“How interesting,” I replied. “Why did you choose that particular profession? I’m sure you had a good reason.”
Buddy had warned her that I might insult her, slap him, and leave the room. “Be prepared for anything!” we found out later he had gleefully told her. “She’s a real hoity-toity gal. A real turd!”
He was not prepared for my interest in her and what she did. He almost cried when we talked companionably. She told me that she could not make much money at anything else, but now she had enough to care for her daughter and to be a real stay-at-home mom, so she only worked nights most of the time. Buddy had paid her handsomely to work this “day job.” Her task was to “expose” me to Buddy’s best friend and let him know he was wasting his time with me, a heartless woman with a snobbish lifestyle.
Instead, Buddy and I became friends. He saw my heart go out to this sweet mother who was doing the best she could with her life to ensure that her little girl had a better one. We all felt the same way and had a fun-filled evening that none of us would ever forget. And there was no more talk of what anyone did for a living. I think Buddy’s date felt accepted for the sweet person she was.
Some playboys of my acquaintance were strictly friends—lifelong ones at that. They weren’t part of my quest for a husband but they were wonderful all the same.
Baron Enrico “Ricky” di Portanova was one of the men that I was urged to call before I approached Vince Kickerello. He was the grandson of Hugh Roy Cullen, one of the wealthiest men in the world. When cosmopolitan Ricky came to Houston to receive his part of the fortune, he was a sensation. He ultimately married one of my closet friends, the beautiful, intelligent, and delightful Sandra. Every item in their houses—a palace in Acapulco, the royal suite at Claridge’s in London, and a home in Monte Carlo—was a museum piece. They had their own jet and more staff than most hotels. Ricky told me that before he met Sandra, he had wanted to marry me but was afraid of taking on two young boys.
Before Ricky met his wife and came into his fortune, he and my other dear playboy friend, British expat Charles Fawcett, were the two most popular bachelors in Rome. Charles was to play a critical role in my Afghan adventures. He was one of those bigger-than-life characters who pass through history from time to time. He had distinguished himself in the French Foreign Legion and the Royal Air Force during World War II, then had gone on to become a screen star and global adventurer. His unselfish, constant support fueled our friendship for thirty years. Without him, I never would have gone to Afghanistan. I would also never have produced and narrated the TV documentary A Thirst for Glory, a Taste of Freedom, about the American Revolution. Every revolution must have arms and money supplied by an ally to succeed. True in Afghanistan today.
Ricky and Charles would stroll down the Via Veneto, Rome’s main street, home to the dolce vita (sweet life) and lined with outdoor cafés and blossoming umbrellas that resembled flowers. The pace was leisurely, the atmosphere festive. Soon the two would be surrounded by admiring women, random waiters, film stars, and adventurers—and even romantic, swashbuckler actor Errol Flynn when he was there shooting the film The Sun Also Rises.
I’m sure that if I had gone to bed with Charles or Ricky or any of the others who were to play defining roles in my life, I would never have enjoyed their long-term friendships. They would have left me, never giving me another thought, just as they did the other women who tumbled into their beds. I was convinced of that much, even with the changes in the world of dating. Still, it was an uncertain time in my life, especially when unanticipated situations arose.
Bill Powers, of my high school days, came back into my life, suggesting that we try again. It seemed unlikely to me after so many years that there could be anything meaningful between people who had not seen each other in such a long time. I did not think it could work.
When I told him so, he asked, “What are you going to do with your life?”
I said, “I have given it to God.”
He looked at me disdainfully and said, “Joanne, do you mean to tell me that if the Lord told you to go to Bangladesh as a missionary, you would go?”
I was dumbfounded. I could not answer that question because I had never even considered being a missionary, and certainly not one in Bangladesh (previously part of Pakistan). (I have always wondered if that question was a predictor of things to come since I was to go to Pakistan and Afghanistan and work among the very poor in their villages.) But at that moment, I understood what Bill meant: Do you mean that you could literally do it?
I knew what I should answer, but I was horrified by what that would mean. Could I actually be a missionary in Bangladesh? You cannot lie to the Lord.
I went home and thought about it. I thought deeply. I really faced what it would mean to be a very poor missionary in a ravaged country. I actually pictured in my mind living barefoot on the banks of a muddy stream. I knew that I was promising God, and if I promised, I had to go.
Suddenly I felt a lightness of the spirit, a surety that I could do it and that I would be happy to do it because it would be His will if it were to happen. He had never failed me. I always found happiness when I walked with Him.
“All right, Lord,” I said. “If You want me to go to Bangladesh and live like that, I can do it. I know I will be happy because it’s Your will. I accept it. Yes, I can go to Bangladesh.” Acknowledging that I really could go was simply a way of saying, “Not my will but Yours be done.”
That decision changed everything. Now every time I face any problem, I ask myself, “Could I go to Bangladesh?” meaning, “Do I really give this problem to the Lord?”
God smiled. He simply wanted my total acceptance of His will. When I did that, He gave it all back. Instead of the slums of Bangladesh, the Lord gave me one of the richest men in Houston—and all the joy my heart could hold.
