Raymond A. Phillips

Raymond Arthur Phillips passed away peacefully on April 7, 2026, surrounded by his family. He leaves behind his beloved wife of 60 years, Rosalyn (Mundorf) Phillips; his sons, Jon Phillips (Wendy) and Chris Phillips (Laura); and his grandchildren, Jack, Evan, and Lucy. Ray was deeply loved, and his presence shaped the lives of all of us who were fortunate enough to know him best.

Our dad prioritized family dinners, family vacations, and the idea that we—his sons—were always going to “look out for each other.” By example, he always looked out for us. When Chris wanted to join a band, Dad combed the classifieds to find a used Roland Juno-106 synthesizer for a birthday surprise, driving four hours each way to retrieve it. When Jon got a foot in the door at the local radio station for a crack-of-dawn weekend shift, Dad got up at 5:15 a.m. for six months of Sundays to drive him there. He sat up with Jon at 2 a.m. through asthma attacks, and he procured a top-notch lawyer after one of Chris’s misadventures—Dad was built to be strong in a crisis. He built Pinewood Derby cars and helped us work on our real cars, went on Scouting camping trips, and attended every performance. Well into our teens, when Dad got home from work, we dropped what we were doing for a hug and a kiss.

Dad and Mom met on a blind date when they were in college. He unknowingly passed the first test when his friend told her that Ray was the smartest one in his fraternity (Theta Xi). They were married on June 11, 1966, after Dad completed a fifth year at Lehigh University to graduate magna cum laude with a BS in Civil Engineering, along with a BA in Applied Science for good measure. The first in his family to reach escape velocity from a tiny row house in suburban Philly and attend college, he was Phi Beta Kappa—and a bunch of other honorary business, of course. He went on to earn his master’s in Civil Engineering from Carnegie Mellon.

Dad was fond of saying the most important “decision” he made in his life was marrying Mom. We cannot confirm who did the deciding there, but we have our suspicions. They both said that, while very different people on the surface, shared values were what truly united them. When Jon was 11, he made some mild confession to Dad, followed up by, “Don’t tell Mom.” His father looked him in the eye and replied, “Don’t ever ask me to lie to your mother.” That crystallized our view of our place in the family … and it gave us a roadmap for our own lives and relationships.

We watched sketches turn into detailed drawings, then turn into physical structures around our house, all single-handedly built by Dad with occasional lumber-hauling and nailing duty by us. A professional shed (a barn, really, to these kids’ eyes). A treehouse. A second-story screen porch and deck. He fixed everything, retiled bathrooms, hung wallpaper, rototilled yet another giant garden for Mom, and fixed a sagging house with a couple of heavy beams and some bottle jacks. Such is the life of a man who was both incredibly handy and committed to living well below his means. Luckily for him, Mom was equally devoted to that modest life.

In our little house on East Maine Road in the mid-1970s, Dad spent a spring and summer scraping and repainting the entire thing. He was about 80 percent done when he tumbled off the ladder. A full leg cast for nine months. His buddies from work showed up one Saturday and finished the job for him while he sat in a lounge chair and gratefully supervised.

Those friends were from Cives Steel Company, the second and final company Dad ever worked for as an adult. Just a few years into his career, following a stretch at Pittsburgh-Des Moines Steel, he signed on to this modest steel fabrication company that was taking on the world out of four small plants on the East Coast. He’d drive us to work with him on Saturday mornings in his beloved ’62 Corvette convertible (our early introduction to g-forces), and we’d climb the grated metal stairs to the tiny office outcropping and play with phones and staple removers while he powered through some work before lunch at McDonald’s.

