A Tribute to Donald Mais Fisher

Don Fisher, 1943–2026

Thank you all for coming. It means the world to me and our family to have you here to celebrate Don’s life today.

I woke up at 2 am a couple of nights ago thinking about this sandcastle mold. We had a bunch of these in the garage at our Stockley Street cottage.

So in the hands of mere mortals like you and me, this is standard-issue beach equipment, a summer rite of passage. You try to mix sand and water to just the right consistency. You fill it and level it and pack it down. You flip it over with anticipation and…half of it’s stuck in the mold, corners crumbling away. Not even close to the perfect picture in your mind’s eye.

Now in the hands of our dad, this unassuming piece of plastic was transformed into something else altogether. You could take it down to the beach after dinner, when the light is gorgeous and golden. You could make an imperfect row of imperfect sandcastle shapes and tell your grandchildren that whatever they do, they should definitely not stomp on your sandcastles. And you could keep this up as fast as you can with them following behind you, stomping and shrieking and giggling, fully living pure and unbridled joy.

Or, if it’s one of those August afternoons when the locusts are buzzing and the sweat’s running down the back of your knees, you find a shady spot in the backyard, and stack a bunch of these molds and plastic pails and empty Gatorade bottles and old frisbees and whatever else you can rustle up and into a rickety tower, and set up beach chairs and pelt it with ping pong balls until you hit something, and eventually the whole thing tumbles down and you start over. This is Bombardment, a Don Fisher original. 10/10 recommend.

I’ve heard creativity defined as the ability to turn things that already exist into new, more useful arrangements or applications. This is 100% our dad. He was indeed a creator – of moments, of memories, of magical experiences that made time dissolve. I believe that he saw creativity not as a gift you’re born with, but as a practice. A mindset. A sandcastle mold is sort of a cookie-cutter type of creativity, but Dad had creative vision – the rare and precious gift of seeing any object, any situation, any person as fully alive with possibilities. 

I believe that he saw creativity not as a gift you’re born with, but as a practice. A mindset.

He inspired different types of creativity in me and each of my sisters - we never mastered the Donald Duck voice, but I see him in Julie’s gift for spontaneous play. Cara’s killer comic timing. Our shared love of wordplay. We had to be creative when someone asked the dreaded question - “So, what does your dad do?” I usually said businessman, though even at a young age I knew that wasn’t quite it. Counselor? Coach? Teacher? Juggler? No teenager is eager to fill in that particular blank with Clown, though you might remember from Shakespeare that it’s the clown, the jester, that we can count on not just for fun and levity – which our dad delivered without fail – but to show us the truth. 

Here are a few of Don’s truths. That you don’t need to fit into anyone else’s box or conform to anyone’s definition of success. You can make up a new box. Break the mold. Create your own rules. 

You don’t need to fit into anyone else’s box or conform to anyone’s definition of success. You can make up a new box. Break the mold. Create your own rules.

That you can take whatever challenges and constraints life serves up and create your own meaning, your own joy. Without blame or complaint.

That you don’t need permission, or to wait for the perfect moment. That you don’t need the best or the latest, or really any gear (with the possible exception of that very first oversized Prince racquet, which was undeniably superior to the Wilson T2000). 

That creativity and joy can be cultivated just like any other skill, with discipline and patience and consistency. 

And, oh my goodness – discipline, patience, and consistency. Our dad put in his 10,000 hours to practice groundstrokes on the wall or anything that remotely resembled a wall. To master pole vaulting, backyard boomerang throwing, unicycle riding. To chase the elusive five-ball juggle. 

Each of these activities was about far more than learning a new, occasionally eccentric, skill. It was an opportunity to engage mind, body, and spirit deeply. To be fully immersed in the moment, as a form of meditation and creative flow. I have deep admiration for his tenacity and for how generously he shared his hard-won secrets with anyone who was open to receiving them. I’ll bet he showed many of you how to juggle with scarves or beanbags, or balance a peacock feather, or spin a finger pinwheel. Yes? 

