over to find a herd of sleeping, muddy sheep guarding the small brick memorial. There wasn't an easy way to view the cemetery, so as on any good road trip, a little trespassing ensued. With a quick hike of the skirt and a fairly graceful leap, I was over the split rail fence in no time. To my chagrin, the cemetery was wild and unkempt...tall grass towering over the head stones, and several headstones completely collapsed. But it was ironic and morosely romantic too. All this care, time and investment in the grounds, but the space where the actual people rested has not received much attention. I said farewell to the sheep curiously edging closer and closer, and set back out along Nassau Street (Nassau was the name of the ship that my ancestors had taken on their voyage to the new world).

“Hymn to the Creator

O God! whose word spake into birth,
Whate’er existence boasts;
The moon, the stars, the sun, the earth,
The heavens, and all their hosts.
From world to world from sun to sun,
I turn my wondering eyes;
Their swiftest glance thy works outrun:
New suns and worlds arise!”

— The Poems of St. George Tucker of Williamsburg, Virginia 1752-1827

I stayed on the grounds until the sun set and made my way back to the inn, armed with books on the homes, gardens, kitchens and crafts of the Maupins, and the other families of Williamsburg. Much research ensued late into the night at the Holiday Inn Express to connect the births, marriages, trades, baptisms and deaths of the people that came before me. Excited by the colors, textures and curiosities of the past, I fell asleep to sweet dreams of wrought brasswork, succulent dishes of fresh vegetables, and the colonial garden's beauty still present in the modernity of today's fractional, high speed world. Perhaps the original colonists would be perplexed by what they set in motion, or perhaps they would be admiring, noting the fluidity and flashes of the great beauty and connectedness in our shared lives.

Around and Around

Lisa Campbell — Mon, 23 Feb 2015 00:40:33 +0000

Last Sunday afternoon, I spent hours baking gingersnaps (Mom's recipe with black strap molasses, I added a little white pepper), and singing along to John Denver. The bare tree limbs outside the window looked like old men's craggy arms, the sky a broken hearted grey, sketchy clouds hung low hinting of snow, and the sly wind passed snickering. On days like this, it feels good to remember and accept a little depression. Let the bittersweet sadness winter, of time passing, of growing older, be real.

“There’s nowhere to go and there’s nowhere that she’d rather be...

She’s looking for lovers and children playing
She’s looking for signs of the spring

She listens for laughter and sounds of dancing
She listens for any old things”

— John Denver

When we were little girls, we spent many a rainy weekend afternoon in the basement of our split level, singing and dancing without any care of growing older to Mom and Dad's eight track tapes and later their record collection. Olivia Newton John, Roger Whittaker, Sound of Music, Linda Ronstadt, West Side Story, Barbara Streisand, and John Denver--carefully lifting the player's arm, over and over. One song in particular was a tidal wave of longing, John Denver's, "Around and Around." We listened it to at least a hundred times, meticulously helping Dad note every word.

This winter I am looking back, remembering and grateful. But I am also simultaneously looking forward. I feel a specific desire to be mindful. Not to take things for granted. To be here, now. To take that great togetherness and creative energy, and bring it to life in new ways. I still feel the desire to pass along some of the parental blessing I was so lucky to be wrapped in all along, keep sharing the wealth as we say.

This time last year I was beginning to search...seeking many new ideas but one such quest was for a cabinet. Something to hold old blue and white Corningware, Blue Brasserie, bread boxes and collected white pottery pieces. A large piece for the kitchen to accommodate much needed storage for these personal treasures. I considered antiques, Anthropologie, Stanton Design, and finally landed on a wire cabinet with wooden shelves...the last image in this group below.

In some ways this time has been about immersing myself in collections, history, and finding ways to be near to the memories, finding inspiration and connectedness. I am rearranging. Finding ways to integrate the traditions, the vintage things, handed down ways. Making room for the new. Mixing it all together. Understanding what to hang on to. What to let go. What to refinish, what to repair. When to repaint, and when to love the patina. In addition to the new cabinet for the old dishware, we made room for new dining room pieces, that funny enough, looked old and worn in with soft edges, reclaimed wood and distressed paint.

Inevitable and constant change; aging on my mind. My own. Parents. Husband. Sisters. Friends. I feel peaceful, mostly. We have so much time stretching out ahead, it seems like a wide open western road, no end in sight. Then too it's rushing by just like a child's Christmas morning. I have health, awareness and space to appreciate my loving family, and the blessed life that is shared with me. I stand firmly on an amazing solid platform on which to jump with confidence and security. I feel I am living; living without too many fears. I am comfortable with my mistakes, proud of the accomplishments I've achieved, continue to work with intensity, still thrill with experimentation, and seek to cultivate love. This life is wildly fun, difficult and challenging, beautiful and heartbreaking...and I still, "...love to see the sun go down, and the world go around."

