River Oaks District Hosts a Recruitment Evening for Texas Children’s

Courtney Freels, Julia TenHoeve, Katelyn Gosslee and Jaron Santelli (photo by Jenny Antill)

By Jeff Gremillion

Jenni Kayne’s River Oaks District shop turned into a recruitment night for Ambassadors for Texas Children’s recently. 

Chair Courtney Freels welcomed current and prospective Ambassadors for an evening of conversation and shopping. Jaron Santelli, associate chief of sports medicine, gave the remarks, walking the room through the work and leaving guests with a clearer sense of the mission. Jenni Kayne donated 20 percent of event sales back to the program.

The night was built to introduce Texas Children’s and the Ambassadors donor community to people who might want in, and to reconnect those already there.

Guests included Courtney Freels, Julia TenHoeve, Katelyn Gosslee, Jaron Santelli, Nancy Bihlmaier, Candace Thomas, Nina Rand and Courtney Harmon.

Nicole May, Dr. Jaron Santelli, Julia TenHoeve and Courtney Freels (photo by Jenny Antill)

Nancy Bihlmaier, Candace Thomas, Nina Rand and Courtney Harmon (photo by Jenny Antill)

Look Back: In Mourning Her Dad’s Passing, a Daughter Finds Joyful Signs of God’s Grace

The author sought peace and understanding in the days following her father’s passing.

By Lisa Holthouse

Originally published in December 2021

A couple of months ago, a friend recommended an interesting book that she had just finished titled Signs. It’s a collection of stories that speak to the universe’s capacity for magical moments and how to recognize the life-changing messages from the Other Side. Having been raised a Roman Catholic, I would tend to refer to that other side as Heaven.

The book reveals stories of uncanny revelations or inexplicable experiences that have brought inspiration and comfort to those who have lost a loved one. And the author suggests that if you open yourself up to signs, you will start to find meaning where there was confusion, or see light where there was only darkness.

Fast forward to Thanksgiving.

After a glorious day spent with my family — eating, drinking, singing, teasing and doing what we do when we are all together, loving each other like crazy and having the most fun we possibly can — my 76-year-old father laid down to sleep and never woke up.

To say that we have been devastated is a monumental understatement. He passed away completely unexpectedly — although I do realize now he went in the most joyous way that anyone could dream of going. He went to sleep after having his “last supper,” prepared by his loving wife of 55 years, my mother, and he woke up in heaven.

It’s a dream-come-true passing for the deceased. But it’s always a bitter heartbreak for those left behind. And everyone grieves in different ways, yelling out to their creator, their God, wondering what happened. In my particular case, all I wanted to know from Jesus, my Lord, was if he had my dad with him. I wanted to know, dammit. I walked around that whole week, from the Thursday of Thanksgiving late in the night through the following Thursday of his funeral, begging for a sign from God that my dad was safe in heaven with Him.

It’s funny when you walk around looking for a sign. You wonder at every little moment, is this it? Is this my sign? For example, during that very long week my family had dinner together each night, usually at my home. The lights were dim, candles were lit, probably more so than usual, even though I typically prefer it that way.

One of the evenings we dined at my sister’s, and the lights were bright, too bright for my taste. Operating room lights, as I teased her while begging to turn the lights down. As we went to make our plates at the kitchen counter, the lights went off. Completely off, for absolutely no reason. The weather was lovely. The rest of the homes in the neighborhood had their lights on. But ours went off, which of course forced my sister to light candles and proceed with a dinner just the way I was asking in the first place.

Was this my sign? Was Dad looking down on us trying to give me my ambience? I suppose people can create all sorts of rationale for unusual moments that come just at the right time. And I suppose faith is what makes one lean toward a divine intervention. But as we close in on the coming days of Christmas, I want to share with you an incredible sign that came to me on Friday, the morning after my father’s funeral.