Each of these activities was about far more than learning a new, occasionally eccentric, skill. It was an opportunity to engage mind, body, and spirit deeply. To be fully immersed in the moment, as a form of meditation and creative flow.

And we have to talk about tennis. He was hands-down the best hitting partner – calm, positive, steady. He could meet you where you were and notch it up or down with enviable precision. As mom describes it, when they played doubles she got everything she could at the net (and I can attest she was pretty savage), and he got the rest. This is generally how he approached life. He wasn’t showy. He showed up. He was generous, celebrating your winners more than his own. We all know he liked to win, but more often than not it wasn’t about competition, but the joy of the shared challenge. What if we tried it this way? How long could we keep the rally going? He taught us to keep it “deep to the backhand,” an expression that extends far beyond the court and that I would put forth as our unofficial family motto. 

Many have said that our dad was ahead of his time, and there’s certainly truth in that. Solar panels that looked kinda like those inflatable rafts from a Lynam beach shack on our roof, back in the mid-70s. Meditation and deep breathing, before mindfulness was a thing. An affinity for the humble horseshoe crab, now celebrated for its medicinal properties and emblazoned on 302 hats and t-shirts. Don was an early adopter of the Mac – one of those blocky beige all-in-one deals – and the Soloflex, the VitaMix, the NordicTrack. Of health foods, like apple cider vinegar, wheat germ, tofu, and garlic capsules (rightfully nixed by Mom). Of running for fitness. He was Exhibit A for the growth mindset decades before that term even existed. 

He was an avid, wide-ranging reader – we cherished the hours he spent reading The Hobbit or Watership Down to us at bedtime – and I believe he had an original copy of Flow, now a best-selling classic. In it, Dr. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi says, “The best moments in our lives are not the passive, receptive, relaxing times…they usually occur when a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile.”

“The best moments in our lives are not the passive, receptive, relaxing times…they usually occur when a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile.”

Difficult and worthwhile. The difficult part was evident. Pole vaulting. Unicycles! It’s the worthwhile part that has come so beautifully into focus as we have heard your stories of how deeply he connected with you when you were struggling to break through to the next level or get out of your own head. How he helped you push past a steep learning curve and build confidence. How he encouraged the potential he saw in you, even when you didn’t see it in yourselves. These countless 1:1 interactions add up to something powerful and meaningful.

Donald Mais Fisher was a true original, and today we mourn the loss of a great husband. Father. Granddad. Teacher. A great man. But we also celebrate the wisdom and gifts he shared with us so generously. Our dear family friend Ethan once said to me, “Your dad was sitting on top of a mountain in a little brick house in Milford, Delaware. His wisdom was profound, like a portal into another dimension.”

Certainly his wisdom was ahead of our time. We didn’t always want to hear it (Daaaaad), but the truths he was imparting to us are indeed profound and enduring. To slow down. To look closely and find peace in the dazzling beauty of nature. To pay it forward generously – not for show, but from your heart. To let past and future worries dissolve into the present moment and honor it with your full attention. 

To remember that magic and miracles are all around us and even within us, shimmering like the iridescent bubbles he took such delight in. We just have to tune into the right frequency, the frequency of possibility.

We just have to tune into the right frequency, the frequency of possibility.

Dad kept a stack of handwritten journals where he was constantly scribbling quotes and bits of inspiration and his own writings. He called it the Rudder, which I didn’t get when I was younger but I now understand as an intentional practice for navigating life’s swells and shifting currents, for living his life with purpose and intention instead of just letting it happen to him. 

It delighted us to learn recently that Kevin and Heidi Gilmore keep a quote from Dad framed on their wall: “Just remember, amidst all the serious things you are doing, there is a place out there for you, just having fun and sharing your joy of learning and life with others.” That one’s a keeper, and a beautiful truth indeed. May we honor Don’s memory by living it to the best of our abilities.

“Just remember, amidst all the serious things you are doing, there is a place out there for you, just having fun and sharing your joy of learning and life with others.”

More: Read Don Fisher's obituary here