Dad quickly moved from engineering to sales as the ’70s progressed. The “people person” of the family, he loved meeting customers, chatting up seatmates on airplanes if they seemed amenable, and occasionally inviting a fellow solo traveler waiting for a table to join him for dinner. He was tapped to open the new Thomasville, GA, Cives plant in 1981, serving as general manager there for a decade; he eventually rose to become president and then chairman of the entire enterprise in Atlanta. He worked hard; we could assemble a standalone scrapbook called Pictures of Our Dad on Vacation, but Only in Phone Booths at Rest Areas, Fast Food Joints, and Outside the East Haddam, CT, Airport Control Tower. When he retired in 2016, Cives Corporation had seven massive plants across the country, several related businesses, and nearly $500 million in revenue. At his retirement dinner, he refused to let anyone speak about him. Instead, he walked the room for 90 minutes among the 40 or so Cives senior team members who, along with their families, had flown in for the event, extemporaneously honoring each one of them—with no notes. We were there. That was Dad.

Deacon and Elder at Northminster Presbyterian Church. President of the Thomasville Rotary Club. Board member of the Thomasville Chamber of Commerce, Thomasville Technical Institute, and the American Institute of Steel Construction, which honored him with a Lifetime Achievement Award in 2010. Dad balanced family, friends, career, and community all along the way.

He loved to ski, from Greek Peak to Killington to Vail, and he hosted family trips for years. A Corvette enthusiast since first seeing one in 1953, he was also a big auto-racing fan—first IndyCar, then NASCAR. This seeped into our real lives: in the ’70s, armed with his C.B. radio and his handle—Captain Hook—our road trips were completed … well … in record time. Eventually, he indulged in actual racing instruction, mostly so he’d have a chance to take his 1996 ’Vette out on the giant oval to see what it could do. He would only admit to 160 mph. We’ll take the over on that.

After decades as a gym rat (crushing two plates on the bench in his 60s—and we’re talking 225, not 135), he discovered cycling, which became a real passion as well as a social outlet during his retirement. We—and especially Mom—were grateful for both, even if it meant we had to walk around his road bike on a trainer in the middle of the family room during the winter months or receive the occasional phone call that he had fallen or—true story—gotten hit by a car. Like, Starsky-and-Hutch-up-and-over-the-hood hit by a car. Jon would be on the line with a paramedic calling from Dad’s cell phone while Dad yelled out, “I’m okay, Jon!” This in his late 70s. He was a tough son of a gun.

Historically, he was the one taking the call for help, and he always showed up. In our 20s, Jon didn’t need to ply friends with pizza and beer to help him move, since Dad would come put his gym workouts to use. When Chris needed to transport a new car from Atlanta to Seattle, Dad quickly volunteered to share the drive. It was a highly memorable, spontaneous, two-week cross-country road trip on which he even—and this was big—let Chris pick the music the whole way.

Dad found ways to be an active part of our adult lives as well, collecting wine with Jon, going to concerts with Chris, and, eventually, sharing our love of Bruce Springsteen. Music had always been a big part of Dad’s life; he was there for the birth of rock ’n’ roll and had the 45s to prove it. His records—he actually let us play them—soundtracked our youth. A trumpeter in the high school band, he was tuned in to many frequencies, being hip to jazz in the ’60s and an early adopter of Ray Charles and James Brown (he shared memories of being “the only white guy in the place” at their concerts), with a lifelong love for Frank Sinatra that never waned. By the ’70s, it was country (of the outlaw variety) that had his ears, so he came late to Springsteen. But once he did, he was all-in. We’d talk bootlegs, take road trips, analyze setlists. The three of us (along with Mom, to a less obsessive degree) went to more than 50 Springsteen shows together around the country, as well as seven in Australia (as one does), and Dad became friends with our friends on the road. At 70 years old, he would stand on the concrete arena floor in front of the stage for four hours, singing along, even allowing himself a fist pump or two as the choreography demanded.

And so tonight, we raise our glasses to the man who once famously explained to our waiter, joking-not-joking, that “Your tip is entirely dependent on how quickly my drink hits the table.” We’ll get the ball rolling with a bourbon Manhattan on the rocks with a few cherries, optionally followed by a gin and tonic in a tall glass, and then a really nice 2000 Bordeaux with a steak.

[radio static]

“Breaker 1-9 for Captain Hook.”

"Go break, Captain, from Living Proof. Highway’s clear all the way to the horizon."

Pedal to the metal, Dad. Godspeed.