"Name-Droppings," Part 2

A chapter in my forthcoming memoir (second of a trilogy) describes encounters with some famous people I have met during my life as a student, athlete, engineer, academic, entrepreneur, venture capitalist, and author. I hope you enjoyed Part 1, titled "The Blonde-Headed Singer," and I hope you will like Part 2:

THE LITTLE EDUCATOR

            In the late 1990s, while running the Dingman Center for Entrepreneurship at the University of Maryland, I developed a close working relationship with the National Business Incubator Association. Despite the word “National” in its name, the NBIA is an international organization of nearly 2,000 incubator professionals from 60 countries. These managers run facilities – called “incubators” and “accelerators” – which house and help entrepreneurial companies during their startup stages.

            Because of my experience in starting and running companies, managing a center which provided assistance to entrepreneurs, and my positions on several Maryland incubator boards, the NBIA selected me to design and deliver two-and-a-half-day workshops for incubator managers at its semi-annual fall institutes.
            Never being one to turn down an opportunity to earn a handsome consulting fee, I had traveled to Pasadena, California, Birmingham, Alabama, and Omaha, Nebraska, to talk about my favorite subject – entrepreneurship and venture creation. Now, I was in Tennessee, in a Chattanooga hotel, where I had just completed my fourth assignment. We finished at noon, and I was anxious to get to the airport for the trip home.
            I wheeled my suitcase outside the hotel to an awaiting shuttle. After the driver placed my bag in the luggage compartment, I climbed inside the van. I noticed that all the passengers were women, and that the first and second rows were filled. So, I made my way to the rear and took one of the two empty seats, next to the window.
            Despite the fact that the van was nearly full, we were not ready to leave. The driver stood outside, apparently waiting for one more person to fill the only empty seat – the one adjacent to mine. After ten or fifteen minutes, I began to get antsy. There were not many flights out of Chattanooga, and I had to make my connection in Charlotte. I was running out of time. Other passengers were becoming impatient, too, as was clearly discernable from the tone of their quiet conversations. Then, suddenly, discussion ceased as all eyes focused on the reason for our wait. A tiny woman – less than five feet tall, with light brown hair, wearing horn-rim glasses and a dark blue suit – came out of the hotel door, followed by a bellman, lugging a suitcase nearly as large as its owner. The driver helped the lady negotiate the steps with her short legs as she entered the van. She spotted the only vacant seat, made her way to the rear, and sat down next to me.
            “Hello,” I nodded.
            “Hello,” she responded as she made herself comfortable.
            Finally, the driver jumped in behind the wheel, started the engine, threw it into gear, and we were off to the airport. As we made our way out of the hotel area, my neighbor turned to me.
            “So, where are you headed?” she asked in German-accented English.
            “Home. I’m flying to Baltimore,” I said. “How about you?”
            “I’m heading home, too. I live in New York City.”
            After a few moments of silence, she resumed her small talk. I was not anxious to continue because I had noticed that our fellow passengers were turning their heads and listening to our conversation. But, I wanted to be polite and responsive.
            “What were you doing in Chattanooga?” she asked.
            “I was giving a seminar here at the hotel for the past three days,” I answered.
            “Really? I was down here giving seminars, too. Two days ago, I was at Duke University and yesterday, I was at the University of Tennessee,” she explained. “What was the subject of your seminar?”
            “Entrepreneurship,” I said. “I was teaching a bunch of managers of business incubators how to help companies during their startup period. Most of them have never run small companies, so they didn’t understand the difficult issues entrepreneurs face.”
            “Oh,” she said. “I’m a small businesswoman myself. I wish I could have learned from you before I started.”
            Now, I was getting interested and, despite my discomfort brought about by the eavesdropping women in front of us, I wanted to know more.
            “So, what about your seminars? What was the subject?” I asked. As soon as the words left my mouth, I could hear snickering throughout the van, and one woman burst out laughing.
            “What the hell is this all about?” I wondered.
            “Sex,” my neighbor answered. “I’m a psychosexual therapist.”
            Now I seemed to be only one in the van who was not laughing. I was perplexed, embarrassed, and at a loss for words. After a long pause, the woman stuck out her hand.
            “Hi. My name is Ruth Westheimer. What’s yours?”
            I shook hands with Ms. Westheimer and responded: “I’m Charlie Heller. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Then, suddenly, the fog lifted from my brain. “Are you Dr. Ruth?”
            She laughed and clapped her hands. “Yes, I am. You’ve seen my show?”
            “I’m sorry, I haven’t,” I admitted. “But, I’ve seen you interviewed several times.”
            Now that the air was cleared, our fellow passengers seemed to lose interest in our conversation, and I felt more comfortable. Dr. Ruth was interested in my work at the Dingman Center and in my entrepreneurial career. When I told her about my passion for skiing, her face lit up.
