Emily Carter

About Emily Carter

Emily loves dogs, exercise, snacks, robust conversation, a collection of worn books, her Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit, and channeling thoughts into sentences. As familiar as breathing, she writes and she reads, creative non-fiction prose and poetry.

Blue Birds and Courage

On the 23rd of December 1953, my parents married in the parsonage of Bethlehem Baptist, Mom’s home church. Aunt Margie and Uncle Max served as witnesses, signing their license, certifying them in holy matrimony.

Family legend has it that Daddy borrowed a pick-up, and they spent their wedding night at an Asheboro Motel. In his youthful exuberance to check in and escort his brand-new bride into the room, he neglected to turn off the headlights. The next morning, Christmas Eve, brought a dead battery requiring a stranger’s jumper cables. Mom was twenty-one; Daddy, twenty-five.

They made their way back to Carthage and started their life together in a small wooden house on Grandaddy Barber’s land. With a scrawny cedar tree, one that they chopped down in the woods, they celebrated their first Christmas. I’m not sure how many ornaments it had, probably not many and certainly no lights as electricity cost dinero. Personally, I only knew the red glass lantern and the little blue bird that were said to have been with us from the beginning, but fourteen years and four children preceded me.

By |2023-12-23T14:30:09-05:00December 23, 2023|Uncategorized|1 Comment

Carbolicious

The wooden trough lived in the bottom kitchen cabinet, the one to the left of the sink that stuck sometimes, requiring a hip check. Stocked with a heavy blanket of flour, the trough served as the base of all things biscuit. Mom retrieved it from its shelf, bumped the door closed, and began the process with a clump of lard and a pond of buttermilk. She used her hand to swirl the ingredients until they coagulated into dough. I stood beside her on a metal step stool holding my faithful stuffed companion, Winnie the Pooh.

My family has big hands – short digits, broad knuckles. They are the hands of working people, cow milkers and row hoers. I watched Mom’s strong-boned, olive toned hands work magic in flower beds and French braids, but they seemed most at home in flour. A small square diamond and thin gold wedding band adorned her unpolished nails, buffed, and filed into crescent moons.

By |2023-12-08T21:19:45-05:00December 8, 2023|Uncategorized|6 Comments

Why You Gotta Be So Mean?

Back in the spring, we gathered for a weekend with the Carter cousins. They are Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit’s blood kin, but I adore these people. SHLB once suggested that the cousins loved me more than him, to which they replied, “It’s not that we love her more, it’s that she’s more fun.”  See what I mean? They are the best.

If SHLB and I ever split, I’ve already reserved these cousins in the settlement, along with the Beaufort house, and Toast, the dog, of course, which leaves him without the S, H, and L. Poor ole hard, cold, lonesome Mr. Biscuit. Not that any of that is ever going to happen but it’s good to put clear intentions in writing and then publish them on the inter-webs as insurance. (Just last night SHLB reminded me that he’s a harmonica player with blues in his heart.) Lord Jesus, have mercy.

By |2023-10-11T20:13:35-04:00October 11, 2023|Uncategorized|6 Comments

30 Days Hath September

At the onset of September, I’m on alert for the first frost, longing for the pumpkins I wish I’d planted. In my fantasy farm life, I sow a late garden, a patch of turnip greens, mixed with some collards. I’m industrious in using the remaining corn stalks to satiate my cows, preserving hay for January. Once the stalks are all harvested, I disc the ground with my fancy-schmancy, climate-controlled John Deere tractor, turning the soil for its winter rest. I walk my pumpkin patch, coaxing a few more pounds out of the prize winner that is sure to secure my position as champion at the State Fair. The weight of the pumpkin requires a comma. Standing on the platform with the hog, chicken, and heifer winners, dressed in flannel, I beam with pride and acknowledge the other winners with a nod of respect. In a moment of altruism, I donate my pumpkin to Trader Joe’s, because dang if they don’t transform their entire fall store menu into pumpkin. They even have pumpkin tortilla chips, which will become Emily’s Tortilla Chips in honor of my pumpkin.

By |2023-09-20T20:27:47-04:00September 20, 2023|Uncategorized|5 Comments

Sinking Sand

The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and Scooby Doo schooled me in criminal justice. I most identified with Velma, as I liked her brains, brawn, and sporty eyeglasses. A fraidy cat by nature, it’s hard to explain my fascination with scary and mysterious – sometimes there’s a craving to breathe fire, even while knowing its capacity and willingness to torch your tonsils.

My friends, siblings, cousins, (and anyone else I could persuade to play with me,) acted out detective scenes under my directed intensity. The big caper was ours for the solving.  While we didn’t know what crime had been committed, we were on the lookout for serendipitous clues, and the world was safer with our investigative savvy.

