I don’t spend every day reading the obituaries section of The New York Times. I’m not one of those people who ascribe to the joke that if I don’t see my name in the section I go about living another day.
Which is a long-winded way of saying I missed the July 11 obituary for Dan Collins (https://www.nytimes.com/2024/07/11/books/dan-collins-dead.html?smid=em-share).
I only discovered news of Dan’s passing when reading The Conversation, Tuesday’s back and forth discussion in The Times between columnists Bret Stephens and Gail Collins, Dan’s wife of more than half a century.
“Gail,” wrote Stephens, “I often wrap up our conversations by pointing to a piece in The Times that I especially admired. This week the admiration comes wrapped in heartbreak. Your wonderful husband, Dan Collins, passed away this month — much, much too soon. Our friend Sam Roberts wrote a moving obituary for him, which I thought captured him beautifully. He was a brilliant journalist who loved a contrarian take, an indefatigable scoop getter, a hilarious dinner companion, a man who put everyone at ease with wit and kindness and a glass of really good wine. Also: twinkly-eyed handsome as only the Irish can be. Your partner of more than a half-century. May his memory be for a blessing.”
I met Dan and Gail back in 1972 shortly after I joined The New Haven Register. My beat was covering the Lower Naugatuck Valley towns of Seymour and Derby, adjacent to Dan’s assignment in nearby Shelton. A year later, Dan was promoted to coverage of New Haven. I took over Shelton, followed a year later by becoming the bureau chief for West Haven, Bethany, Orange and Woodbridge.
My time at The Register encompassed four years of camaraderie with young, hungry reporters—Tom Hall, Walter Platteborze, Jeff Belmont, Jack Millea, John Membrino and Dan. Most of Gilda’s and my socializing those years was with these fellow reporters and their partners.
Socializing back then for reporters, much as it is today, meant enjoying liquid refreshments. Lots of beer, tequila, vodka and wine. Hardly a weekend went by without some such socializing.
Gail and Dan kept two guinea pigs in their apartment. They named the fur balls Lionel and Stewart, after the then owners of The Register, Lionel Jackson, and his son, Stewart. It was not meant as a compliment.
Dan was the tallest among us, tallest in physical and reportorial stature. There never was a doubt that any story he covered would include any and all relevant facts. He was hard-driving, but with a sense of humor, an Irish wit, that endeared him to all.
Dan was the first of our group to find greener pastures, moving to United Press International in New York. A few years later I transitioned to New York as well, but our paths never crossed again. I’ve lost track of my reporter/drinking buddies. My only connection to that part of my past is reading Gail Collins in The Times.