            “I live for skiing,” she said. “One of the biggest benefits of my fame is that, whenever my husband and I want to go skiing, we have a limousine pick us up at our apartment in Manhattan, drive us to the airport, and a private airplane flies us to Colorado. It’s a tough life.”
            “I envy you,” I said, as I tried to imagine this little wisp of a woman bombing down a mogulled, black-diamond run at Aspen.
            “Where did you learn to ski?” she asked.
            I told her about starting at a very young age in Czechoslovakia, then having my skiing interrupted by the war, resuming again after my family was reunited, then not skiing again for some 15 years because I could not afford it after escaping to the United States. I explained that I was trying to make up for lost time and that my moonlighting career as a skiwriter allowed me to ski all over the U.S. and in Europe.
            “How about you?” I asked, wanting to know not only about her skiing, but about the source of her heavy Germanic accent.
            “I was born in Germany,” she explained. “But, actually, I started skiing in Switzerland.”
            She went on to tell me that she was born in Frankfurt a few years before Hitler’s ascent to power. Before the outbreak of the Second World War, her parents sent her to school in Switzerland. The great majority of the students were German Jews and, in the years that followed, the school became their orphanage. Most of the parents, including Ruth’s, perished in the Holocaust. I told Dr. Ruth about my own, and my family’s, travails during the war, and we seemed to bond instantly. After my initial embarrassment over the discovery of her profession, followed by intimidation caused by her celebrity persona, I became totally comfortable in her presence. She seemed to enjoy my company as much as I enjoyed hers.
            “What flight are you taking out of Chattanooga?” she asked as we approached the airport.
            “I’m flying to Charlotte, and I’ll connect there with a flight to Baltimore.,” I said.
            Once again, she clapped her hands and smiled. “That’s perfect. I’m on the flight to Charlotte, too. Let’s sit together.”
            The driver took Ruth’s bag to the curbside check-in and I followed with mine, while Ruth waited in the van. After tipping the driver, she joined me and we entered Chattanooga airport. Immediately, I discovered that I had been the only person in America – or at least in the state of Tennessee – who failed to recognize the famous Dr. Ruth. A guy working the Hertz rental car window literally jumped over the counter and ran up to Dr. Ruth to ask for her autograph. She obliged him and many others, as we made our way, ever so slowly, to the USAirways counter. I upgraded to first class so that I could sit with my new friend, and we began the walk to the gate, with a procession of autograph seekers in our wake. Finally, Ruth put her arm through mine, apologized to her fans, and asked me to walk faster to our airplane. Although I had discovered by now that Dr. Ruth was eight years older than I, I felt as though I was escorting my little sister to school. At six feet and one inch, I towered over her and had to bend down whenever she spoke. I was amazed at the commotion caused by this tiny package of energy walking beside me.
            Finally seated in the comfort of our first-class seats, we had privacy for the first time. Ruth told me how, after the war, she discovered that her family had been wiped out by the Nazis. Alone in the world, she and some friends traveled to Palestine, where she became a devout Zionist. She fought on the side of the Haganah for the independence of Israel and was wounded in battle. She emigrated to the U.S. via Paris, and eventually earned her master’s and doctoral degrees from Columbia University. In New York, she married a fellow Jewish refugee and ski enthusiast, Manfred.
            To my great relief, the subject of sex never came up in our conversation. Prior to landing in Charlotte, I told Ruth that my organization, the Dingman Center for Entrepreneurship, was organizing a national conference for women entrepreneurs, to be held at the University of Maryland the following year. I inquired if she might be interested in being the keynote speaker.
            “I’ll be happy to do it. But, I get a lot of money for speaking,” she said.
            “Ruth, we’re a nonprofit center, part of the university,” I replied. “I’m afraid that we can’t afford to pay very much.”
            She smiled and squeezed my arm: “For you, I’ll do it for free. Just give me the date as soon as you know it.”
            I was ecstatic. We parted in Charlotte, with the promise that we would continue our discussion when we came together in College Park. Sadly, it did not happen. When I returned to the Dingman Center the next day, I gathered my associate director and assistant director – both of them women, and in charge of organizing the upcoming conference. Excitedly, I told them about Dr. Westheimer’s offer to be keynote speaker – and to do it for nothing. I expected an enthusiastic response. Instead, the two women looked at one another and shook their heads in unison.
            “Dr. Ruth?” said one. “You must be kidding! We’d be a laughing stock. This is a serious conference for serious women entrepreneurs. Do you really think they’d want to hear about sex?”
            “No way,” said her companion.
            I argued, pointing out that Dr. Ruth’s fame would be a drawing card and that she is an entrepreneur in her own right. I got nowhere. Since I had given my colleagues the authority to manage the event, I had no choice but to accept their decision. My last communication with Ruth was a letter in which I lied by explaining that, unbeknownst to me, the organizers of the conference had already engaged a keynote speaker. I thanked her for her kind offer. I was truthful and sincere when I told her that I hoped that we would meet again soon. Unfortunately, that has not happened.