In general as Christmastime rolls around, we get so lost in the hype — the decorations a month out, the excessive amount of gifts that we stockpile, the parties and the fanfare. But after losing a loved one — after losing my loved one — it’s remarkable how none of that matters, and the only real solace that can be found is in faith. As such, rolling into Christ’s birthday, I can’t think of anything that helps me find peace other than the birth and subsequent death of Christ on the cross.

The day following the funeral, I was walking through my backyard, melancholic and meditative, in an offbeat area where I was contemplating adding a lighted Christmas tree. The grass had recently been mowed and I was off to the left of a path where most would never walk. I looked down in the grass and there was a crucifix. It was large, maybe six or eight inches long, made of olive wood. Having been to Israel earlier this year, I know firsthand how most of their carved items are made of olive wood, so I thought it curious. I picked it up, and on the back was carved Jerusalem.

I stopped in my tracks, and tears filled my eyes. This was my sign, without a doubt. There was no way to rationalize any other way for this to be in my path the day following my father’s funeral. It didn’t belong to us. I have never seen it before. And it was too large to just fall out of a landscaper’s pocket. (Believe me, I tried every rationale in the moment.)

I have come to learn from our priest that “heaven has been considered the eternal Jerusalem since Christ’s days.” And he believes that I have been intimately blessed by God with this marvelous sign that my dad is in the eternal Jerusalem with Him.

So as I roll into the holidays with a heavy sadness in my heart, fewer gifts under the tree, and a worry that Christmas Eve will be nothing but tears, I am reminded of the only thing that matters to us Christians that celebrate the birth of Christ. He came to save us through His life and His death on the cross. And I have my very own heaven-sent crucifix to prove it.

God bless you all as He has blessed me. Merry Christmas.

Look Back: Get a Rare Glimpse of Oscar Wyatt, War Hero and Oil Titan, at Home with Lynn

Lynn and Oscar Wyatt at home in River Oaks, summer 2021 (photo by Jhane Hoang)

By Jeff Gremillion

Originally published in October 2021

In a sunny corner of the River Oaks home he shares with his internationally famous socialite wife, Oscar Wyatt laughs easily and makes guests feel welcome. A photographer here to take his portrait this morning remarks how jovial and funny he is, as when he intercepts a question intended for wife Lynn with the timing of a seasoned stand-up.

"Why did you marry Oscar?" an interviewer asks.

After three full beats, with the query hanging in the air in advance of Lynn's reply, he belts out in comical mock exasperation, "Oh hell!" — and the room erupts in laughter.

That's just about all he'll have to say today. After a stroke a few years ago, Oscar, now 97, is more mellow and less boisterous and talkative than he would have been in his heyday as one of Texas' most notable — and at times controversial — oilmen. Back when "gruff" and "abrasive" were among the most typical words used to describe him.

He's "a throwback to the independent oilmen of another era, the ones who dug out a fortune virtually with their hands and fought hard to expand it," said Gov. John Connally of his friend Oscar in the late politician's memoir, noting the rise of Oscar's Coastal Corporation and his rough-and-tumble international deal making. "He isn't the kind of fellow who has to look at a horseshoe all day before he pitches it.

"Often blunt and sometimes profane, he is a man capable of surprising warmth and sentiment and charity," said Connally. The former governor joined Oscar on a trip to Iraq in 1990 during which the oil tycoon is credited with convincing Saddam Hussein to release a group of American hostages.

It turns out that Oscar is many things. Not just a magnate who had raised himself from poverty. Not just a former Aggie lineman and used car salesman, among other things, who took out an $800 loan against his truck to start a company that would later be worth billions.

(The loan story prompted Henry Ford II to weigh in, in a 1986 letter. "For over 80 years, Ford Motor Company has produced quality products for the motoring public, and I have heard many accounts of the uses to which our products have been put," Ford wrote. "Some have been unusual, some even bizarre. But none equals what I have heard about your 1949 Ford." Ford went on to note his dismay at the rather modest amount of the loan secured by "such a fine automobile." He added, "Obviously, the loan was over-collateralized.")