January Nesting

Lisa Campbell — Fri, 30 Jan 2015 22:03:00 +0000

“The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.”

— Spellbound, Emily Brontë

If I could do as I pleased each January, I would spend the entire month at home, reading, arranging, cleaning, snuggling up with Lily or a good book, or both. This time last year this is exactly what I did. Sleeping in each day until I was actually well rested. Awakening slowly, enjoying a steaming cup of espresso with milk and reading the New York Times. Proceeding through the day with great care, winding from one interest, to another room, to yet another idea.

We experienced two snow storms last year, one which sent the city into a tailspin and trapped my husband on the highway overnight. But these quiet days, with empty streets, long stretches without interruption afforded much time for stillness. The kind of stillness that encourages the mind to ramble. Gather ideas for wallpaper in the bedroom, sign up for a class on human rights, spend time with Mom and Dad going through old letters, prepare dinner by candlelight and snuggle with my babe on the couch. All the things I treasure, and many of the things that I'd neglected during the last few years of crazy distraction.

“Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.”

— - Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

I nested in my kitchen and researched gardening. I poured over vintage bulb and plant books and searched online. I ordered heirloom seed catalogues and tentatively planned a backyard garden. Sadly I realized that I had been so preoccupied that I didn't even know which part of the yard received enough sun for growing things! So I started with a patch of warmth on the kitchen windowsill, forcing paper whites with shells, water, in vintage Ball jars. Amazing how much I thrilled to the simple joy of watching something grow each day--like a Christmas morning clamoring down the stairs to see the new greenery peeking out like a curious squirrel.

“There are two seasonal diversions that can ease the bite of any winter. One is the January thaw. The other is the seed catalogues.”

— Hal Borland

In January, I spent about seventy-five percent of my time in the kitchen it seems. Cooking in the winter is so satisfying. All day to let a stew simmer. All day to slowly turn the pages old cookbooks...Lee Bailey, Ina Garten, Gena Knox, Alice Waters, James Beard, Martha Stewart, Chuck Williams, and of course Julia. Lots of root vegetables, pastries and sauces. I enjoyed reading, As Always Julia, The Letters of Julia Child & Avis Devoto. Inspired by their lifelong friendship and passion for testing out new ingredients, new spices, new arrangements, I gave in to all kinds of cooking indulgences. Lily, my constant companion, ever on the lookout for a crumb, just any tiny morsel of goodness would do. Mark too the willing companion on these home cooked culinary journeys. And, cooking in the winter means dusk comes early, so too does a glass of wine or champagne!

“Never are voices so beautiful as on a winter’s evening, when dusk almost hides the body, and they seem to issue from nothingness with a note of intimacy seldom heard by day. ”

— Virginia Woolf, Night and Day

The name January has its beginnings in Roman mythology, coming from the Latin word for door (janua) since January is the door to the year. Fitting then that the door to my new year was inside our home, a door I opened to nurture my soul, mind, heart and body. I happily concentrated on renewing and strengthening my relationships with others, and myself, turning away from outside activities in the cold and snow.

“January is the quietest month in the garden. ... But just because it looks quiet doesn’t mean that nothing is happening. The soil, open to the sky, absorbs the pure rainfall while microorganisms convert tilled-under fodder into usable nutrients for the next crop of plants. The feasting earthworms tunnel along, aerating the soil and preparing it to welcome the seeds and bare roots to come.”

— - Rosalie Muller Wright, Editor of Sunset Magazine, 1/99

Bonne Année!

Lisa Campbell — Thu, 15 Jan 2015 22:01:49 +0000

I'm not sure a blog by definition exists if there is only one post? I had high hopes last year of conquering my fear, hesitation, procrastination (whatever I want to, or will call it), of writing a blog post each day. One week passed, a month came and went, and now here it is...an entire year later.

An entire year after a wonderful year of reflection.

I'm not much for resolutions, but at the end of each year I do like to spend some time thinking about the previous months. How did I spend my time, where did I travel, what did I eat and drink, who did I meet, did I read, what did I envision and what did I see, did I learn, was something gained, what was lost, what did I experience?

Last January I had just wrapped up a role leading a digital marketing agency that had lasted eight years. Actually, I was ending a 20 year career in advertising and technology. I wasn't sure that I wanted to end my entire career exactly. But I did need a break. My husband called it my gap year. According to Wikipedia a gap year is a time to, " engage in language studies, learn a trade, art studies, volunteer work, travel, internships, sports...all for the purposes of improving the self in knowledge, maturity, decision making, leadership and independence." I was interested in pursuing this gap year--with gusto.

