R.I.P. Herb Kohler, the Man Who Beat Out a President and Had a Standing Invitation to Jail

H erbert Vollrath Kohler Jr. died on September 3 in Kohler, Wis. (pop. 2,016) at the age of 83. His contributions were many. As chief executive of Kohler Company — responsible for the porcelain throne on which you’re likely reading this — he steered the corporation from a multimillion-dollar business in 1972 to a multibillion-dollar empire in 2015, the year he retired. From bathroom fixtures to energy and engines, Kohler is involved the world over. While a talented man, a hellion in his youth, and a shrewd negotiator, perhaps Herb’s greatest contribution was in golf.

I and my hometown of Sheboygan (pop. 48,153) — the union town from which much of Kohler’s labor came — have much to be grateful for. Were it not for Herb’s development of such world-renowned courses as Whistling Straits and Blackwolf Run, the PGA and Ryder Cup would never have considered Wisconsin’s coastline for their fabulous and lucrative tournaments. Amusingly, he beat out former president Donald J. Trump in acquiring Hamilton Hall, a property that has views of the 18th green of the Old Course at historic St. Andrews — now some of the most exclusive flats in Scotland. He arrived at golf late in life but left an indelible mark upon the landscape of its most storied tournaments and courses.

If you want a full obituary, the New York Times has a fine one here.

What I want to write about him is a touch more personal. What I knew of the man while I was growing up was that he was associated with everything I did. Sports teams, libraries, art museums, parks, sailing clubs — they all had the name of Kohler and Vollrath. For the union families, the name was as often a slur as it was a term of reverence, which gave Herb a mythical quality.

When I was a junior in high school, I went out for football. My small private Calvinist school had neither enough money nor bodies, so we joined with the Lutheran school and Kohler High School. This triumvirate of brainy but brawnless institutions had between them enough good men to win five games, a gobsmacking accomplishment. Mr. Kohler would attend our games with C-suite satellites in orbit, and I recall the hush that would fall over the stands as he made his way up. Every parent there was employed thanks to Mr. Kohler to some degree or another. He was a jolly man but one with a steely interior, and those who were on his payroll kept their distance. Not my mom.

During one game, when Herb’s hangers-on were off getting popcorn or asking the coach why star third-string QB Luther Abel wasn’t playing, my mom went over and sat next to him. She, an instructor at the Sheboygan County Jail with a brazen streak a nautical mile wide, asked Herb if he tired of the constant buzz and demands of those around him. He chuckled and agreed that it would be nice to get away from it. To this my mom laughed and gave him her card, offering that, if he ever needed a break, he was welcome behind the five locked doors of her classroom: He could hang out with the inmates and work on a GED with them.

That got a laugh and an admission that he may well have ended up in jail in his youth if some things had gone a bit wrong.

But there he was, Mr. Kohler, lord of all he could see and more. Generous, a tad reprobate, and most certainly bold. He will be missed.