Pa

Nicholas Daniloff, Dec. 30, 1934–Oct. 17, 2024

We bid farewell to my dad on Saturday. Like a lot of fathers and sons, he and I had a complicated relationship, but found ways to come together, especially at the end. Below were my parting words:

There were two periods in my life when I saw my dad most clearly. The first was during my childhood in Washington, D.C., before we moved to the former Soviet Union in the 1980s. Back then he wasn’t a well-known journalist nor the center of an international incident. He wasn’t a respected professor or elder statesman. Before all that he was Pa.

Pa wasn’t like the other dads. Starting with the fact that he wanted to be called “Pa.” The moniker seemed a bit folksy for an Exeter-Harvard-Oxford man, just a generation removed from the Russian aristocracy. As a kid, I found the word embarrassing and avoided using it around my friends. But “Pa” would speak to his gentle nature and lack of pretense, pointing to a code all his own.

Pa wouldn’t step on ants or watch violent movies. I can hardly recall him raising his voice. When I impulsively threw my cap guns into a canal and shouted, “I’m for peace,” you’d never seen a prouder Pa.

He was famous for his frugality. Our kitchen drawers were filled with used tinfoil that he had smoothed flat and folded, ready for reuse. In the summers, he slept in the cool of the basement rather than plug in a fan. When I begged for a Peralta skateboard with Kryptonite wheels, he surprised me with a wooden deck he’d built himself, complete with trucks and grip tape. The disappointed look on my face must have cut him, but he didn’t show it.

Pa was fascinated by bees and kept hives in the backyard. As a kid obsessed with Marvel comics, I saw in his veil and pith helmet some kind of superhero wielding a smoker. Mild mannered reporter by day, Lord of the Buzz after hours. He never flinched when a bee stung him. He showed me the tiny stomachs they left behind with their stingers, pointing out their act of self-sacrifice, the nobility of the little guy.

While he covered national politics as a reporter, he seemed to exist outside of mainstream culture. Except for news programs and PBS dramas, television was brain-rot. He didn’t pay attention to sports or popular music, certainly not fashion. Highwater pants and faded turtlenecks were in heavy rotation. His running gear, whatever was at hand: ragged sweats, silk scarf, beret.

Pa was fond of certain phrases I’d only ever heard come out of his mouth. When he got home after a long plane ride, he said he felt like “the inside of a motorman’s glove.” When it came to reporting, he liked to say, “Tell the truth, then get out of town.” But perhaps his favorite quip concerned the structure of a memorable article: “A fucking good lede. A fucking good payoff. And shit in between.”

While newsman wasn’t his first choice for a profession, his curiosity and rigor were a natural fit. He saw journalism as a force for good. He believed in sticking up for the underdog and holding the powerful to account. He was disciplined and exacting. No shortcuts. You go through, not around.

For a lazy kid like me, this created tension. And when I hit my teens, I rebelled, taking his reserve for disapproval, his social awkwardness for disinterest, his struggle with emotion as a lack of affection. I had no idea of the demands of his foreign posting. I was only dimly aware that he lost his mother at 14 and had been raised by a cold and severe father, that depression and anxiety ran in our family. Instead, I mocked his academic pedigree with a string of Cs and Ds and thumbed my nose at his allegiance to facts by twisting the truth. I started drinking. If you can’t live up to your father’s standards, you can always disappoint him; and if that doesn’t work, break his heart. Lord knows I tried. But he wouldn’t let me.

And though the distance grew over the years, his influence remained. I ended up in journalism. I shared his love of running. Vermont became my refuge, too. Pa wasn’t directive. Things seeped in while you weren’t looking. So if you ever see me running in a French chapeau with an ascot tucked into my sweatshirt, you’ll know why.

The second period where I saw my father most clearly was the last ten years.

He had retired from teaching in his late seventies. While he had seemed to have accomplished all he wanted professionally, his pursuit of knowledge never wavered. When he moved into an assisted living residence with my mom, he would join the classes on offer, host lectures for the residents, and never missed a chance to speak French with the Haitian staff. He was often found in the library with the day’s papers or thumbing through books. He spent time in Vermont, and he rowed.

