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“Ever since the day she was born, she could aggravate me one moment, then leave me feeling ashamed for not being a better mother the very next. She simply wants more and needs more than I ever have to give her.”
In 1963, Holly Hendricks and her family moved from the small East Texas town where they have strong family roots to the impersonal city of Dallas. Against a backdrop of local and worldwide turbulence, their once close ties are fragmented. With her mother not coming to terms with losing a son and the father having a breakdown, fourteen-year-old Holly returns to the small town to stay with her Grandma as she tries to cope with the loss of her brother. |
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"A beautifully written piece of literary fiction that touches the heart and explores the agonies of the soul." — Caleb and Linda Pirtle, Here Comes a Mystery
ACCORDING TO MOTHER, when I was a baby I used to wrap my tiny fingers around the garnet ring she wore. Even as a young girl, I liked to curl up on Mother’s lap when she read to me and fix the ring between my thumb and forefinger, and turn it slightly so the light danced off its facets. I would gaze at its blood-red sparkle, pretending to be a prima ballerina or an acrobat standing on top of a prancing pony, until my eyelids grew heavy and I fell asleep. Mother didn’t place much value on anything unless it was green or needed watering, and she could never understand why anyone would let their passion for what they wanted obscure the very smallness of their dreams; most of which, in her opinion, were a total waste of time.
As I got a little older, I lost interest in dancing on point or chasing a trapeze high above the ground. Instead, I began to set my sights on having an apple tree for my very own. It wasn’t just any apple tree I yearned for, though, but one like the tree I had seen a thousand times in the old third-grade reader I discovered in my grandfather’s library. For many years, the little reader had remained tenderly hidden among his musty volumes of judicial law and religious philosophy. My father had scrawled his name on the inside cover: This book belongs to Ross Hendricks. Just under his signature, he had written Miss Agar’s Third Grade Class in his imperfect hand.
While my cousins and younger brother played outside at family gatherings, I would shuffle through the books in the tall, glass door cabinets that lined the library walls, searching the unkempt hardbacks for any with glossy pictures. Pleasant scenes jumped off the pages, letting my mind run as free as the other children that whooped and hollered across the lawn. Sometimes poetry and love notes blossomed in fancy penmanship on the faded flyleaves, unveiling their author’s most tender feelings. I would go ask Daddy to read me what these secret lovers had written generations ago. These intimate glimpses from the past, however, never captured my imagination like the apple tree in the reader with the happy family gathered around it. Its branches were brimming with large red apples, the same color as Mother’s garnet ring. Daddy promised me that someday I could have a tree exactly like it.
I believed what he said. Each time I looked out at the pine trees and post oaks that cluttered our lawn, I expected to see an apple tree shooting out of the ground as if Daddy had waved a magic wand. When several weeks passed and nothing happened, I was certain he had forgotten all about his promise.
“Don’t you worry,” Daddy assured me when I reminded him of the tree. “I haven’t forgotten. Here, let me show you something.”
I stood by impatiently as he polished a Red Delicious apple against his shirtfront until its dark peel glistened. He pulled out his pocket knife, unfolded the blade, and ceremoniously sliced the apple in perfect halves.
“You see these little brown seeds?” he asked, pointing them out with the tip of his knife.
“Mother always throws them away,” I responded. “If you swallow the seeds, a tree will grow in your stomach.” I had gotten that information from my grandmother Bibi, who was always saying things to scare us.
“Apple trees do grow from seeds like these, but whoever told you they would grow in your stomach is simply wrong. Now, why don’t you take these seeds, plant them, and see what happens? Sometimes, when you want something, it’s best to make it happen yourself. You’ll always be disappointed if you wait on someone else to do something for you.”
From then on, I insisted on saving the seeds from every apple I ate.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do with those seeds,” Mother chided. “It’s foolish to think an apple tree would grow in East Texas.”
“Don’t throw them away,” I begged her.
“Well, here. Put them on the windowsill to dry.”
A few days later, on a mid-summer morning beneath a sweltering sun, I knelt beside the rose garden Mother had planted parallel to our backyard fence and dug a shallow hole between two of her prized bushes. I then reached into my pocket for the handkerchief that held my tiny seeds. I carefully untied the handkerchief and just as carefully, clutched each seed between my fingers before dropping it in the hole.
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you,” Mother cautioned when I came back inside. “Nothing’s going to grow in this kind of weather. Too hot. Now go wash that dirt off my spoon and don’t let me catch you taking it outside again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied in my meekest voice.
Every day for nearly a month, I carried Mother’s rusty watering can to the exact spot I had marked with a Popsicle stick. The hot Texas sun would dry up the dirt almost as soon as I dampened it.
When my seeds failed to sprout, Daddy and I went to Turner’s Feed & Seed Supply searching for a small tree like the ones featured in the Stark Brothers catalog. Mr. Turner said he had never carried any apple seedlings and didn’t know anyone around here who did. Daddy told me not to worry. He said that all dreams come true for those who believe and those who wait. Not long after that, he kept the promise he had made to me in a very special way.
As I got a little older, I lost interest in dancing on point or chasing a trapeze high above the ground. Instead, I began to set my sights on having an apple tree for my very own. It wasn’t just any apple tree I yearned for, though, but one like the tree I had seen a thousand times in the old third-grade reader I discovered in my grandfather’s library. For many years, the little reader had remained tenderly hidden among his musty volumes of judicial law and religious philosophy. My father had scrawled his name on the inside cover: This book belongs to Ross Hendricks. Just under his signature, he had written Miss Agar’s Third Grade Class in his imperfect hand.
