Eulogy for Max Fishman: 1914-2011

I used to tell people about my 90-year old friend Max. Invariably,

they’d think something along the lines of “Oh how nice of you, Mordecai, to

give up some of your precious time to visit a poor, elderly man! I’m sure he

appreciates it.” These people didn’t know Max Fishman. The phrase “poor,

elderly man” conjures an image so far removed from the man I knew and

came to cherish, you really have to have met him to truly believe it. Had I

not been fortunate enough to have met him, to have known him, and to have

forged a real and lasting friendship with him during the last years of his life,

perhaps I wouldn’t have believed it myself. The time I spent with him was

precious—indeed a pleasure that we shared, borne out of a mutual respect

that belied the 70 years that separated us. We enjoyed each other’s

company immensely: we could talk and laugh for hours about everything

under the sun; we’d look at pictures, or go to Tim Horton’s (Max’s favorite

“local” coffee shop); we’d roast marshmallows in his living room fireplace, or

eat “homemade” (that is to say, un-frozen) pizza on a Friday afternoon.

Hanging out at 1523 Lilac was my favourite escape from the undergraduate

bubble at King’s College, where I was studying philosophy and stressing over

papers and exams. In fact, I can’t imagine my university life without it. Max

had a sixth sense for those times when my nose was stuck too deeply in

another book. I’d get a message on my phone that said simply (but loudly),

“Mordechai! What happened to ya??” This was the only encouragement I

needed to bring me back to his door, asking for some more tea and pizza –

which he was always happy to provide.

Max and I first met and became friends at Beth Israel during my first

year at King’s, in 2003-2004. Though my connection to Judaism and desire

to go to shul waxed and waned throughout my time at university, Max’s

presence there was a major draw, and the possibility of hanging out with him

kept me coming back. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say he was the

most popular guy there, dividing his attention between the kids he would

tease and the adults he would kibbitz with. He had a remarkable ability to

connect with anyone—no matter how young or how old. One of the funniest

things I have ever witnessed in my life is Max pulling out his fake teeth in

order to one-up a 5-year old that he was having a face-making competition

with. I don’t need to tell you who came out victorious in that battle! Yet

despite his in-demand status as Mr. Popular, he always made time for me –

this random 19-year old who was new at shul. He delighted in the fact that

we shared the same Hebrew name (he would call himself “the other

Mordechai’) and that we were both born in the month of May. Indeed, we’d

go on to celebrate our birthdays together many times, including most

recently in 2009. As we were soon to discover, Max and I had lots in

common, and ever since that first year at Beth Israel, we’ve been the best of

friends.
 Not to say that our relationship was all sunshine and lollipops though. If

you knew Max, you’ll remember that he was never one to shy away way

from a good argument. And in fact, sometimes it seemed that there was

nothing he enjoyed more. One of our biggest points of contention was about

our chosen fields of study in university. Max studied engineering, which he

claimed was the most “practical” profession, and he would chide me

constantly for choosing to study something so impractical, so “useless,” as

philosophy. He would to me say, “Mordecai, you don’t think mechanically like

I do…You don’t put 2 and 2 together and expect to get 4 - You expect to get

four and half or something in between, like a shade. And then you want to

discuss why you did it! That’s philosophy isn’t it?”

But though he would mock philosophy, I always contended that I have

never met a philosopher the calibre of Max Fishman. Anyone who has come

into contact with Max—at shul or elsewhere –will know of the zeal he had for

asking questions. This, no doubt, was one reason why he was so socially

adept. He could strike up a conversation with anyone because of his sheer

curiosity, his willingness to probe anyone and everyone to their depths. But

he would do so gently, kindly, out of love and genuine interest. Nevertheless,

even Max conceded that he used to drive his teachers crazy with all his

questions. Max always talked about his love of picking apart machines—

dismantling them to see how they were built. This, he admitted, is much

more enjoyable than putting it back together again. And it struck me at some

point, that this is precisely what I did in my studies: dismantled thoughts,

idea and texts to see how they are constructed. And of course I also found it

far more exciting to break down an idea than to rebuild it.

When he wasn’t asking questions, Max was usually telling stories – and a

phenomenal storyteller he was, able to recreate a moment and really make

you feel like you were there. I loved hearing about him eating hot chickpeas

out of paper cones on the streets of Brooklyn, before he left there at the age

of 5 ¾; how he and his friends would sail up the Northwest arm in Halifax,

charming the ladies who waited by the shore; how he worked as a camp

counsellor, getting the kids to behave with the promise of ice cream; and

how his dad basically invented the modern grocery store system…

Indeed I got so addicted to his tales that I would bring my friends over

to hang out with him. Max was always incredibly gracious—happy to meet

and chat with anyone (for hours!) who was important to me. Sometimes

people would come expecting a ‘cute’ experience with a sweet, senile old

man. But they quickly realized—as anyone did—that Max was actually 10

steps ahead of you, and that it was hard to keep up with him. Nothing got

past Max. I got in the habit of mailing him postcards from various places I

was visiting. Once I picked up a postcard in Egypt and mailed it to him when

I returned to Canada. Of course, he noticed the Canadian postal stamp and

gave me a hard time for not sending it from its original location. I should

have known I couldn’t sneak that one by him.

 Max was always up for anything and was incredibly supportive of my

random endeavours. When I stage-managed a play in second year, he came

to watch it and, later, talked for hours about the bizarre architecture and how

it could have been better constructed. When I got an award at City Hall in

3rd year, I asked Max if he would take me. We were running a bit late and

couldn’t find parking anywhere near the building. “What will we do??’’ I

asked. “Don’t worry,” he answered. “I save this for special occasions,” he

said, pulling out his handicapped access sign, which I had never seen before.

We arrived on time and I had a wonderful time watching Max work the crowd

—charming the mayor himself and everyone else in the room—while I hung

back shyly. When I graduated in 2007, I was given 3 tickets to my

graduation. My parents made the trip from Ottawa, but there was no

question in my mind as to who would get that third ticket—and again I

watched Max win over my friends and their families with his casual wit and

spry demeanour.

One of the things that always impressed me about Max was how he

managed to keep up with the times to the extent that he wanted, while

always staying true to himself. He drove his car through the streets of Halifax

up until not long ago; but he was adamant about not wasting his time in

front of the computer. And while he was an avid shul-goer, he also made it

clear it wasn’t out of simple obligation: “I’m over 70, I can do what I want” he

always said.
 I will always remember Max most from our conversations that lasted

for hours, and from the laughter that inevitably punctuated them. Indeed,

what I’ll miss the most is his unflinching, wholehearted laugh—that came

straight from the belly, and was so genuine. He would sometimes laugh so

hard that he would have to take off his glasses, lest they fell off his nose.

And often, at some point in our conversations we would reach an insight that

caused Max to say “put that in your file!” There’s no doubt that Max has

given me a lifetime’s worth of material for that file, and for that I am ever

grateful. He was a man who knew how to live, to learn, and to laugh – and he

never stopped living, learning, and laughing in all his many years. He will be

missed.