Besides the storied business success, Oscar is also an accomplished aviator who was an active pilot for some 70 years. It wasn't until his stroke in 2008 that he left the cockpit.

His history in the air — which included unmitigated heroism in the second world war — is being honored at the Lone Star Flight Museum's "Broad Stripes and Bright Stars" gala on Dec. 4. Although it's hard to believe, given that Lynn is roundly considered the queen of Houston society and has thus been honored dozens, maybe hundreds of times at various fetes and fundraisers over many decades, the museum ball will mark the first time Oscar has ever been individually honored at such an event.

Lynn surely feels the time has come. "But he just never thinks about himself like that," she says. "He never talks about himself, never brags about himself."

This is part of how she answers that question about why she married him in the first place him back in 1963. "I'd never met a man like that," she says. She was impressed by his take-charge nature, his worldliness, his imposing stature and the fact that he was 11 years older. "You could name any country, and he'd already been there. He knew how to solve every problem, had an answer for everything. I felt so safe with him.

"He never complains," she adds. "Even when he got that stroke, he took it just like nothing happened. I'm so proud of him."

Of the decision to honor Oscar, Lone Star Flight Museum President Doug Owens, himself a retired lieutenant general, says that Oscar's "distinguished service as a decorated bomber pilot in World War II is something to be recognized and honored by us all."

Indeed, Beaumont-born Oscar's war heroics in the skies of the Pacific Theater, coming after teen years spent crop dusting farms in Navasota, are movie-worthy. Connally described them in his book. "He was flying a cargo of munitions out of Okinawa in 1945 when his plane caught fire and had to crash-land," wrote the governor. "His flight suit was burning. He couldn't see. Both his legs were crushed, his jaw was broken, and he had seven fractures in his head. He crawled back and forth to the plane until he had dragged out his five crew members, all of them alive." Oscar was 21 at the time.

A lot of this came as news to his four sons. "He never talked about that, except to say he was responsible for his crew," says Trey Wyatt. "It's in his character. He does not take credit for his accomplishments. He likes to keep a low profile."

Trey continues: "He pointedly refused to talk about his war experiences with his children. The government of the Philippines gave him an honor for his heroism, and later the Peoples' Republic of China did the same thing. That's the only way we started to learn about it."

Truly, for decades, Oscar was utterly uninterested in public affirmation and perfectly happy to let Lynn, confidant to royalty and celebs like Elton John and Mick Jagger, win the accolades and glow glamorously. After all, Forbes once reported that he'd "cultivated a hard-as-nails reputation" and Texas Monthly called him the real-life J.R. Ewing.

"What people thought meant absolutely nothing to him," says Trey. "He used to say, 'I'm not in business to win a popularity contest.'

"I'm glad it's happening," Trey says of the museum honor. "Because he does deserve it. Our family insisted on it. My mother insisted on it. He's been an unsung hero. He's had an impact on a lot of people's lives, but he hasn't sought the spotlight."

Oscar's love affair with flight included owning many planes and serving as the family's personal pilot for as long as Trey can remember. "Twin Beech, DC3, Lockheed Howard, a 1961 Queen Air Beechcraft from the early days of the Kennedy administration," Trey recalls. He also references a Boeing 707, a BAC One-Eleven, "a Gulfstream II and IIB."

If Oscar was tough and open to great risk in business, he was anything but at the yoke of a plane. He was meticulous about checklists, and, as Trey puts it, he had a deep respect for weather. "He used to say, 'I can show you a bold pilot, and I can show you an old pilot. But you'll not find a bold, old pilot.

"I inherited that passion. That's the reason I'm still flying," Trey adds. "He taught me to fly straight and level."

These days, Oscar uses a wheelchair to get around and, of course, spends a lot less time in the air. "He's not really able to talk," says Trey, "and that frustrates him."