By |2024-06-18T12:48:59-04:00August 16, 2023|Uncategorized|4 Comments

All This From Someone Who Looks Like Me

The coffee café appears to be open seating. Sofas and fat cushioned high backs nestle the perimeter in an inviting manner. Chairs are arranged for chatting, reading, and enjoying a beverage while contemplating the innerworkings of existence over a dirty chai tea latte, which is good, because that’s my plan. I situate myself near a bay window. Two turquoise-colored purses reserve a burgundy couch, so I sink into a chubby armchair in the corner. The barista created a feathery leaf with foam atop my beverage, it makes me smile and I admire it before I take a sip. As I bring my cup to my lips, the owners of the purses return with their orders. They look at me as if I’ve been rolling in some type of dung, as if the mere sight and scent of me has somehow offended them. The way they emit disdain toward me catches me off guard.

“Hope y’all don’t mind if I sit here.”

“Guess not,” one of them answers.

I scan the room for a place to relocate. No vacant chair presents itself. When our rescue dog, Toast, senses bad tempered energy, she spontaneously combusts into a growl-bark that causes her body to levitate. It’s part cartoon wonder dog and part werewolf, frightening and fascinating in her ability to intuitively sniff out and react to bullshit. I consider how satisfying it would feel to growl-bark at these gals until my feet lift from the wood plank flooring, their long hair flying back in my caninesque wake.

By |2023-07-24T19:24:35-04:00July 24, 2023|Uncategorized|6 Comments

String of Pearls

The self-checkout lane of Walmart spills into the clothing department. The alert the manager light flashes, a warning that someone has incited a smack-down by contesting the ring up on Duke’s Mayo, plus the pink flamingo fabric was supposed to be 5.88 a yard, not 6.88. Hell hath no fury like an overcharged Walmartian. Price confirmation across the acreage, especially since Home Goods (located on the back 40,) is now involved, takes a hot second.

My buggy and I keep rolling, sizing up our choices. The least populated line has an older sprite of a woman at the register, and I accept my fate, falling in behind a family dressed in Sunday go to meeting kind of clothes – even though it’s Friday. The cashier’s nametag identifies her as Pearl.

Pearl isn’t a name I see that often anymore. It takes me back to the Miss Pearls of my childhood. The ones who taught me Bible School. The Pearls with permed hair who made cookies shaped like Windmills and served chilled grape Kool-Aid from a metal dipper in our church basement. The Miss Pearls who were widowed in the Civil War, sang in the choir, and seemed to be somewhere between sixty and one hundred and four. They were ancient, yet ageless. Ageless, yet ancient.

By |2023-06-20T16:11:39-04:00June 20, 2023|Uncategorized|8 Comments

Side of Toast

“Hello, this is Emily.”

“Hi Emily. It’s Kristen from Austin Outreach. We spoke this morning about the application that you submitted for adopting a pet this fall.”

“Yes, of course. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. I have a situation and that’s why I’m calling. I told you there weren’t any pets in our Outreach pipeline right now and gave you some other resources, but we got a call today from one of our families asking to return a pet to our program.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, it would be an immediate foster situation. The dog’s name is Toast, and she would need to be re-homed right away. She has too much energy for the current owners, and they are giving her back to us. The way this would work is that you, your husband, and Toast could all take a trial week and see how it works out. Her picture can be found on our website. It may not align with your timeline, but Dr. Austin thinks she might be a good fit for your family.”

 

Decision making varies in the Carter household. While I’d like to say that I’m more decisive than Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit, if you’ve ever been in a restaurant with me, you know that I like to converse about the selections, discuss the server’s personal favorites, and take a tour of the kitchen. If they allow a guest Sous Chef and I get to wear one of those fancy toques blanches, as I contemplate my order, even better. If you’re dining at my table, please feel free to get an appetizer and recline with a CBD gummy as I explore the menu options.

By |2024-06-18T12:48:25-04:00June 15, 2023|Uncategorized|6 Comments

Recovering Positive

One of my God assigned traits is positivity. Gallup calls it a strength, and it is. Mostly. As with coins, there are two sides. For the sake of this writing, I’m going to refer to positivity as Posi – an alter (or maybe upper) ego. See how easily and willingly you agreed to this – that’s Posi in motion.

As an example, when Posi gets hyped up on, say, espresso martinis or dirty chai tea lattes, things get a little wild. It’s Posi who likes to talk a group of people into doing athletic events where we almost all (at some point) wish to die. Other times, Posi influences me, and a half dozen of my friends to spontaneously buy airline tickets causing a hurried explanation to SHLB as I throw clothes in a suitcase that I’m going hiking in Colorado – tomorrow.

For the most part, Posi and I are old pals. She has lent me grit and determination fueling many a success. Part of her charm is how she regards and wields words akin to her – possible, possibilities, opossum, possessed. See how she spins things in her favor, how she postulates. With this strong bend toward opportunity, Posi is reluctant to say or even think the word no. She’s cringing as I type it, pouting on my shoulder, drumming her fingers on my collarbone, building her defense. With Posi – the planet is an enthusiastic YASSSSSS!

By |2023-05-24T20:45:27-04:00May 24, 2023|Uncategorized|1 Comment
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