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Gregory J. Buhyoff (1948-2022)
Gregory J. Buhyoff (1948-2022)

SCIENTIA

I have to start with science, because, to his core, my Pop was a scientist.  Prior to completing his P.h.D, he was recruited to come work as research professor at Virginia Tech.  I know he was a hard worker— he would head into the office at 4am every morning.  A search of his name on Google Scholar brings up 403 results.  The first four papers that appear, where he was a principal author, show that his work has been cited hundreds of times and in disciplines beyond forestry: landscape architecture, urban planning, psychology, stream ecology, to name a few.  I’ve had the fortune of running into a few of his former graduate students over the years, and to a person, each took the time to explain to me how influential he was to them and to their field.  He worked in a building at Virginia Tech called Cheatham Hall and finished his career as the Julian N. Cheatham Professor of Forestry.  I can deduce that being a chaired professor, named after the building in which you work, is a pretty high accolade.  I have to use this kind of deductive reasoning and Google to inform myself about his work, because at home, he rarely, if ever, talked about it.  In fact, he would probably fu***** hate that I’m even mentioning it.  He had no use for the titles, accolades, and pretense that so often accompany academia.  He loathed it.  If you dared try and address him as “doctor” outside of Cheatham Hall, you would get either a dismissive wave of the hand, his patented glare, or both.  He did love teaching and he was an extremely talented and passionate teacher.  I know this for a fact.  I attended grad school at Virginia Tech during his final years at the university and audited one of his graduate courses.  I tried to hide my pride while sitting in his classroom, watching him lecture and engage with students and seeing his students respond in kind.  I don’t think I did a good job.

Outside of his work as a Professor, he was a lifelong and passionate student… of everything.  He built computers and radios.  He could decipher and transmit Morse code faster than most people can type.  His knowledge of electrical theory and radio physics easily rivaled those with actual schooling in those subjects.  When he developed a debilitating, and at one point, life-threatening, gastrointestinal illness, he instinctively pored through medical journal articles.  I have no doubt that he unintentionally embarrassed several gastroenterologists over his lifetime with his knowledge.  He studied solar cycles.  He could repair small engines, replace a fried capacitor on a circuit board, and sharpen chainsaw chains.  For a time he became enamored with fine timepieces because he was fascinated by their complex and precise inner workings.  In fact, he became so knowledgeable about watches that his musings, written under the pseudonym, “Time Flies,” became well-known within a world-wide, yet niche group of watch dealers and collectors and were published in international magazines.  On a 10th grade school field trip from my small hometown of Blacksburg, Virginia to New York City, I had the occasion to walk into a watch dealership in midtown Manhattan.  I went there to meet Mike (or Uncle Mike, as I tend to refer to him these days), the store manager at the time, with whom my Dad had cultivated a meaningful friendship.  Mike introduced me to the sales staff as “Time Flies’ Son.”  I witnessed real awestruck expressions.  That is cognitive dissonance.  That was my Pop.  He could teach you to fell a tree and buck its limbs, or school you on the intricacies of the Valjoux 7750 watch movement.

My Pop read dense books on local geology and could identify, at a glance, hundreds of rocks and minerals.  This became my most treasured passion of his, because he ignited the same passion in my son, his beloved grandson Brendan.  I knew my father had created another spark within a student when Brendan came home after spending several days at his grandparents’ house.  Brendan was excitedly showing me the rocks and minerals that he and Gramps had collected together.  B showed me one specimen, which he declared to be “lepidolite.”  Having taken a college-level geology course myself, I calmly explained to my 6-year-old that I had never heard of “lepidolite,” and therefore, he was incorrectly identifying said rock.  Yet, he was adamant that Gramps had taught him about lepidolite.  Skeptical, I looked it up.  It was lepidolite. 

Pop started buying buckets of rocks from a local quarry, so that he and Brendan could go “mining” in their backyard every time he visited.  I’m not sure Brendan realizes quite yet that it’s not always that easy to discover tourmaline, amethyst, pyrite, and lepidolite in your backyard.  In his final week with us, Pop was able to witness Brendan receive his most prized minerals, which he had collected over lifetime of travels throughout Michigan, Colorado, and right here in Maine.  He beamed.  True to his nature, each specimen is neatly mounted in separate, clear boxes, and accompanied by a detailed description of what it is and where it came from.  As we speak, each one of these 30-plus boxes are strewn across Brendan’s bedroom floor, where he gazes at them daily— often under an ultraviolet light to reveal their beautiful fluorescence.  A trick his Gramps taught him.

