For Life

August 1, 2026: Homecoming

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 Aug 2026	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - PTK (Waterford, MI) - SDC (Sodus, NY)	7.3	3219.2

North of Toledo, the only thing differentiating Ohio from Michigan is an imaginary line on a map that does not correspond to any physical terrain features. Pancake flat agrarian sameness rolled beneath our wings as Kristy and I navigated a sky littered with low scud. A rainy overcast made the world into a grayscale shadow of itself and the normally rich green fields below presented their virescence with wan apathy.

I noted our crossing from Ohio to Michigan on the chart and sighed, my mood mirroring the dull grey world beyond the Plexiglas. We're in my territory now, I thought to myself wryly. It was something that Greg said many years before.

Circa 1988: Not a Recipe for Success

Just before high school graduation. Wes, Greg, Jeff, and me with my first car. Photo by Mom.

Wet pavement glistened in our headlights as Greg's tired blue Plymouth Fury sped through misty darkness. I do not know how we became entangled in a car chase, but regardless of how, there was another car tailgating us closely filled with unknown antagonists. Greg was at the wheel, I was riding shotgun, and Jeff occupied the back seat -- the entire back seat. Unbelted, each high speed turn sent him sliding from one side of the vinyl bench seat to the other, whooping with delight. Despite his maneuvering, nothing Greg tried successfully shook our pursuers.

When we reached Greg's neighborhood, his entire demeanor changed. "We're in my territory now," he declared. He set his jaw, steeled his gaze, and tightened his grip on the wheel assertively. Exuding confidence and power, he accelerated through the turn onto his own street. 

As it turns out, a combination of rain, a freshly paved and exceptionally smooth road, and nearly bald tires were not a recipe for success. Greg accelerated, the engine of the former police cruiser overrevving before violently lurching into gear, and cranked the wheel to take the next turn. We slid off the road, skidding sideways through the darkness, and my view through the passenger side window was momentarily filled with a mailbox coming directly at my face. Then it was gone. In the chaos, our pursuers fled. I later learned that they were older teenagers from our high school and, when they witnessed Greg's unsuccessful escape attempt, concluded that the driver of our car was hopelessly inebriated. That was a particularly ironic conclusion considering that Greg was utterly free of chemical vices (except for Gatorade and frosted cherry Pop Tarts)  his entire life, especially in high school.

"Your territory now?" I questioned Greg as he sheepishly limped the car home. It was a phrase we teased him with for the remainder of high school, but over time, in his inimitable Greg way, he made it his own.

August 1, 2026: Direct EDESE

"November Four Eight One, Detroit Approach," prompted the controller after a long silence, his phrasing indicating that he had already been trying unsuccessfully to contact us.

"Four Eight One," I responded.

"There you are! I've been trying to reach you for the last ten miles." He sounded more delighted than annoyed. "Turn direct EDESE for the RNAV 09R approach at Pontiac." Those missed calls were how I discovered that the installer of my GTN 650Xi set the squelch in my new radio too high (100%). I have since rectified that (70% is working well).

Pontiac's ATIS still claimed VFR conditions, but visibility ahead was plummeting and we ultimately needed to fly that instrument approach procedure to find the runway of my "hometown" airport. Or, perhaps put more accurately, the town I lived in from the fifth grade through the end of high school.

Fall 1980: Exceptional

Greg with Warrior 481 at Jackson County / Reynolds Field (KJXN), 19 March 2011.

It was 1980. I had just moved to Clarkston, MI, the place I ultimately started calling my "hometown" as an adult. I started fifth grade at Clarkston Elementary, the fourth elementary school I attended as a kid. Honestly, I was jaded about moving to new places and making new friends. This is not an activity that introverts relish. Moreover, as a "worldly" fifth grader, I had convinced myself that those first friends made at a new school are rarely there for the long haul. I concluded this because that had been my experience. But Greg was the first friend I made in Mrs. Thomas' class that year and he literally stayed by my side for decades. He was the exception to the rule. But he was more than that. As a person and a friend, he was exceptional.

From fifth grade on, Greg and I literally grew up together. I still remember that sleepover on his birthday during elementary school where we waged battle against his younger brothers Christian and Kevin in the family room, prosecuted through hurled Lincoln Logs. It turns out that Lincoln Logs are the perfect size and heft to work as easily aimed pain-inflicting projectiles. Christian's infectious laugh underscored the entire battle.