Lynn describes a conversation with Oscar this way: "Sometimes he'll curse. He knows what he wants to say [but can't find the words]. And he'll say, 'mmm, mmm, mmm … Goddammit!' And I'll say, 'Oh, I got that. That was clear as a bell.' I'll say, 'wait, wait, wait.' And then it'll come out."

Sometimes things take time. Like getting Oscar his due at a big gala. "And," Lynn insists, "nobody deserves it more."

Lynn and Oscar Wyatt at home in River Oaks, summer 2021 (photo by Jhane Hoang)

Oscar and Lynn at a society wedding at the Met in New York in 1988

Oscar Wyatt as a young military pilot in World War II

Remembering Photographer Jhane Hoang and Her Polished Portraits and Rich Fashion Spreads

Jhane Hoang, center, and some of her work for ‘Houston CityBook’

By Jeff Gremillion

WHEN JHANE HOANG died late last year after a quiet, private battle with cancer, Houston lost one of its most talented and exacting photographers — and my colleagues at CityBook and I lost a beloved contributor and friend.

Jhane, who was just 50 years old, was a Vietnamese American who, as I understood it, pumped the brakes on her career as a rising star in New York’s edgy, high-end creative set, to return home to Houston in recent years to be closer to ailing family members. This must’ve been a nod to the traditions and requirements of her culture, which was a poignant counterpoint to her progressive energy. She was a daring artist, and a cherished member of the city’s LGBTQ+ community.

When another friend and sometime collaborator, Rene Garza, suggested we throw in with Jhane and assign her some photos, we took the step cautiously; it’s kind of rare that such friend-of-a-friend referrals work out. But we were immediately taken with her skills and commitment to her artistic vision. The latter wasn’t always easy to navigate, honestly, and, on any given shoot, it wasn’t unusual for me to recede into a corner wondering, who’s in charge here?

With Jhane, the answer was never really her — or me, certainly — but the project itself. The creative goals, the rich and evocative images she saw in her mind’s eye before the shutter ever started to snap. And, in service to the dreams in her head, she spent hours upon hours adjusting lights, repositioning subjects, tweaking styling.

One shoot I well remember was for our annual Sexy Issue. Jhane and I took an entire crew and four models to the Four Seasons in New Orleans. Despite that we had limited time in which to shoot racks full of runway looks sent to us from major fashion houses, Jhane lingered meticulously over a setup involving shirtless models in blue jeans writhing in the grass. She (and the gracious models) persevered until Jhane got the shot — even through a thunderstorm that snuck up on us.

As much as I loved working with Jhane on such steamy shoots — and on other fashion spreads shot on locations such as the Houston Zoo and Museum of Natural Science — I think I was most impressed with her portraits of everyday folks. You could argue it’s easier to make a hot model with his shirt off look appealing than to make, say, a diminutive restaurateur or a late-career doctor come off as well. Which is why we often asked her to help with our “Leaders & Legends” and “Cool 100” collections. 

Nobody could bring out the inner-sexy-model in a civilian like Jhane. It was partly her patience with and mastery of the technical demands of getting a great photo.

But it was mostly … just her. There was something she exuded that signaled that she was at once a badass, seriously artsy, cigarette-smoke-blowing fashion photographer with New York City cred, and a gentle sweetheart from H-Town who just wanted to vibe with you and make you look nice. And, if occasionally she made an editor push his print deadline as she pored over every nook and cranny of a picture in Photoshop, you just went along with it. Oh, that Jhane.

The second of Jhane’s memorial services is taking place this week, and I’m told there will be a retrospective of her work. My colleague Patrick Magee, former CityBook creative director, who worked more closely with her and her images than anyone, has gathered up some of his favorites here.

Godspeed, Jhane Hoang. Thank you for your rare depth as an artist and commitment as a friend. You are missed.