ARTES

Pop enjoyed music, to be sure.  Motown, the Stones, and surf rock were among his favorites.  But he wasn’t a musician.  He liked landscape paintings, but I wouldn’t say visual art really moved him.  As I mentioned, he admired fine timepieces— but for their inner workings.  His favorite watches were typically very utilitarian in their design.  He enjoyed rocks and minerals, not necessarily for their color or luster, but for the knowledge of the chemical and physical processes that precipitated their creation.  Pop was as right-brained as they come, but I know he was an artist, because I witnessed him paint fantastic, beautiful arcs across the sky.  Ever since he was a kid, my Pop wanted to fly.  Ever since I can remember, I wanted to fly.  His passions were infectious.  When I turned 15, we began flight school together.  He was an ultra-talented pilot and, as with so many things we did together, we flew.  My logbook is littered with dozens of entries recording our flights together. On August 13, 2000, I recorded my 100th flight hour and wrote: “Dad and I go play in the sky.”  We never flew to get anywhere.  To him, to us, that would be anathema to the purpose of an airplane.  My Father flew because it was an aesthetic, even spiritual, experience.  His favorite poem, High Flight, articulates this more beautifully than I ever could:

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth

of sun-split clouds,—and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of—wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,

I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung

My eager craft through footless halls of air ....

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark nor ever eagle flew—

And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Some of my fondest memories are swooping down into the folds of the Blue Ridge mountains with my Pop.  He always demanded that I sit in the left seat on our flights.  Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder to him in the cockpit, his pride and love for me were both palpable and essential.  We accomplished and lived a shared dream together.  For me, that accomplishment was only possible because of his support.  When I graduated high school, his yearbook dedication to me was a pilot’s saying that read: “Matt, always keep the shiny side up.”

VERITAS

What was my Pop’s truth?  That’s easy.  Love.  Unqualified, unconditional, boundless love.  Love that was at once fierce and comforting.  When he gave, he gave with his whole heart and every synapse.  When he hugged you, it was as if his every cell was embracing you. He had his faults, as we all do.  If he perceived an injury or sleight to himself, or worse, his family, forgiveness and redemption were hard to come by.  He could be quick-tempered.  During his younger years, around the time he had taken up powerlifting as a hobby, if you were a student who was a smart-ass in class or dared to smirk at my Father, you were legitimately taking your life into your own hands.  But at his core, he was generous and kind.  He was an amazing, attentive father.  When I encountered my first break-up at age 15, he held me tightly as I cried.   Then he took me out under our deck, where we had two lawn chairs.  We sat down, he handed me an entire bottle of Miller Genuine Draft and then lit two cigars.  We tossed stones into the garden and talked about life and love in the golden light of the late afternoon.  And I got sick afterward and I was never more grateful.  We did everything together and when we didn’t, he supported me and rooted for me.  He treated his dogs better than most people treat their own children. He was utterly devoted and loving to my Mom.  He loved my wife and was never afraid to express to her his joy of finally having a daughter.  And Brendan.  His grandson was transcendent to him.  One of the last things he told me was that family is everything.  Too often, that sentiment is a platitude.  It was not a platitude to him.  It was his truth. He lived it.

I have nothing but gratitude for the time I was able to spend with my Pop.  The lessons I’ll take from him are too numerous to mention.  The love he shared with us will echo through my family for generations.  My one hope in writing this is that you’ll leave carrying something from the full, rich life of my Father, Greg Buhyoff. 

First, live passionately and share your passions; be a teacher and a student. 

Second, love fiercely and unapologetically. 

Finally, always keep the shiny side up.

Should you wish to honor Greg Buhyoff’s memory, contributions to the following organizations would be greatly appreciated:

Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum

Round Pond Schoolhouse Association

1426 State Route 32 Round Pond ME 04564

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Thank you!

If you would like to share any memories or thoughts with our family: