https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Dorrance_III

John Dorrance III (born 1943/1944) is an American-born Irish billionaire businessman and Campbell's Soup heir. He is also known as "Ippy" Dorrance.

Early life

He is the son of John T. "Jack" Dorrance Jr. (1919–1989), and grandson of John Thompson Dorrance.

Career

As of November 2015, Forbes estimated his net worth at US$2.6 billion.

Personal life

For 15 years he lived on a ranch in Wyoming, before moving to Ireland. He paid $1.5 million to plant trees there and in return was given Irish citizenship. The Philadelphia Inquirer reported that, "In Ireland, he can pay half the 30 percent U.S. tax rate on dividends, and when he dies, his estate will be taxed at 2 percent, rather than 55 percent in the United States."

He is married with two children and lives in Dublin.

also retrieved from wikipedia

Descendants and the Campbell Soup Co.

(cursory examination of later family) retrieved from wikipedia December 2017

"After (John Dorrance Sr.'s) death in 1869, Dorrance's sons sold the mills, which included a mill race and pond, a saw mill as well as the grist mill, a lumber yard, canal stables, coal sheds, a blacksmith shop, a store, and two houses. Dorrance's sons inherited the mansion and John, Jr. bought out his brother in 1879. The son of John, Jr., G. Morris Dorrance, later inherited the mansion. The Dorrance family kept the mansion until 1921; soon afterwards it was bought by the Bristol Knights of Columbus. The mansion returned to use as a private residence in 1982.[2]

Another son of John Dorrance, Sr., Arthur was an early investor and manager of the Campbell Soup Company. Arthur hired his nephew, John Thompson Dorrance, sometimes known as John Dorrance III, who developed the company's condensed soup line, and in 1915 became sole owner of the company.[5][6] John Thompson Dorrance's grandson, also known as John Dorrance III, sold his share of the company in 1995-96 for about $1.5 billion, and with a 2009 net worth of $2.3 billion was listed as number 296 in the Forbes list of the world's richest people.[7]

wikipedia

Grandson of Campbell Soup's founder, John Dorrance I, John Dorrance III has led a quiet life in South Dublin since cashing out of family business; from 1995 to 1996 he sold off majority of his inherited 10.5% stake in soup for $1.5 billion. A well-timed bet: stock is down 23% from the date he sold his largest block of shares. He renounced U.S. citizenship and moved to Ireland shortly before selling, purportedly to avoid estate and capital gains taxes on coming windfall. He keeps a low profile and reportedly spends time in Bahamas with his Finnish wife when not home in Ireland. Past pet causes have included legalization of game ranching in Wyoming and fox hunting in Great Britain.

http://www.therichest.com/celebnetworth/celebrity-business/men/john...

POSTED: July 09, 1995 DUBLIN, Ireland — In the heather-cloaked Wicklow Mountains, an American billionaire has planted hundreds of young spruce trees to turn a barren valley of scrub and rock into a forest.

His name is John T. Dorrance 3d and his money comes from the vast family fortune created by the Campbell Soup Co.

Since the turn of the century, the Camden soupmaker has fed generations of Americans. Its red-and-white cans are a supermarket icon, a tribute to American ingenuity.

But John "Ippy" Dorrance himself is an American no longer.

In return for spending more than $1.5 million to plant new trees on 1,000 acres in Ireland, Dorrance got a passport from a grateful Irish government. He also renounced his U.S. citizenship.

By becoming an Irish citizen, Dorrance, 50, has joined a small class of rich Americans who have abandoned their U.S. citizenship to take up residence in places that give them a better break on taxes.

For them, U.S. citizenship can carry too high a price. And it can be traded for passports from Belize, Ireland, Switzerland, the Bahamas, Cayman Islands or other tax havens of choice.

In Ippy Dorrance's case, his decision to give up his citizenship bears a curious historical footnote. His grandfather and namesake also went to great lengths to avoid estate taxes for his family - only to land his heirs in court and saddle them with twice the tax bill.

In Ireland, Dorrance has chosen a quiet life for himself. He spends most of the spring and summer here, splitting his time between the family's Georgian- style home in Dublin and hunting trips in the rugged western counties. Except for a lavish 50th birthday party at a castle near Dublin last August, the billionaire keeps a low profile.