Charles Ota Heller: Baltimore radio and library appearances

Charles Ota Heller: Baltimore radio and library appearances

http://www.prattlibrary.org/locations/reisterstownroad/

Baltimore radio and library appearances

• My interview with Sheilah Kast, host of "Maryland Morning," which airs on Baltimore's National Public Radio station, WYPR, will be rebroadcast on Friday, November 23. The particulars are:

                           Friday, November 23, 9:15 am, WYPR-FM, 88.1

• I will be discussing, and reading from, Prague: My Long Journey Home, at the Enoch Pratt Free Library on Wednesday evening, November 28. If you'll be in the area, I'd love to see you there:

                           Wednesday, November 28, 6:00 pm
                           Enoch Pratt Free Library,  6310 Reisterstown Road, Baltimore
                             (410) 396-0948

Leadership at Oklahoma State University

Oklahoma State University's Edmon Low Library

My faith in America's youth was reinforced last week on the beautiful campus of my alma mater, Oklahoma State University. When my book, Prague: My Long Journey Home, was published ten months ago, I was concerned that the only readers interested in my story would be older Americans with memories of World War II. At OSU, I had the opportunity to speak about the book and my experiences in front of a number of audiences -- sometimes alone and sometimes sharing the podium with my friend, fellow OSU Cowboy and memoirist, Chic Dambach. I was amazed and heartened by the interest in, and knowledge of, the war and the Holocaust by so many OSU students. They were amazing -- and they made me extremely proud.

Both Chic and I discussed with the students how our respective books and personal stories related to leadership. OSU not only has a Center for Ethical Leadership, but the subject of Leadership pervades the campus -- it is included in various curricula and courses. It is taken very seriously by administration, faculty, and students. I left Stillwater knowing that the future is in good hands.

Go, Pokes!

Book presentations at Oklahoma State University

I will have the opportunity to discuss my book, Prague: My Long Journey Home, at my alma mater, Oklahoma State University, on several occasions next week. In all but one, I'll be joined by my friend, Chic Dambach, the author of the wonderful memoir, Exhaust the Limits. If you'll be in Stillwater or anywhere nearby, come join us. Here is the schedule:

Wednesday, November 7
3:00 pm  -- College of Engineering, Architecture & Technology Leadership/Entrepreneurship
                        seminar

Thursday, November 8 (all with Chic)
10:30 am -- Leadership class, Student Union 211
3:15 pm  -- President Leadership Council, 010 Willard Hall
4:30 pm  -- Book signing at OSU bookstore

"Name Droppings," Part 1

A chapter in my forthcoming memoir describes encounters with some famous people I have met during my life as a student, athlete, engineer, academic, entrepreneur, venture capitalist, and author. I hope you enjoy Part 1, titled "The Blonde-Headed Singer."

