Memoir of Lisa:
We were lying on the beach on a balmy August day, trying to soak up the remainder of a summer that had, as usual, passed too quickly. It occurred to me that grandpa might like to join us, for although he was living just five minutes away, he had not yet gone down to the beach. His legs unsteady and eyesight poor, he preferred to remain on the boardwalk with the others, watching the joggers and cyclists whiz by, their youth freeing them to enjoy the summer. But as Max had always loved the beach, dad and I decided to drive over to the hotel to see if he would like to join us.
We parked the car, and as we approached the ramp to the boardwalk we saw a stooped figure sitting on a low stone ledge behind the hotel. It was Max, dressed in lightweight slacks and sportshirt, his straw hat low on his forehead. We approached him silently so as not to confuse him, but upon reaching him extended our greetings. It was an awkward moment of recognition for him, his startled expression quickly melting into one of dispassionate interest. He was waiting for the bus that would take him to the hospital where his old friend, Barney, lay dying. With somewhat of a smirk on his face, he made an off-hand remark about senior citizens paying half-price for the bus, flipping the quarter slowly in his hand.
We asked him to come to the beach with us, buoyantly extolling the virtues of the sand and ocean and reminding him of his love for the water. There were lots of people around, and mom was there, and a cool breeze was rolling off the waves. It would certainly be more pleasant to spend the afternoon at the beach than to sit at the bedside of one who could no longer recognize him, who could no longer even speak. Max resisted for awhile; it was his duty, after all, to see the man with whom he had worked for so many years one last time. But we could sense that he really did not want to go, and he let our arguments persuade him to join us. I waited outside while dad helped him change into the bathing suit that hadn't been worn in months, and the three of us drove the short distance back to the beach.
Max reacted to the beach like a kid feeling the sand for the first time. But unlike the child, Max's sensations were enlivened by a flood of memories of this beach – interminable family gatherings and the requisite bar-b-ques in someone's backyard. It had truly been a long time, but Max's memory was acute, and we talked of people whose lives had since undergone changes as radical as his own.
Later dad and I convinced Max to try the water out. The waves were fairly small, but active enough so that we held Max's elbows as he gingerly stepped into the ocean. We advanced a few feet, just enough to allow the waves to crash up against his legs and wet his bathing suit. A squeal of delight came out of him, followed by a true Max Leavitt belly-laugh as he teetered back and forth, although somewhat unsteadily. He was so exhilarated to be with us amidst the joyful noises and sights of humanity. Refreshed, we went back to the blanket, and Max began to talk about his life.
I was given the opportunity to get to know my grandfather when he moved to New York from Florida in April, 1978. After his second wife had left him, Max's children decided that he couldn't be alone, and so brought him to a retirement hotel on Long Island. During the next eight months, I spent more time with Max than ever before. At first I couldn't talk to him about anything but trivialities. Essentially we were strangers to one another; given my ignorance of what the man Max Leavitt was like, how could I possibly confront the trauma of his wife leaving him? But in being with his family again he was gradually able to achieve some clarity. He badly needed to talk it out, and to have his family to listen and help him comprehend the progression of events. It was his urgent desire to understand that drew me into his life; no longer was I just his granddaughter but was another adult for him to speak to. Intrigued by his frankness I came to realize how little I knew about him. This man who was my grandfather had eighty-five years of experiences of which I knew very little.
Max and I came from completely different cultures – how could I understand him without knowing his world? So I began to ask him about his past, and in the process of exploration came to perceive the genesis of his attitudes and values. By listening to the facts of his early upbringing and the way in which he chose to present them, I was given some insight into the true identity of Max Leavitt. When I looked at the environment he had created, comprised of his work and his family, his individuality was further illuminated for me, and his place in my life was clarified further.
In this thesis I have focused on Max's life experiences, expanding on his words with my own knowledge and research. It was my desire to offer a broader comprehension of life as he knew it – for this is Max Leavitt's own story.