While my cousins and younger brother played outside at family gatherings, I would shuffle through the books in the tall, glass door cabinets that lined the library walls, searching the unkempt hardbacks for any with glossy pictures. Pleasant scenes jumped off the pages, letting my mind run as free as the other children that whooped and hollered across the lawn. Sometimes poetry and love notes blossomed in fancy penmanship on the faded flyleaves, unveiling their author’s most tender feelings. I would go ask Daddy to read me what these secret lovers had written generations ago. These intimate glimpses from the past, however, never captured my imagination like the apple tree in the reader with the happy family gathered around it. Its branches were brimming with large red apples, the same color as Mother’s garnet ring. Daddy promised me that someday I could have a tree exactly like it.
I believed what he said. Each time I looked out at the pine trees and post oaks that cluttered our lawn, I expected to see an apple tree shooting out of the ground as if Daddy had waved a magic wand. When several weeks passed and nothing happened, I was certain he had forgotten all about his promise.
“Don’t you worry,” Daddy assured me when I reminded him of the tree. “I haven’t forgotten. Here, let me show you something.”
I stood by impatiently as he polished a Red Delicious apple against his shirtfront until its dark peel glistened. He pulled out his pocket knife, unfolded the blade, and ceremoniously sliced the apple in perfect halves.
“You see these little brown seeds?” he asked, pointing them out with the tip of his knife.
“Mother always throws them away,” I responded. “If you swallow the seeds, a tree will grow in your stomach.” I had gotten that information from my grandmother Bibi, who was always saying things to scare us.
“Apple trees do grow from seeds like these, but whoever told you they would grow in your stomach is simply wrong. Now, why don’t you take these seeds, plant them, and see what happens? Sometimes, when you want something, it’s best to make it happen yourself. You’ll always be disappointed if you wait on someone else to do something for you.”
From then on, I insisted on saving the seeds from every apple I ate.
“I don’t know what you’re going to do with those seeds,” Mother chided. “It’s foolish to think an apple tree would grow in East Texas.”
“Don’t throw them away,” I begged her.
“Well, here. Put them on the windowsill to dry.”
A few days later, on a mid-summer morning beneath a sweltering sun, I knelt beside the rose garden Mother had planted parallel to our backyard fence and dug a shallow hole between two of her prized bushes. I then reached into my pocket for the handkerchief that held my tiny seeds. I carefully untied the handkerchief and just as carefully, clutched each seed between my fingers before dropping it in the hole.
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you,” Mother cautioned when I came back inside. “Nothing’s going to grow in this kind of weather. Too hot. Now go wash that dirt off my spoon and don’t let me catch you taking it outside again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied in my meekest voice.
Every day for nearly a month, I carried Mother’s rusty watering can to the exact spot I had marked with a Popsicle stick. The hot Texas sun would dry up the dirt almost as soon as I dampened it.
When my seeds failed to sprout, Daddy and I went to Turner’s Feed & Seed Supply searching for a small tree like the ones featured in the Stark Brothers catalog. Mr. Turner said he had never carried any apple seedlings and didn’t know anyone around here who did. Daddy told me not to worry. He said that all dreams come true for those who believe and those who wait. Not long after that, he kept the promise he had made to me in a very special way.
Book Clubs & Reading Groups Discussion Guide
| The Eyes of the Doe Reading Guide |
From the author
My inspiration was from a similar life experience and poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, “The Buck in the Snow,” which expresses how quickly and unexpectedly life can be taken away. Those left behind are forever wary as they go about their lives. My father actually did tie apples in an oak tree when I was young in response to my wanting an apple tree. I live by what he taught me from that experience: I could have anything I wanted if I waited long enough and thought hard enough about it.
My inspiration was from a similar life experience and poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay, “The Buck in the Snow,” which expresses how quickly and unexpectedly life can be taken away. Those left behind are forever wary as they go about their lives. My father actually did tie apples in an oak tree when I was young in response to my wanting an apple tree. I live by what he taught me from that experience: I could have anything I wanted if I waited long enough and thought hard enough about it.
Discussion Questions
1. What life lesson does Holly learn from her father at an early age?
2. How would you describe Jewell’s viewpoint on life?
3. Why does Holly think her father can predict the future?
4. In what way does Ross favor his son over his two daughters?
5. How is sibling rivalry depicted in the story?
6. What incidents in the story reveal either racial bias or racial tolerance?
7. In what ways does Holly feel alienated from her family?
8. How do Jake’s friends feel about Holly?
9. How does Holly’s faith change throughout the story?
10. What does Holly learn from Antarctica, her grandmother’s caretaker?
1. What life lesson does Holly learn from her father at an early age?
2. How would you describe Jewell’s viewpoint on life?
3. Why does Holly think her father can predict the future?
4. In what way does Ross favor his son over his two daughters?
5. How is sibling rivalry depicted in the story?
6. What incidents in the story reveal either racial bias or racial tolerance?
7. In what ways does Holly feel alienated from her family?
8. How do Jake’s friends feel about Holly?
9. How does Holly’s faith change throughout the story?
10. What does Holly learn from Antarctica, her grandmother’s caretaker?
Other Books by Patricia Taylor Wells
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