CHAPTER 15
Bob Herring: A Great Man Is Hard to Find
I don’t remember meeting Bob Herring. I knew about him, just as everyone in Houston knew about him and admired him. My first memory of him is at a dinner party where he was my dinner companion. I remember coming home and thinking how clever I had been in my conversation. When I knew Bob better, I understood that he had a talent for making everybody feel clever.
I decided I needed to know him better, but I wasn’t sure how to get closer to him. He was a widower who had absolutely closed his door on the world, determined to simply raise his children and to continue his successful career. Though he had started with nothing but his abilities, Bob was at the top of the ladder. He was president of the country club, chairman of the chamber of commerce, and so on—there was no honor that he had not had. He became the chairman of the board at Rice University even though he was a graduate of Texas A&M and Georgetown University.
Bob came from a modest, middle-class family. A successful family before the South was wiped out, the Herrings very much valued their family’s history.
During World War II, when he was only twenty-three, Bob flew B-17s and was shot down four times. He was the youngest colonel in the Pacific War at the time of his promotion and served on General Douglas MacArthur’s staff as chief intelligence officer for the war in the Pacific, an incredible feat for someone so young. Among his contributions, he helped develop the low-level bombing that hastened the end of the war.
MacArthur was scheduled to accept the surrender of the Japanese Army in Korea himself, but due to a storm, communication between MacArthur and U.S. troops in Korea was interrupted. Bob, who headed the advance team, did not know that the general and his entire staff had returned to base.
An entire army, tens of thousands of men standing at attention, swords carefully laid on the ground, awaited the general. Bob sat in his plane anticipating MacArthur’s arrival too. After waiting all day with the Japanese army standing at attention in the hot sun, and unable to call headquarters about the situation, Bob decided to accept the surrender in General MacArthur’s place. The paper the next morning said that a yo
ung colonel on MacArthur’s staff had accepted the surrender of an entire country. MacArthur was not pleased.
Bob remembered spending the night at a local hotel. The next morning the hall was covered with gifts from grateful Koreans. He did not know how to return them because there were no cards. Two huge Satsuma gold vases from the imperial palace were among them. They depicted scenes from the proud Korean history with gold filigree surrounding each scene. The vases were so impressive, he could not leave them behind. He carried them home on his airplane and eventually gave them to me as a very special present. I still have them.
Bob had many medals and was twice recommended for the Medal of Honor. This was a soldier!
His climb in the business world was slow, however. He had no money and no position, yet he wanted to “play in the oil patch,” as we say in Houston. It takes a big corporation, a consortium of businessmen, or a very innovative person to gain entry. Bob was innovative but he had no connections. By the time he entered the game, the big players were no longer roughnecks. They were generations into this very difficult field. Although they were referred to as “good old boys,” they were far from that. They were educated and distinguished men. Everywhere Bob went, he met a closed door.
Business magnate Ray Fish had made millions, and Bob wanted desperately to join his organization. After sitting in Fish’s office for what seemed like years, he was actually able to meet the man. Fish was impressed and sent him to Calgary, Canada. In Calgary Bob was his enormously successful and innovative self. This so impressed Fish that he made Bob president of a small company called Valley Oil.
Bob’s success attracted the attention of the officers of Houston Natural Gas, the city’s utility company, who offered him the presidency. Bob told them he would not accept their offer unless they bought his company. This was always Bob’s way of doing business. If he made one company a success, and another company wanted to have him—which many did, including Conoco, Transco, and other big boys—he always insisted that the purchasing company buy his company along with him. Through his brilliance, his company stock was often worth more than the giant that wanted to acquire him. He transformed an aging utility and pushed it into the top echelon of the oil world.
This company was renamed Enron after he died. Alas, Bob died of lung cancer in 1981 at the age of sixty. The company that he built was later leveraged into extinction by people who came after him. Enron became a huge tragedy. Had Bob still been in charge, it would never have happened. During his scandal-free leadership, he would never have gambled with stockholders’ money and people’s pensions. He valued his stockholders and coworkers and talked about his responsibility to them constantly.
The company he built ended in disgrace and bankruptcy and tragedy for many. After filing for bankruptcy in 2001, Enron sold its last company in 2006. It also established a pattern that other businesses emulated, which led to their crashes in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Bob would have abhorred these practices and choices. He made credibility his winning strategy.
How did I get him? I really had to marry an important man. People expected it. There were very few like Bob running around loose. He was everything I admired in a man, and I felt extremely attracted to him. I also knew he was not unaware of me.
A mutual friend invited us both to a Christmas party. I called Bob’s office and asked if he would like to go with me. He said he would. That was a very special evening. I wore the most alluring dress I could find in my closet. It was very high-necked and long-sleeved, but it was jersey and left little to the imagination. The night was a success. But Bob did not call me.
Of course, there was still my beau in France, Raymond Marcellin, the French minister of the interior. At that moment it was likely he would become prime minister under General Charles de Gaulle. It was a dazzling prospect. There were others, as well. But the bells had rung in Texas. I could not forget Bob Herring.
