Happy Birthday Dad!
"Let's look at this philosophically" and other memories of being the daughter of a fabulous man.
Dear Beautiful Friends,
It’s my dad’s birthday and I want to tell you about him. I wrote quite a bit here about the last two years of his life, having lost his memory and eyesight and yet, it was one of the most treasured times of my life and with my dad.
He would have been 99 years old today and he’s still as alive to me as ever in ways I can’t quite understand—but who doesn’t love a mystery?!
HOLY SHIT, did I get lucky in the Dad department.
My father was kind, nurturing, curious, smart, artistic, athletic, good-natured and funny. He was a bonified Renaissance man. Worked at Boeing while opera singing on the side. Read everything, while going to the gym daily. Played piano, and tennis; skied and contributed to arts orgs all over town. Jock, intellectual, artist and laborer/engineer, linguist, and everyday philosopher—he could do it all.
Boris Mishel, (nee Boris Bistritzky) was born on February 28, 1925, in Peiking (now Beijing), of Ukranian-Russian parents who met in China while fleeing the Russian Revolution. They moved to Montreal Canada when my Dad was 5, which meant he had four languages under his belt at a very young age (Chinese, Russian, French, English).
Life took him to Detroit, Hollywood, New York, Europe, and eventually Seattle. He was a singer and performer (there was a stint with the Rockettes), opera singer, and had a successful thirty-some years at Boeing, a job that took us on some fun adventures as a family, including 4 years in Rome.
He played the piano, violin, and added Italian and German to his list of languages. He wasn’t a religious man but out of curiosity read the Bible, the Torah, and the Koran. If you brought up a Greek myth, he knew the characters’ exact names and could tell you how the story really goes.
Our last name (my maiden name, now middle name) is a stage name. I was relieved to not be dragging around an impossible long and unpronouncable name in the 1970s and ‘80s—Tatyana Bistritzky. Plus, it’s fun to have a stage name.
In late 1959, my dad went on a Boeing business trip to Syndey, Australia. His boss passed on this trip because he wanted to stay home and play golf. On this six-week trip he met my mom. It was August when they met; November when they married, in Vancouver, B.C.
Four years later Narelle Mishel was living in the States, married to a “goddamn yank”, and had a daughter–
–and then my brother, Michael completed the family.
The four of us made up a new family in a new land, first generation, from last name on.
Here are some highlights of my life as Boris Mishel’s daughter:
When I was around six, I waited excitedly all week for a big weekend social event. It came … it was fun … and then just like that, it was over. I shared my disappointment over the fleetingness of things with my Dad, who said something I’ve never forgotten:
“Anticipation is the greatest part of any event.”
In high school, we used to go on these runs and have philosophical conversations. Once, after a series of me getting in, um, a bit of trouble and being grounded for almost the entire first quarter of high school, I said to him very simply, “I don’t think this grounding thing is working.” His exact response escapes me, but I remember him listening and the two of us talking. I think we were at a track on Mercer Island where I now live.
This track is in Laguna Beach.
When I um, er, got in that bit of high school trouble, he’d sit down with me and actually ask questions to the tune of: “Why do you think you’re doing this?” I didn’t answer, but Dad, I think the truth was along the lines that: It was fun, and I wasn’t allowed to.
One December, right before Christmas break, I was overloaded with school work, there was some party occasion and a trip we were going on. Note: I was a good student who didn’t mind homework. Watching me pitch a fit of overwhelm, my dad sighed and said, “Give it here. I’ll write it for you.” This was late 1970s. Today it would seem outright preposterous and doesn’t translate well across the decades. My dad, the Boeing engineer, the consummate Honest Abe, wrote a Shakespeare paper for me. He got us an A.
In college, there was a time I’d call my Dad in tears, filled with angst over what I was going to do with my life, or it could have been a problem getting along with someone. His famous opening line was:
“Let’s look at this philosophically.”Once, I was going to give someone a “piece of my mind.” I got one of the best pieces of advice in my life from this. My dad patiently explained to me how going on the offensive sends the other person on the defensive and nothing gets accomplished. “Ask questions,” he said. “You may learn something new that you otherwise may never discover.”