From high school onward, we spent hours talking, both in person or on the phone. Greg's childhood phone number is the only one I still remember from my youth. When one of us was struggling, the other was always there to pick the other up. Fortunately, our despondencies never seemed to happen simultaneously. This carried on for decades, from high school on to the 2020s, through graduations, break ups, triumphs, a divorce, and professional challenges. I always knew that Greg was in my corner and I was always in his. 

Near the end of the time I was in grad school, we had grown apart from a combination of distance and lack of time, especially my lack of time as a graduate student pulling together a dissertation. Reconciliation came on the day Kristy and I were married. Greg stepped into the aisle at the conclusion of the ceremony, wrapped me in a bear hug, and all was right with the world again. 

August 1, 2026: Aviation Caste System

We broke out of the weather on short final for runway 9R at Pontiac. Tower gave us a heads up that there was a Piper Arrow on base for the closely-spaced parallel runway, 9L. Moments later, the other pilot intercepted the final approach and the two of us finished our respective flights nearly wingtip to wingtip in unintentional formation to Oakland County International's parallel runways.

"November Four Eight One, say parking," requested Pontiac Tower as we slowed to taxi speed.

"Pentastar," I responded, feeling strange about declaring a different FBO than usual. We had patronized Michigan Aviation for years. It was not the fanciest FBO nor did it have the best fuel prices on the field, but the line crew once knew me by name and the outfit was always gracious with their courtesy cars. I always repaid that generosity by topping off the gas in the car, even if I used very little. Michigan Aviation crew cars helped me visit family in the hospital, attend funerals and memorial services, and reunite with family and high school friends many times over the years. 

When I called in July looking for a loaner car to attend my uncle's funeral, it was made clear to me that the crew cars were no longer available to anyone who did not arrive at the helm of something burning jet fuel. It made me angry. I know that I am a small potatoes customer, but I spent a lot of money over the last 15 years at their business. I canceled the funeral flight due to dense wildfire smoke over New York and Michigan on the day of the service, so the matter of ground transportation was moot, but I swore not to spend any more money at Michigan Aviation. Another door to the past closed.

Pentastar, on the other hand, was terrific. It's a higher end FBO with reasonably priced fuel. We were welcomed warmly, offered treats and beverages, and promptly fueled. Everyone at Pentastar was lovely.

Minutes later, Mike and Laura arrived to pick us up. In high school, my inner circle of closest friends included Mike, Greg, Jeff, and Wes. Mike existed slightly apart from the rest of us because he graduated a year earlier, but in the 21st century, Mike, Greg, and I remained the core of our once close high school friend group.

I sent Eleanor a text message that we had arrived and were available to help if needed. "No, we're good," she responded. "See you soon."

June 25, 2025: Speechless

Greg and Eleanor in Colorado, 03 July 2016.

On a quiet summer evening in 2025, my phone buzzed with an incoming text message while Kristy and I were watching TV. It was from Eleanor, Greg's wife. This was how I learned that my best friend died that day due to complications from brain cancer.

Three years earlier, in 2022, Greg contacted me at work desperately wanting to talk. He and his wife Eleanor lived in Colorado and we had not seen each other in person since before the pandemic. He told me the whole story about the headaches, the terrifying moments of not being himself, and an incident of spontaneously losing consciousness that ultimately led to a diagnosis. Near term surgery was planned to remove the tumor. When it was done and as soon as he and Eleanor were up to it, I travelled to Colorado to spend time with them. The days after surgery were tough. Greg tired easily and had lost enough words that he struggled to express himself. Even his speaking cadence was off so that the words he did have did not really sound like they came from him. Over time, he started to resemble his old happy-go-lucky self, but it was a hard road, both for Greg and for Eleanor.

"This guy!" Me and Greg, October 2022 after brain surgery. Photo by Eleanor.

At some point in 2025, Greg stopped returning my phone calls. "It's not you," his mother told me. "He's not returning anyone's phone calls lately, including mine.” I did not know it, but Greg had entered a final struggle that ended on June 25, 2025 at the age of 54.

Eleanor captured his persona beautifully in the obituary, reproduced here because I lack her skill in painting such a apt portrait of the man he was.

"Greg is survived by his wife Eleanor, his parents Earnest and Grace and by his brothers Christian and Kevin.

