Copyright: Matt Buhyoff, 2022

My Pop, Gregory James Buhyoff, was born on September 22, 1948 in Detroit, Michigan. He grew up in a working class corner of Dearborn, a suburb adjacent to Detroit and home to the Ford Motor Company.  He was the son of Gregory John Buhyoff, a gregarious World War II veteran and sheet metal tradesman, and Josephine Buhyoff, a tough-as-nails farm girl and a real-life Rosie the Riveter from Pinconning, Michigan. 

His sister Susie, five years his junior, counted her big brother among her heroes.  He loved to tell stories about bombing around greater Detroit on his bike— pedaling to Hitsville to see Motown artists and sneaking into the Ford test track to get a peek at the latest muscle cars.  In the summers, he would hang out with his cousins on his grandparents’ farm.  He played hockey and baseball.  It was a blue collar upbringing; he wore that as a badge of honor and it was a touchstone for his entire worldview.

Pop was the first of his family to attend college.  He told me that he initially applied to UCLA, because the Beach Boys were making California surf life seem pretty appealing to a kid from Detroit.  Luckily for me, he stayed closer to home and headed to Ann Arbor and the University of Michigan.  It was there, in the Stockwell dorm, that he met my Mom.  I can’t count the number of times he glowingly described seeing her walking down the dorm stairs.  They were inseparable for the next 56 years.  During his freshman year, his sister lost a long and painful battle with leukemia.  This was a trauma that he rarely spoke of, but followed him throughout his life.  As often happens, our worst moments can shift our perspective and allow us to follow paths that we were previously unable to see.  After his sister’s death, Pop abandoned his aerospace engineering major and instead followed his passions outside and into forestry.  He would go on to earn his bachelor’s, master’s, and doctorate degrees at U of M.  He spent summers in the Upper Peninsula as a Teaching Assistant at the University’s Forestry Camp.  His stories from this time in his life were utterly idyllic: a cabin in the woods shared with his new wife, fly fishing on the Paint River in soft evening light, pies made from gathered blueberries, teaching, chainsaw work, beers with friends at the local bar, and a “pet” raccoon affectionally named Coonie LaBelle.

The war in Vietnam became all-consuming around the time of his undergraduate graduation.  Upon receiving a low draft number, Pop opted instead to enlist.  In doing so, he would pursue aviation, another longtime passion.  He passed qualification tests to begin training as a Naval aviator.  In an intervention that may well have spared his life, his father knew a guy, who knew a guy, who allowed him to enlist in the Air Force Air National Guard.  He became a back seater in F-4 Phantoms (consequentially, one of the coolest-looking aircraft ever produced), within the 171st Fighter/Interceptor Squadron.  He would later continue his service in the Air Force Reserves. He pursued his graduate degrees while flying supersonic with his hair on fire.

If you knew him, you know that Michigan wasn’t just an academic institution or a football team to root for, though he fervently supported both.  It represented more to him: a way of being, a dogma.  When I was born, the first thing my father did when he held me was to sing “Hail to the Victors.”  Not unlike countless universities, the seal of the University of Michigan contains a motto, a latin phrase— or more specifically, three latin words.  Artes, Scientia, Veritas.  On first blush, it’s an unremarkable, obvious motto for a school: art, science, truth.  But lately, I’ve come to believe that the motto’s simplicity contains something profound.  Art, Science, and Truth are the very pillars of humanity and the essence of what it is to be human.  With that as a lens, a dogma, maybe I can give you a more complete picture of my Dad.