Sometimes, during my early morning runs in Cambridge, I spotted him cutting through the waters of the Charles. I recognized the rumpled sweatshirt and faded bucket hat, the way he turned his head to scan for oncoming obstacles. As I kept pace from the riverbank, I would wave my arms and shout. He didn’t always notice, but when he did, he offered a brief nod. Waving back wasn’t an option; letting go of the oars could mean losing control, even capsizing. As a sucker for metaphor, I always thought this scene captured a good chunk of our relationship: the space between us, my striving for his attention, and his limited ability to acknowledge.

But athletics would be an area where we found common ground, running in particular. He completed the Marine Corps Marathon several times when we lived in D.C. and I later logged marathon after marathon, chasing his personal record. He’d come out to greet me along the course whenever I ran Boston. And though I’d sometimes bump into him jogging through my neighborhood, we never ran together.

Not since Moscow when I was 12 or 13. The American embassy sometimes held 10K races and he and I entered. I was wearing my brand-new Adidas kit. Pa was in rumpled shorts and yesterday’s undershirt. He started even-paced. I shot off like a cannon, sure I was going to smoke the old man. After a mile or so, I slowed down to rest; he was far behind. As his figure came into view, I sped up, looking over my shoulder until I lost sight of him behind a curve. A short time later, I stopped again, my calves burning from a long hill. Before I knew it, there he was, steadily approaching. What the hell? Then he passed me. No matter, I thought. My legs are young and strong, I’ll reel him in. I took off sprinting, but quickly lost steam, lungs heaving. I never caught him. I finished a full minute behind. He neither cheered nor gloated, but simply congratulated me on my effort.

A short time later, I took up smoking.

Decades later, rowing would help shrink the gap. I joined him at a sculling camp in Vermont, where he showed me that pulling that narrow shell across the water could feel like flying. He competed in the Head of the Charles Regatta into his early eighties, and I cheered him from the bridges. He was usually disappointed in his performance. He wanted to place in his age group or beat his previous time. I’d assure him he’d triumphed just by showing up. He wasn’t convinced. He never lowered his standards, even as his ability to meet them had diminished.

Over the last few years, Pa’s mind had started losing focus and he repeated questions more frequently. His ability to retain information was slipping. But a curious thing happened. After decades of intellectual inquiry and the pursuit of facts, he could no longer lead with his head, so his heart took over. We began hugging after years of awkward handshakes. His dry humor turned playful. He started saying, “I’m proud of you” and “I love you.” Perhaps most shocking, he took an interest in football and came over for games.

Recently, Pa began asking me how I looked back on certain experiences growing up, our years in Moscow, and the impact of dropping an 11-year-old into a radically foreign environment. He invoked the distant relationship he had with his own father. I think he was working through the big questions as he felt himself drifting toward the finish. I answered by kissing his forehead whenever we parted, rebelling against my younger self and the angry distance I once cultivated.

When I arrived at his residence that Thursday morning, an aide said he had been asking for me. Lately, he had been looking for my mom and weaving long-ago memories into the present. His legs had lost their strength and he’d recently been hospitalized after another fall. He said he didn’t want to go back. I was there to meet a hospice nurse and begin the paperwork.

After she left, it was just me and him. We sat on the couch. “What’s happening to me?” he asked. “I think I might be losing my mind.” I didn’t say anything and just held his hand. I was supposed to pick up my wife at the airport, but her flight had been delayed so I stayed for lunch. Pa and I exchanged a few words in Russian for old times’ sake. The election ballot I helped him fill out sat on the desk, waiting to be mailed. I asked if he wanted to watch the news. He nodded. Before I could grab the remote, he started coughing. I slid next to him and patted his back. He said he was having trouble breathing. The coughs kept coming. Suddenly, everything was moving fast and slow at the same time. Then the room went still. He leaned into my shoulder. And with my arms still around him, I felt him take his last breath.

He had let go of the oars.

If there was ever a closing of distance, this was it. For a man who had long struggled to express his emotions, especially as a parent, he had delivered the most intimate experience a father and son could share.

In other words: that was one hell of a fucking good pay-off.

The lede was pretty good, too.

I love you, Pa.