Greg was an artist and a student at heart. He was never so happy as when he was in a classroom environment either teaching or learning. He loved to travel and spend time in new places, especially with friends or loved ones. Trying new flavors of gelato became an obsession.

While in Florence, Italy, Greg visited the sculpture David and he became emotional saying, “I never thought I’d ever see something this perfect in my lifetime.”

Greg had a special gift; he could talk to anyone young or old and they would be riveted. He had a quick sense of humor and didn’t mind shocking people with it. He thought his best trait was his long wavy hair, that made him part rebel and part rock star. He owned three motorcycles that he lovingly called his babies and enjoyed getting “kitted out” for a ride.

Greg made friends wherever he went turning on his unique charm and quick laugh. As a teacher, in Morocco, Aspen, and then Loveland, CO, he impacted a lot of young lives and he hoped to instill his love of learning to his students. Greg had a way of connecting to his students and quickly became a favored teacher that everyone wanted to have. Greg was opinionated and everyone knew where he stood. There was no winning an argument with him.

He walked with a bounce to his step and exuded lightness and a playful fun. He was affectionate and passionate. His heroes were those who made it to the pinnacle of their careers like the F1 racer Mark Webber and body builder Arnold Schwarzenegger. His goal was to carry on a conversation all in movie quotes and whenever he was stymied, he’d say, “I think we’re going to need a bigger boat.”

Greg was an avid hockey fan and rooted for the Detroit Red Wings. He loved all kinds of music especially 80s music and took pride in his vinyl collection.

Greg is survived by many extended family members and lifelong friends. He will be greatly missed by those he blessed with his presence."

Greg and The Bear at the Flume in New Hampshire. 05 July 2008.

August 1, 2026: Memorial

Just over a year after his passing, Greg's family hosted a memorial service for him in our hometown, which was what brought Kristy and I through the weather to the southeast part of the Mitten that day. When we arrived at the church with Mike and Laura, we were warmly greeted by Greg's parents, his brothers, and Eleanor with many hugs exchanged. Though we lost Greg over a year earlier, our airplane had delivered us to a time and place where the loss was still fresh.

Circa 1990, post high school, with Craig, Jeff, Wes and Greg (with the hat) in the front row and Ed, me, Mike, and Joe in the back row. As always, Greg was the calm in the storm.

Photos of Greg from over the years covered several posterboards. Some of the photos were of me alone from high school, photos that I had never seen before. I was moved that the family chose to honor my role in Greg's life as a part of the memorial. Ann arrived with her sister shortly after we did. Ann was a high school friend of mine and part of my college friend group as well. My inclusion of Greg in our college social activities ultimately led to Ann and Greg dating, then marrying. I found myself protectively lingering near Ann, concerned about how Eleanor and the rest of the family would receive Greg's first wife. I need not have worried. Ann was warmly welcomed and I think everyone appreciated that she made a long trip to pay her respects.

As for the rest of our circle of friends, I knew that Joe was travelling and unable to join. Jeff and Wes never responded to me or anyone else about Greg's memorial and their absence from the event was conspicuous and disappointing. Aside from Julie, an old friend of mine going back to Clarkston Elementary who grew up down the street from Greg, no one else from our high school class made an appearance.

"Chris, I was hoping you could say a few words." It was Eleanor, standing at the front of the room with a microphone in hand. I had spent a lot of time thinking about what I wanted to say about Greg. I was tempted to tell the "we're in my territory now" story, mostly because it was funny and we were certainly well past the statute of limitations. But I wanted to say something essential about who Greg was and what his friendship meant to me, and the car chase story did not meet that need.

Eleanor handed me the microphone and I looked across a room filled with mostly unfamiliar faces. I introduced myself and talked about how I met Greg in the fifth grade, how long we had been friends, and how I viewed him as the exception to my childhood rule about those early friendships not lasting long term.

But to tell the story I wanted to tell, I had to establish some uncomfortable background. My home life from fifth grade to tenth grade was dreadful, mostly due to living with a demon. (While that demon had a human name and a human face, its proper name was Alcoholism.) As a sixth grader, I lost one of my new Clarkston friends after he witnessed some of the abuse I suffered at the hands of that demon. That friend never came to my house again. In fact, he never spoke to me again.

