Carl Thayer, Sr.

Carl Raymond Thayer

December 5, 1929 – April 7, 2020

When we think of our Dad, two things come readily to mind: unconditional love and Clemson. Certainly, he had many other qualities and experiences in life, but these two elements stand out.

First, the love part. The greatest gift a father can give to his children is boundless love. A love that is always there no matter what disappointments his children may bring to him. A love that manifests across his face in a huge smile every time they enter his presence and a willingness to drop whatever he’s doing to be fully present with them. An unspoken acceptance that says, “it doesn’t matter what you have done or might do, I love you with my whole heart.”

That same kind of love applied to his wife, Helena Louise Ramsburg. She was the dreamer of the two and often pulled Dad into projects that would elicit a “Aw darn it Helena!” But he wouldn’t have changed a thing because she brought a spark to his world. When he lost her far too soon, he could never really imagine someone else that could replace her.

As a grandfather, he understood the therapeutic effects of McDonald’s drive thru and playing a game of “Pretty Pretty Princess” for a recovering child home from school for a sick day.

All the grandchildren quickly learned where to find the cookies at Graddy’s house, and that he was the “go to” for treats after being cut off by their parents at family gatherings. He could not resist slipping them a little something on the side.

His love of children only slightly nudged out his love for animals, particularly dogs. He always carried dog biscuits in his pocket for his own, and those he might encounter. But all animals seemed to sense his gentle nature and were drawn to him like Dr. Doolittle.

Not surprisingly his nurturing nature translated to a green thumb. He always had a huge garden sharing the bounty with coworkers and friends. We all have fond memories of playing in the freshly plowed dirt. No matter how busy he was trying to get things planted, he never turned us down if we asked for a wheelbarrow ride or to “help” him plant.

He began his life in Adamstown, MD, born at the beginning of the Great Depression. He experienced hardship and some difficult family challenges, but we never heard about that from him. He never complained.

He served in the U.S. Air Force during the Korean War. We only recently learned that while stationed there, he wrote home to ask his church for collections of toys and blankets to create a Christmas celebration for the orphans that lived near the airfield.

He always tried to give back to his community where he could. He gave blood. He served his church, St. John’s Lutheran Church in Creagerstown, in just about every capacity from helping to hand-dig a basement under the sanctuary to singing in the choir. He belonged to veteran groups, Toastmasters, and helped found a Ruritan club. Helping his kids with 4-H projects was almost a second job. We don’t remember all the organizations he was a part of or all the roles he played, but I don’t think he’ll mind if we miss a few.

He seriously considered becoming a minister, but somehow ended up a mechanical engineer.

He worked on a camera that went to the moon. One evening, he brought home a golden rod from it so that we could touch it and share in its journey through space. He worked on medical equipment designed for the challenging environment of a battlefield and secret Cold War projects we will never know about.

His BBQ chicken and homemade root beer were legendary among family and friends. His many nieces and nephews share fond memories of those, as well as snowball battles with “Uncle Corky”, mountain picnics and practical jokes.

And now, the Clemson part. Those who knew him, know that you rarely saw him without at least a splash of orange somewhere on his person. He was a devoted fan of Clemson sports, there is no doubt, but it wasn’t just about the competitions.

Following the Clemson teams gave him a tangible way to stay connected to a place he held deeply in his heart. He was never supposed to go to college. His family could not afford it, and so he never entertained the idea. Instead, he worked on the railroad with his father and as a house painter. But the GI Bill allowed him to challenge his own ideas about what he could be and thankfully, he seized an opportunity that was both unexpected and genuinely appreciated.

He was the first in his family to earn a college degree. The loose ends of his life came together at Clemson. He found his confidence. He found his path. He found many lifelong friends. It was life changing. And so, he honored that experience by proudly wearing his orange—and making sure his children had a ready supply of Clemson wear.

We’ve always joked that the first words we learned to speak were, “Go Tigers!” It might not be far from the truth. And though our father was not one to swear, a bad call for his beloved Tigers—whatever sport it might be—was likely to bring forth a forbidden word or two.

We’ve always felt our Dad embodied the message of unconditional love and forgiveness often heard in the Christian church, especially this time of year. Our father was not flamboyant in his faith, rather a quiet follower of Christ who tried to live his faith every day. He was not perfect, but he was perfect for us.

He is survived by his children, Carl Thayer, Jr.; Stephen Thayer; Mary (Steve) Haugen; Rebecca (Robert) Hankey; and Kathy (Steve) Nicholakos.

He was predeceased by his granddaughter Marley Zimmerman, which threatened to break his heart in two. But it did not make him bitter. He continued to find endless joy in his remaining grandchildren: Bailey (Tom) Kesteven; Helena, Sophia and Demetri Nicholakos; and Natalie Haugen. And his great grandchildren: Axel Mack, and Maddox and Micah Kesteven.

He is also survived by his cousin Regina Roberts, whom he loved like a sister.

His granddaughter Bailey sums up our feelings as a family, “I always thought of him as an angel on earth.” His sweet nature, his kind soul, his gentle presence, his generosity of spirit, his broad smile and his mischievous giggle at a good-natured prank well played—we will sorely miss it all.

In our last opportunity to visit with our Dad via Zoom, he said upon looking at our pictures on the screen, “I am the luckiest man in the world because of my kids.” But actually, we felt like the lucky ones.

And one more time for you Dad: We love you. Go Tigers!

Because of the pandemic, we cannot give our father the memorial we would like at this time. We will plan a celebration of his life when circumstances allow it.