"(O)ne of the hardest things we have to learn is that some questions do not have answers."
—Mrs. Mullins, A Taste of Blackberries, PP. 61-62
The list of books for younger readers dealing with issues of losing a loved one is long and illustrious, and includes many great American classics. Bridge to Terabithia by two-time Newbery Medalist Katherine Paterson is one of the best-known, an exercise so profound in its understanding of human emotion as to set it apart from all else that came before or could ever follow it. There's also The Lottery Rose by Irene Hunt, Roller Skates by Ruth Sawyer, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, Nana Upstairs and Nana Downstairs by Tomie dePaola, Annie and the Old One by Miska Miles, Nobody's Fault? by Patricia Hermes, On My Honor by Marion Dane Bauer, Charlotte's Web by E.B. White—in all probability the greatest of them all—and a host of others too numerous to mention individually. A Taste of Blackberries is one of the shortest juvenile books on the subject of death I've ever read, just eighty-five pages of relatively large font, and it goes by so quickly you might miss the magnitude of its meaning if you aren't careful to take it slow and absorb every moment of understated brilliance it has to offer. Pound for pound, A Taste of Blackberries is within shouting distance of the greatest books I've ever read, painted in strokes of plain, simple beauty, the incredible shining light of shared human experience hidden behind actions routine and unspectacular. A spoken sentence here or there reveals the depths of a lifetime of adoration and the mourning still to come over the loss of one so special it rips our hearts out just as it does to the mother who must give her luminously endowed son back to the soil, knowing nothing in the universe can replace a one and only son. In remarkably spare, unadorned writing, Doris Buchanan Smith delivers a stunner of a novel that gets to the point and does it quickly, allowing us a glimpse, while its few pages still turn beneath our fingers, of a young life snuffed out before those around him have time to comprehend what has happened, and the aftermath of sudden tragedy as it settles back into the pitiless reality of eternity. I don't see how one could reemerge the same person after the experience of reading A Taste of Blackberries.
Jamie is a source of constant amazement to his best friend, who is never given a name in this book. Jamie is playful and unpredictable, taking chances where his friend is wary, not worried about neighborhood legends and cautionary tales to stick close to home and stay beneath the radar of grownups who are reportedly mean to kids. Jamie is the kind of boy who will sneak into the yard of the neighbor rumored to carry a gun to prevent theft from his prized apple tree, filch the shiny red fruit from the tree in question, and dash back to his friend's side with an apple for each of them, laughing about the risk he took to get it. Where Jamie is showy and attracts attention, his friend merely watches his antics in quiet astonishment, knowing he would never duplicate Jamie's actions even if he could. Who wants to always be on the brink of getting into trouble?
But Jamie's penchant for mischief backfires on him when he and a group of friends from the neighborhood agree to work for the cranky lady next door to remove beetles from her yard. No one ever knew about Jamie's particular medical vulnerability, not even Jamie, and an afternoon of paid fun rounding up herbivorous beetles in glass jars morphs in an instant into a shocking tragedy no one could have foreseen. The boy whom the word irrepressible could have been invented to describe is gone in a few minutes of fateful inaction, so quickly there's no time for his friends to fear the worst before it comes upon them. How Jamie's best friend would love to endure the anxiety of his daring escapades now, to resurrect to existence the kid whose presence changed those around him moment by moment, never allowing a careful approach to spoil the fun of any situation.
Step by step as he wanders through his normal routine, Jamie's best friend runs up against places in his life where Jamie made his mark, a far deeper mark than he'd ever noticed. It's the window he stood at flashing morse code across their yards to Jamie and receiving signals back, communicating without words as effectively as if they were speaking face to face. It's the blackberry patch that sits untouched now down by the river, luscious berries hanging ready to be picked and added to the basket, so ripe they practically fall off the stem at the faintest touch. This new silence in the neighborhood is as loud a presence as Jamie ever was, conspicuously lacking an untamed, unrepentant boy to start the party. What can Jamie's best friend do to fill the quiet of missing someone he often viewed as an exasperation to be tolerated, now that Jamie has stepped off the gangplank of this life into the ether of eternity, never to rile up the neighbors again, never to show up at his mother's door with a fresh batch of blackberries ready for baking, never to take on the world with his crazy ideas and keep everyone on their toes?
Jamie's friend has no way of knowing what he's supposed to do with the fact that Jamie is dead. Should he talk to Jamie's mother or four-year-old sister, Martha, about the boy in their life who was taken too soon? Should he know what the loss means to himself and his family, or how it affects the community, and come up with a meaningful tribute to Jamie based on that knowledge? Jamie's best friend has no idea how to handle any of this. All he has is his reaction in the present moment, dealing in the next breath with what has been lost and trying to figure out what he wants to do about it. There are no outside expectations for his response to Jamie's death, leaving him free to react naturally to the tragedy that has touched them all. And in an afternoon of dawning perception as he takes time to listen to what Jamie would say to him now, Jamie's friend comes up with a gesture of love so breathtakingly beautiful in its simplicity of expression, the most hardened readers will be unable to staunch the flow of tears as a boy lost without the friend he has known forever reunites with the spirit of the only one who could ever be a best friend in his life. The moment is fleeting and bittersweet, but its resounding emotion will never loosen its hold on the reader's heart.
"(R)ipples go on forever and ever, even when you can't see them anymore."
—A Taste of Blackberries, P. 45
The name of Jamie's best friend is withheld throughout A Taste of Blackberries, and I think that's a good thing. Rather than just reading a sad story about friends separated by the perplexing injustice of childhood death, we are invited to fill the shoes of Jamie's friend, to feel his imminent loss as our own, but only after meeting Jamie and getting to have him as our friend a little while, too. Jamie isn't perfect, and there's no need for him to be; who ever heard of a perfect friend? But he is a friend, along with everything that designation entails, and the loss of a friend forever hits much harder than the death of a paragon of kindness, fairness and virtuosity from afar. Because we are brought so close to the story by stepping into the position of Jamie's best friend, the sudden loss is much more real and emotional than it would have been, and the final moment as the story closes is as personal and intense as anything I've ever read.
A Taste of Blackberries is a master work of human emotion, perhaps the greatest novel of its size I've encountered. I can scarcely conceive how Doris Buchanan Smith was able to infuse a story of such brevity with so much power, a classic for the ages that will never lose its ability to touch hearts, no matter how much the world changes. A big part of me wants to give four and a half stars to this book, and had it won the 1974 Newbery Medal, I'm not sure I could have come up with a more deserving alternative. A Taste of Blackberries will always be one of the most memorable, meaningful books I've ever read, and its echo will never cease ringing in my heart.