By ninth grade, while the circumstances varied, most of my friends went from being uncomfortable around the demon to flat out not talking to me anymore as a direct result of things happening in my home. At the time, it felt incredibly unfair because each instance was unrelated to anything I did or choices I made. Honestly, it still feels unfair. But kids aren't always mature enough to handle difficult situations and it is hard to be too critical of them in hindsight.

Greg was the exception, the only friend who lasted from fifth grade into high school where he was part of my inner circle with Mike, Jeff, and Wes. None of the others knew me during the demon era. As a high school kid, I used to wonder why Greg stuck around, what made him different from the other kids. Greg was always happy-go-lucky, an optimist. He "walked with a bounce to his step," in Eleanor's words. I rationalized that maybe Greg had never seen the demon in action. Or, just maybe, he'd been oblivious to the circumstances in my house.

Mike, Greg, and me at the Rush R40 Tour, Palace of Auburn Hills, June 2015. Photo by Mike.

One day, many years later and well into adulthood, Greg shared a story dispelling my entire rationalization. He told me about a visit to my house when we were kids and his own run-in with the demon. He was freaked out by the experience and avoided coming to my house for a few years after. But rather than drop me as a friend, he was wise enough and compassionate enough -- as a junior high aged kid, incredibly -- to separate me from the situation that I was in. Though he spent the next few years subtly redirecting our activities to his house and away from mine, we remained the closest of friends. 

Greg was not oblivious at all. He had clocked exactly what I faced at home and stuck around in spite of it. Evidently, I was the oblivious one. Greg was a true friend, who was wise for his age and compassionate enough to maintain our friendship and support me. I am so grateful for him. He was not just the exception to my fifth grade rule about early friendships, he was truly exceptional. This was exactly the point that I wanted to make about Greg to the people at his memorial.

"For anyone who did not know Greg well, I think this is all you need to know to understand the sort of person he was. Greg was literally my friend for life."

August 1, 2026: Space and Time

After the memorial, conversation filled the time until, suddenly, the room was mostly empty except for Greg's immediate family and the four of us who came in together. Eleanor was already heading out of town and it was time for Kristy and me to leave the place of my childhood and time travel back to our collective present in New York.

After Mike and Laura dropped us off at Pentastar, I performed a preflight inspection on the airplane in the rain. During that process, I received a message from Jeff. "Are you coming into town for Greg's service today?"

I was instantly irritated. "We did. We're heading home now. It was nice." Clipped sentences from me are a sure sign of annoyance, but I was not interested in venting my disappointment on our absent friend. Instead, I returned my focus to the flight at hand. Aviation remains the ultimate compartmentalization tool.

Greg and The Bear clowning around at Stony Brook State Park, 29 September 2012.

We scooted out of Oakland County International quickly as heavier precipitation was moving in. Even so, we were given immediate vectors for weather avoidance by Detroit Approach. After each change to our trajectory, the controller thoughtfully checked in with me. "How does that look?" We were in and out of the clouds and occasionally spattered with rain, but had enough visibility to see that Detroit had capably steered us away from the worst of the weather. After a hectic departure, we emerged from the clag in roughly fifteen minutes. Detroit Approach asked me to verify that we had escaped into good conditions and cleared us to resume our originally filed route. On heading, on altitude, and on autopilot, the pace of activity eased back into a more routine cross country mode. West of Cleveland, I proposed a new routing to avoid weather and this was granted. Sometime shortly thereafter, Warrior 481's tachometer ticked over 7500 hours. She's getting old. We both are.

No longer mired in a weather crisis like the one surrounding Pontiac, there was time to ruminate a bit on the day. I was glad to have been there for Eleanor and for Greg's family, but saying goodbye was something that I personally needed, too. I was grateful to Mike for being there when none of Greg's other close friends were. I was also grateful to have Kristy at my side for that journey, despite her dislike for flying in the weather. 

Settling into the gentle vibrations of the Warrior as she bore us home, I sat quietly in silent thanks for the capability of flight and for its power to connect me with the people who matter most across distance and even, it would seem, across time. With the past of my hometown at our tail, Kristy and I returned home.

As we neared Rochester, a warm glow blossomed across the instrument panel. I turned in my seat to see sunlight breaking through the overcast to the west, an ethereal bloom unfolding behind our tail in the general direction of Michigan.

One last smile from the past.