Dorrance refused repeated requests for an interview. "He's not prepared to respond at all," said John Hickson, his attorney in Dublin.

Although Dorrance won't discuss publicly why he moved, Ireland's exceptional tax relief is a powerful draw for the monied set. Dorrance can cut his tax bill - for himself and his heirs - by hundreds of millions of dollars.

With 26.1 million shares of Campbell Soup in his stock portfolio, Ippy Dorrance is worth at least $1.3 billion.

In the United States, estate taxes would eat up 55 percent of his wealth when he dies; in Ireland, the government imposes a 2 percent estate, or probate, tax.

In dollars and cents, that would translate today into paying an estate tax of $715 million in the United States versus $26 million in Ireland.

And as an Irishman, Dorrance also could get a tax break on the $30 million in dividends he will earn this year from his Campbell Soup stock. There is usually a U.S. withholding tax of 30 percent on dividends paid to foreigners. But the United States has a special treaty with Ireland that cuts the tax in half.

While Ippy Dorrance's decision to abandon his U.S. citizenship may make good tax sense, it has brought uncomfortable attention to Campbell Soup. It's a constant source of low-level anxiety," said one former executive.

Campbell Soup denies that there has been any fallout. "Most people realize that his citizenship has absolutely nothing to do with the company," said Jim Moran, a Campbell Soup spokesman. "He's a private individual and not an employee of the company. It's his personal decision."

But in Washington, President Clinton and many Democrats persist in deriding such people as unpatriotic. Critics accuse them of making their fortunes in the United States, enjoying the freedom and protection that comes with citizenship - and then bailing out when it comes time to pay their fair share.

Among other rich expatriates are Carnival Cruise Lines founder Ted Arison, a former Miami resident who gave up his U.S. citizenship to retire to his native Israel; Kenneth and Robert Dart, heirs of the Dart Container Corp. fortune, who now have dual citizenship in Belize and Ireland; Michael D. Dingman, chairman of the aerospace products firm, Abex, who now lives in Nassau; and J. Mark Mobius, an investment manager and now a German citizen who splits his time between Hong Kong and Singapore.

Leslie Samuels, assistant secretary of the U.S. Treasury Department, has dubbed such tax refugees "economic Benedict Arnolds." Others call them yacht people."

Treasury says that "a few dozen" wealthy Americans give up their citizenship for tax reasons each year. Clinton believes it is too many, whatever the number. He is determined to close what he sees as an unfair tax loophole for the superrich.

The President's solution is to change tax laws so that rich Americans would have to pay a whopping capital gains tax before they could renounce their citizenship. His administration argues that such a move could raise $2.2 billion over five years.

To many Republicans, the White House is exaggerating the situation. A congressional Joint Tax Committee report, released June 1, argued there have been just a handful of wealthy expatriates and a change in tax law would raise a meager $200 million over five years.

Republicans are proposing a less punitive change in the law. Under their proposal, expatriates would have to continue paying U.S. taxes on income earned in the United States for 10 years after their departure.

Democrats don't think that goes far enough. Rep. Patricia Schroeder (D., Colo.) attacked Ippy Dorrance in a recent speech on the floor of the House of Representatives:

"Every time you buy a jar of soup, think of that can of soup and the guy living in Ireland, thumbing his nose at American taxpayers. That is what this is about."

Ippy Dorrance made his money the old-fashioned way: He inherited it.

John T. Dorrance Sr., Ippy's grandfather, was a brilliant, determined, shrewd chemist who saw a way to make a fortune from something as mundane as the soup Americans served at dinner.

His idea was to cook the water out of soup so it could easily be stored in small cans on grocery shelves. And he kept the price for condensed tomato soup to a dime.

The soup caught on. In the early 1900s, business at the company's Camden factory boomed, drawing a steady flow of new immigrant workers to peel tomatoes or pluck chickens. For many newcomers to the United States, Campbell Soup was a welcoming first stop in their adopted homeland, where they could find steady work and good pay.

When he died in 1930, Dr. Dorrance - as he preferred to be called - left an estate worth $115 million, which would be worth slightly more than $1 billion today.