An example of a father-daughter outing: A trip to the gym, and then to the local stereo store.
His advice after a failed romance: “Go to the gym and work it out, that’s what I did.”
The first opera I went to was when I was in eighth grade and it was a Seattle Opera production of Boris Godunov. I ate a package of Mentos and watched my father sing the role of the priest. The next day he got up and went to his day job.
Toward the end of his career, my parents were living in a Washington DC suburb. One night all the Boeing big-wigs (CEO included) came over to our house. He entertained them by playing piano, violin, and singing. I remember the rapt look on their faces; they seemed like such decent human beings in this strange spirit of connectedness — their professional persona stripped away.
Music is a food of life for my Dad. So, many years ago when I was dating someone who didn’t accept my invitation to see an opera, my dad’s reaction was, “Dump him.” I still think it was pretty good advice.
Once, I asked him why he fell in love with my mom, who was a bit of a Grace Kelly look-alike in her day. His answer was: “She was her own woman.”
About 10 years ago, my parents went to Europe on a music and arts trip through cities like Vienna and Austria. He told me about standing in front of (I think) a Jackson Pollock, a painter he held no particular fondness for, and in this one instant he “got it.” I was struck by the openness. We like to think that after a certain age people don’t change. My dad reminds me it’s not true, if you keep an open, curious mind.
When I was in my mid-20s I invited myself on a trip my parents were taking to France. We rode bikes through the Loire Valley, slept in stone castles, and ate wonderful food—which sometimes fell into the realm of preciousness. My dad’s reaction to the German tourist who was taking a photograph of a thumb-print-sized meal (this was in the late 1980s) had my mom and I falling off our chairs with laughter. On that holiday, I was introduced to my dad’s dry sense of humor.
My dad saw me through wonderful high points and successes and deep personal struggles as well. During the latter, he always kept an open door to conversation. He was there without judgment when I got sober, and he was not much of a drinker himself. As I shared my growing pains with my dad, he was open enough to show me how he was learning, too.
After I met Steve, and finally married at the age of 49, my dad (88 at the time) gave me this very excellent simple advice, after I fretted about us not having hours-long conversations about books or discussing life goals:
“A relationship is built on small gestures. It’s the way a person reacts to a story, responds to an unexpected situation, makes you laugh. It’s the little things, the every day things. That’s what matters, Tatyanechka.”
When my dad hit 90 years of age, his memory began to falter. His eyesight diminished from macular degeneration (wear those sunglasses!), and he spent the last 3.5 years in a group home, separate from the love of his life, his wife. What began as an un-nerving, impossibly sad, frustrating long-haul ended up being the most loving and fascinating experience of my life.
It helped that my dad wasn’t cranky or angry. It helped that I decided not to take any of it personally. It even helped that my dad was blind, because without being physically seen, I could be anything I wanted in his presence. It also helped to give myself over to the impossible-to-know experience my dad might be having. Taking his advice to the very end, I looked at the entire experience philosophically (my own flavor being the non-duality one), and questioned all my assumptions.
To be the daughter of a warm, wonderful, loving, thoughtful, caring and humorous man is one of the greatest gifts around. We don’t all get this lucky. I hope sharing this experience makes you smile. I’m going to wave my magic wand and let you make any of this yours, too.
I have a gift for you to celebrate: a pair of coaching convos
If you have a parent in the frustrating stages of aging or the end stages, you’re struggling and you’d like to talk about it, I’m offering a pair of coaching conversations to five people. Respond to this email, or contact me at beautyhunter63@gmail.com
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TO ALL OUR LOVED ONES.
OX
What a beautiful piece. You surely got some of your dad’s philosophical nature, his intellect and his strength — it’s exhibited in your lovely tribute to him.
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️