THE BLONDE-HEADED SINGER

            One fall afternoon of my freshman year at Oklahoma State University, my teammates and I were running a layup drill at one end of Gallagher Hall (today, Gallagher-Iba Arena). At the other end, carpenters and other workers were building a stage for that evening’s concert. The banging of hammers and the screeching of electric drills and saws competed with the rat-a-tat-tat of bouncing rubber basketballs, but we were too intent on preparing for an upcoming game to be distracted by the noise.
            Then, as I ran to the back of the line after shooting a layup, I was startled by the fact that the noise suddenly stopped. Basketballs and tools became quiet, as the eyes of players and workers focused on two people who had stepped on the polished hardwood floor. One was a gray-haired man wearing gray slacks and a double-breasted blue blazer with a red cravat, an outfit out of place on any college campus. But, as natty and ludicrous as he looked, he was not the object of everyone’s attention. No, everyone – now, including me – was staring at his companion.
            She was tall and slim, with blond, curly hair reaching down to her shoulders. She wore a black blouse tucked inside black slacks, and her high heels now made the only sound heard in the arena. Even from the distance of half a basketball court, I could see that she was beautiful.
            “That must be Helen O’Connell,” someone said quietly, as the pair made its way toward the stage.
            Since coming to America, I had become a huge fan of big-band music. In high school, I had listened to the records of Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Jimmy Dorsey, and I particularly liked the band-singers who had become famous in the ‘30s and ‘40s and were making a comeback in the ‘50s: Anita O’Day, Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Chris Connor, Doris Day, Bob Eberly, Peggy Lee – and Helen O’Connell. From the moment I learned that O’Connell would be the star of the first of OSU’s annual concert series, I had looked forward to this day. I planned to be back in the arena early that night to get a good seat so that I could see and hear one of my favorites. And now she was here, inspecting the premises.
           Slowly, we resumed practice and started a shoot-around. Each time I threw up a jump shot, I stole a glance in the direction of the stage and our glamorous visitors. Finally, I saw them walking toward us. One of the assistant coaches, Gale MacArthur, holding a ball against his hip, came out to greet them. I saw them shake hands and to engage in prolonged conversation.
            Finally, the coach turned toward the team and blew his whistle. We stopped and turned toward him. He motioned for us to come closer. Unwittingly, as basketball teams tend to do whenever the whistle blows, we formed a semicircle around the trio, and we waited, all the while staring at one person. At this close range, I could see how gorgeous she was, with her turned-up nose, blue eyes, and great figure.
            “Gentlemen,” announced the coach. “This is Miss Helen O’Connell.”
            None of us knew if we were supposed to say something, so we simply smiled and nodded in unison.
            “Miss O’Connell would like to take a tour of the campus,” MacArthur continued. “I’ve volunteered one of you to do it. Who is interested?”
            I felt my right hand shoot up in the air involuntarily. Almost as soon as I raised it, I wanted to pull it down because I knew that I would not be chosen. After all, I was still a walk-on scrub and, surely, one of the scholarship guys would get the nod. I did not want to be embarrassed. But, when I looked around, I was shocked. Mine was the only hand in the air.
            “O.k., Heller,” said the coach. “You’re excused from the rest of practice. Put your sweats on, and give Miss O’Connell a nice walking tour.”
            I rushed to the side of the court and, with trembling hands, pulled my sweat pants over my sneakers and a sweatshirt over my head. I trotted back toward the trio, with my teammates having returned to the shoot-around.
            “Miss Helen O’Connell,” said MacArthur. “This is Charlie Heller.”
            “How do you do, Charlie,” said the voice I had listened to a thousand times on 78-RPM records back in New Jersey.
            “How do you do, ma’am,” I stammered.
            “I’m yours for the next hour and a half,” she said. “So, please show me your beautiful campus.”
            We walked out of the arena into the sunshine and headed past the football stadium and tennis courts toward the center of the campus. Along the way, I pointed out the sights: Bennett Hall – the largest college dormitory in the world; the armory, where hundreds of rifles carried by Army ROTC cadets were stored; the metallurgy Quanset hut; the architecture school. As we approached the library and began to encounter many students on their way to and from classes, I became very self-conscious. I felt hundreds of pairs of eyes staring at the odd couple approaching them: a thirty-something, beautiful, stylishly-dressed, blonde lady in high-heel shoes, accompanied by a gawky, l8-year-old kid, dressed in athletic-department-issue sweats and white Converse sneakers. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see heads turning, as we passed more students on our way to the library.
            I was agitated, but at the same time, I had a feeling of self-importance, from the commotion we were causing on campus. Simultaneously, I was totally intimidated in the presence of such a famous person. I had always been shy and now my bashfulness was rendering me nearly mute. Miss O’Connor broke the silence by asking if we could go inside the library. We entered and, of course, encountered the same curiosity and stares we had met outside. We walked up the center stairs, where I showed my visitor the Browsing Room.