The glitter that would surround me in France was not as enticing as it had been prior to Bob. He was actually so much more appropriate for me. We had the same friends. We lived in the same city. I would not have to move my boys to a totally strange country with a man who had never had children. Bob had three, mostly grown, all outstanding, and all very nice.
I had a previously scheduled trip to France, but I called Bob’s office and asked if he would like to accompany me to an awards ceremony after I returned, one at which both of us were on the program. He said he would, but I forgot the date and stayed in France, missing this opportunity. When I returned home, I called Bob and asked, “When is the awards benefit?”
“Last night,” he said. He did not call back.
I later found out that he was dying of casserole poisoning. Every unmarried woman in Houston was bringing casseroles to his door. He finally stopped answering the door. He was a target, and he knew it. When I called, he never refused to take my call, but he never called me back. I always had to initiate the dates.
One night he finally asked me to act as his hostess for a party he was giving for the top business leaders of Houston. He was, at last, inviting me. But my competition was like a tsunami. His secretary had her eyes on him too. It got to the point where she would not pass my calls through to him. Not to be deterred, I pretended to be the English wife of the president of Shell Oil. Speaking with a very distinctive British accent, I called and said, “I am Mrs. Harry Bridges. I would like to speak to Mr. Herring, please.” She fell for it, and the rest is history.
We had only five dates, but they were spread over three anxious months. When he finally proposed, what he actually said was, “Shall we live in my house or yours?” I remember thinking, “I hope he intends to marry me.” He hadn’t said a word about getting married; he’d just asked about our living arrangements. I should have known that Bob would never make such a remark unless he was serious.
That evening, I called my mother and said, “I think he proposed!”
“Thank God!” she said. And I did.
I think one of the reasons there was so much time in between our five dates was because he had to think very hard about it. He may have wanted me, but, being Bob, he must have carefully considered assuming my mountain of debt. He must have seriously thought about taking on two boys, then ages seventeen and ten, who would need everything, including college educations (though they both ended up paying for their own). He already had three children and a very busy and rewarding life. No matter how attracted he was to me, it was a lot for a man to consider. So many men had considered two kids too much, but Bob said yes to all of it.
The marriage was a gift from the Lord. Bob was the kindest, most unselfish, caring person I had ever met. He never waited for anyone to ask for assistance. He saw anguish and found a way to help, asking nothing but the joy he must have felt in doing it.
He paid all my debt off in full. He paid the enormous notes that I had dreaded so much and prayed so hard to be able to meet, making it possible for us to keep our land until it was sold to Shell Oil, leaving us all rich. He paid the taxes on other land I had had for years, so that one day this too would save me when I needed money. He paid the Vince Kickerillo note and joined me when I went to Vince’s office to thank him for his amazing generosity. Vince told Bob, “I never worried a minute about that note. I knew she would pay me. But I’m happy she found someone to take care of her.”
And Bob did take care of me. Without saying a word, he sent Bob King a loan of a million dollars, which removed any regrets or sadness I had about Bob King. Herring’s trust was well founded. Bob King paid back every cent and rose from the ashes to become prosperous again. He worked hard to do it and deserved every penny, but he needed that loan to succeed. Bob Herring told me he did it because he saw that it made me desperately unhappy to see Bob King suffer.
“I never want you to be unhappy again,” Bob Herring declared to me.
My former husband went on to have a new wife and two beautiful children. His happiness saved mine.
Bob Herring love
d the “roar of the crowd” as I did. He was so confident in who and what he was. He never thought of me as a competitor but as a complement to anything he did, and I was delighted to be his copilot. I had tried flying alone and could manage, but I didn’t like it. I love working with others. Who cares who gets the credit? It’s the job that counts.
A man I worked with in television once said, “Joanne, you like the race. You do not care about the cup.” That is true. I love the race and I like very much to win. But after the race, I like very much to find a new one to run.
In Bob I found the soul mate who understood me. He wanted to play on the big stage of world affairs. He was a genius and I enjoyed supporting him. He never made a business decision without discussing it with me. That was crucial for my development. It taught me about corporations. This was to be an essential tool in the toolbox of my future.
Bob had built his dream house. It was huge, with twenty-foot ceilings and beautiful walnut paneling in almost every downstairs room. It was very grand but not very me. When Bob asked me to marry him, he gave me a choice. “I will buy you any house in Houston, or we can live in yours,” he said. “In fact, you can have anything you want in the entire world. The sky is the limit. You name it, I’ll get it.” He meant it. And, indeed, I am humbled by the sky he opened for me and how he let me fly. Bob Herring never said no to me in anything, and we never had a cross word.
I looked at all the homes available and decided that his house was the best choice at the time. It was close to his office. There was not much available in the “big house” market because in the early 1970s Houston was booming, and building at that time would leave us too long in limbo.
A woman should never move into a house another woman has shared with her children. The Herring children welcomed me, but the minute I made any changes in their house, it upset them. It was also a difficult move for my boys because they had lived surrounded by twelve acres in a house they loved and thought was equally beautiful. Now they lived in a grand house that had everything, but very little property around it.
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