Welcome to the creative home of artist and maker Charlotte Lyons.

thanks for having me



It's my birthday today and a crummy week has turned lovely all of a sudden, at last. Funny how that works. 

You all are so sweet about my mom- I thought you would like this latest. One of the best gauges of how Mom's doing is her handwriting. I love - and always have - her beautiful, chic, spunky penmanship. At Thanksgiving it was entirely illegible, but she has made great improvements since then - and it shows in her writing too.

Mom bought this card on the sneak when we were at Target last week (stocking up on animal print bra's and warmer shirts for colder days). Every day since, she has asked if she could give it to me and I said, nah, save it for my actual birthday. She was putting it in the mail Thursday and I got panicked that it might get lost, so I brought it home and set it aside.

Today I opened it. 



It was rumpled and smudged all over from the week of days living in her pocketbook.



By the time I got to the last page, it was stained with tears too. Oh, the message - in her beautiful handwriting returned to what it was- just about the sweetest gift!

Got in the car, stopped at the market for flowers and take-away lunch and dashed over to her place. The roses were so pretty, pink and cream, all bundled up just like a baby girl. Laughing through tears, I gave them to her and said, thanks for having me! She laughed and cried which made me cry. We had a birthday picnic in her sunny kitchen and I had a very good time crying all the way home.

So far, it's been a really nice birthday. I feel like I'm 10 again and that the clock turned back a titch, for once. Off for a dinner out with the girls, James, Andy and a few friends. A wonderful day!

P.S. The tennis shoes mention- she really dislikes the old running shoes I wear every day. Shopping that day, she proclaimed, like it or not, I've got to get some new ones. So there. Sheesh, I hope there aren't any available in my size in cheetah print when we go out looking.


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