            “Let’s go in and sit down,” she said when she saw the inviting sofas and overstuffed chairs in this pleasant room. She picked up a Life magazine from a coffee table and seated herself in one of the chairs. I sat down opposite her and watched as she thumbed through the magazine. She found an interesting story and showed me some of the photographs. I was beginning to feel a little more relaxed now. There were few students around to gawk at us, and my guest was doing most of the talking. I felt emboldened enough to tell her that I had fallen asleep in this room one night while studying and, when I woke up, the lights were out and the doors to the outside were locked. I pointed out the sofa on which I had spent the night. She found the story amusing.
            A half hour later, we were back outside in the sunshine. It was late afternoon and there were fewer students on the sidewalks. I felt at ease now, and I told Miss O’Connell everything I knew about the history and architecture of each building we passed as we continued our tour. She seemed to be genuinely interested and asked many questions. Finally, we reached Theta Pond, a pretty little lagoon at the base of the campus mall, surrounded by huge weeping willows. Miss O’Connell pointed to one of the benches near the edge of the pond and suggested that we sit down.
            “What’s a guy from New Jersey doing here, so far from home?” she asked after a while. I explained that I had come to OSU for two reasons: to study engineering under a professor who had been our “roommate” in a refugee camp in Germany and to play basketball for the greatest coach in America.
            “You were in a refugee camp?” she asked. “Why?” I explained that we had escaped from Czechoslovakia seven years before, two weeks after the communist take-over.
            “You were in Europe during the war? What was it like? What did you do?”
            I told her that my father had escaped and joined the British Army and that my mother had been taken away to a slave labor camp.
            “Because my father was fighting against them, I had to be hidden from the Germans on a farm.” I repeated what had now become my standard mantra and in such a voice that further questions were discouraged. Helen O’Connell understood and said simply:
            “You brave boy.”
            We watched ducks and geese swimming on the pond and chatted amiably for a while longer when, out of the blue, the singer said to me:
            “I noticed back there in the field house that you have very nice legs.”
            “Where the hell did that come from?” I wondered. After having become totally relaxed in the presence of this older, beautiful lady, I was once again the stammering, embarrassed, shy, 18-year-old kid.
            “Thanks,” I said, but I was smart enough to refrain from telling her that a year before, in my senior year in high school, the cheerleaders had voted me “player with the best legs” on the basketball team.
            Miss O’Connell looked at her watch and informed me that she had to return to her hotel room in the Student Union in order to begin to get ready for her concert.
            “Are you coming to the concert tonight?” she asked as we made our way across the mall to the hotel.
            “Absolutely!” I replied, happy that the subject had been changed from that of my legs. “You’re my favorite singer, and I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
            “Thank you. That’s a wonderful compliment.”
            When we reached the front door of the hotel, I was ready to shake hands and to sprint back to Gallagher Hall. To my great surprise, Helen O’Connell stopped, put her hands on my shoulders, and kissed me on the right cheek.
            “Thank you for a wonderful afternoon, Charlie,” she said. And then she hit me with a bombshell. “After the show tonight, I’ll be in room 213,” she whispered in my ear. With that, she turned on her heel and disappeared through the hotel door.
            I stood there, totally dumfounded. Had she really said that? What did she mean? Did she – the Helen O’Connell – really invite me to her hotel room? My immature, naïve, mind had difficulty in processing it.
            That evening, two guys named Ronnie and George, whom I had met in a calculus class, accompanied me to the concert. We arrived early and sat in the front row. My friends had heard that I had escorted Miss O’Connell around campus in the afternoon – I was already something of a celebrity because of it. Now, as I sat there – watching and listening to Helen O’Connell sing – I wondered what they, and the other 5,000 people in the audience, would think if they knew of the invitation I had received. As she sang, “Green Eyes,” Tangerine,” and “Amapola,” I closed my eyes and imagined that she was singing them just for me, in the intimacy of room 213.
            When the show ended, my friends suggested that we go to Louie’s bar for beers. I started to make an excuse for not going with them, but stopped myself abruptly. I got cold feet. Two scenarios kept running through my mind. In one, I showed up at Helen O’Connell’s door, she opened it and said: “What the hell are you doing here?” In the other, she came to the door dressed in her nightgown, invited me in – and I had no idea of what to do next. Neither was very appealing.
            Later, at Louie’s Club 54, after downing two Busch Bavarians, I said to my friends:
            “You know, Helen O’Connell invited me to her hotel room after the show tonight.”
            Ronnie, a farm boy from western Oklahoma, looked at me and laughed: “Yeah, right. Tell me another story.”
            George, a Tulsa city boy, was more introspective: “I don’t know if you’re kidding us. But, if you’re not, you’re a dumb ass for sitting here with us instead of being in bed with Helen O’Connell.”

 

Please check out this video

vimeo.com/50099779

It's a discussion of my book at the Walden University plenary session in Orlando, Florida. (I don't know why I keep looking at the papers in my hand. They don't contain the answers to the questions. Bad habit!)