We started the year with a special trip abroad. A week in Paris with my husband, his brother and our sister-in-law. We had never traveled together but the group quickly slid into a comfortable groove, each day following one another up and down the romantic streets and alleyways. We indulged ourselves and our senses with architecture, art, food, wine, history, markets, and then more food and significantly more wine! We walked for miles and miles, bundled up in wool coats, hats, gloves and scarves. We had our trusty smart phones and old fashioned guides (actual books!), and spent entire days on self guided tours from one end of the city to the other. Of course we had a few tense moments too, one person ready for espresso, another a nap; another jazzed about the cute chapeau shop across the street, and another ready for a nice Pastis.

“But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”

— Ernest Hemingway

“Cities have sexes: London is a man, Paris a woman, and New York a well-adjusted transsexual.”

— Angela Carter

In the spirit of Bicycle Morning, sweet things along this trip included...

Cozy evening cocktails at Hotel Montalembert .

Wonderful pastries and espresso at Hotel L'Abbeye.

A local farm to table curated dinner at Septime, featuring seven exquisite courses and a wildly out of the ordinary wine flight (surprise to my husband who exclaimed, "yes--of course we want this experience"--he thought it was included in the already decadent package).

Traditional French tartare and frites with our friend Marine at Restaurant Bouilllon Chartier.

Treks to as many museums as we could possibly manage including Museum of Montmartre and Renoir Gardens, Musee d'Orsay, and Centre Pompidou.

“To my mind, a picture should be something pleasant, cheerful, and pretty, yes pretty! There are too many unpleasant things in life as it is without creating still more of them.”

— Pierre-Auguste Renoir

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“I’ve seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil.”

— Ernest Hemingway

We talked, laughed, led, followed, debated, pondered, acted out, imbibed, shopped, noticed, cuddled, enjoyed, expanded, observed, argued, supported, encouraged, challenged, agreed and loved. It was the start to my personal moveable feast.

“Méfiez-vous de la merde de chien!”

— M Harper

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.”

— Ernest Hemingway

Starting...ride, ride, ride!

Lisa Campbell — Mon, 18 Aug 2014 20:41:06 +0000

I've been talking about opening a shop called Bicycle Morning for a couple of years now. The initial idea was a physical shop where I would sell beautiful things--modern, artistically designed art and things for the home. Hand crafted pieces found by independent artists I know locally, or new creative minds I discover while traveling. I might also offer vintage finds, unique one of a kind elements like fabric, books, glassware and jewelry. The space will be bright, filled with light. I'll have a screen door, cooler full of iced tea and champagne, with music--sometimes live music--a piano in the corner. Or, guitar played by my husband Mark. Lily will be there with us too--our cocker spaniel. Things in the shop might be things I would find on a Bicycle Morning--sweet things spied in a storefront, or in a doorway, or a cafe. Things to savor, enjoy and delight.

The idea for the name came from a favorite childhood song. Maybe you too fell in love with Billy Sans' song "Bicycle Morning" in 1975? My Grandaddy Billy loved music--all kinds of music. He also loved to buy records and he frequently surprised us with musical treats. This 45 was one such gift. We loved the song "Bicycle Morning," happy and upbeat--with lyrics all about sunshiny days, riding along, and bicycle mornings. If I had to pick a song that represented my childhood this would be the one, especially since one of my other favorites was my red banana seat bicycle with streamers on the handlebars...oh, and a shiny plastic basket, with colorful flowers.

The three Campbell girls would spend hours, entire days riding our bikes. In our minds eye we travelled all over the world, through mountains, over streams, to cities far and wide, to beaches and boardwalks. Along the way, we collected all kinds of things on our bikes, (again in our vivid imaginations these were no mere bikes, they often served as horses, cars and even trains). We gathered wildflowers, stones, pinecones, shells, and pretty twigs--all piled in our baskets. Sometimes we would carry our dolls, a snack, our swimsuits, or books--all essential items for a good day of exploring the world.

So when I thought about a name for the shop Bicycle Morning seemed an appropriate fit. A place to explore my creative energy. A place to share things discovered during travels, and a place to display interesting and unique collections (a gift and a pleasure inherited from my mother). But, unlike my girlhood self, my adult person has found many reasons not to begin the Bicycle Morning creation. Just dreaming but not doing. Thinking but not starting. Until today. This post was written off the cuff. Something I want to cultivate--more spontaneity and courage, less editing and second guessing. So, here's to the start of a Bicycle Morning--it's going to be a sunshiny day, being in love all the way!

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