If anyone could understand Ippy Dorrance's decision to give up his citizenship, it would have been his grandfather. Dr. Dorrance went through his own elaborate scheme to avoid having his heirs pay estate taxes.

His plan went like this: During his later years, Dr. Dorrance maintained a facade of living on the family farm in Cinnaminson, while his wife and daughters moved on to a life of luxury at the new family mansion on the Main Line.

The reason for the ruse: Inheritance taxes were lower in New Jersey.

But when he died at the age of 56, both New Jersey and Pennsylvania sent tax bills to his estate.

Pennsylvania tax agents took the family to court to get its money, resulting in a trial that was front-page news and regaled a Depression-weary public with details of the Dorrances' lavish Main Line life.

The family ended up paying taxes in both states: a double-whammy bill of $34.2 million.

And now Ippy Dorrance is facing estate-planning problems of his own.

Ippy, the eldest son of the late John T. "Jack" Dorrance 2d, wasn't always a billionaire. In fact, for most of his life, he was barely a millionaire.

(About that nickname: Family legend is that "Ippy" comes from his attempt as a child to pronounce the Roman numeral "III" at the end of his name.)

He came into his vast fortune only upon the death in 1989 of his father, the former chairman of Campbell Soup. Jack Dorrance, who owned an elegant chateau-style mansion in Gladwyne filled with valuable art, was a vital patron of the arts in Philadelphia, as well as a financial supporter of the Republican Party.

But for all his apparent wealth, Jack Dorrance did not face the same estate problems as his three children do now. He was earning a handsome income in dividends from Campbell Soup, but the stock that had been reserved for his branch of the family by Dr. Dorrance was held in a trust.

Jack Dorrance couldn't touch it - or be taxed on it. Only after his death were the stock shares distributed directly to Jack's three children: Ippy, a rancher who lived on 18,000 acres near Devil's Tower national monument in Wyoming; Bennett, a real estate developer in Phoenix; and Mary Alice Malone, a horse breeder in Chester County.

All three got an equal share of the stock, amounting to each getting about a 10-percent stake in Campbell Soup.

During his lifetime, Jack Dorrance gave generous stipends to his children so they could live comfortably. But overnight, their fortunes ballooned.

At the time of his death, Jack Dorrance was giving his children $100,000 every three months, his estate papers show. Today, they are ringing up Campbell Soup dividends of $87,000 a day.

Associates of Ippy Dorrance say his move to Ireland was motivated by tax concerns brought on by this newfound wealth.

"He loved his ranch and would still be there today if it wasn't for the problem of estate taxes," said John Daly, a lawyer in Gillette, Wyo., who has represented Dorrance in past disputes over his plans to bring exotic game to his ranch.

Daly said Dorrance had been deeply involved in the community for more than 15 years. He served on the local weed and pest control board. And neighbors often saw him mending fences on his ranch with his two sons, John 4th and Charles.

"It would ruin that family and the company if he didn't do something (about his estate)," Daly said.

Dr. Dorrance might have agreed.

In his will, the inventor had insisted that his son, Jack, and his four daughters never relinquish control of Campbell Soup. Preserving that wish into future generations will be increasingly difficult.

Now, nine Dorrance cousins control slighty less than 60 percent of the company's stock. Most of them - especially Ippy, who is 50, Bennett, 49, and Mary Alice, 45 - have their wealth concentrated in Campbell Soup stock. When they die, their heirs will be under pressure to sell large blocks of stock to pay estate taxes.

Five years ago, the cousins were at odds over what to do with their Campbell Soup inheritances. Some of the older cousins, who were worried about getting their estates in order, were pushing to sell the business. But Ippy, Bennett and Mary Alice adamantly refused.

Today, under the successful direction of Campbell Soup chairman David W. Johnson, an Australian who has pushed the company's profits and stock value higher and higher, the dispute among the cousins seems to have quieted.

If Ippy Dorrance had not acted, his heirs might be confronted one day with having to sell more than half his stock to pay taxes. "If you had to dump that much stock on the market, it would cause major stock problems," Daly said.

Other friends also have expressed empathy for Ippy Dorrance.

"I'd have to look at whether Ippy has turned his back on his country - or whether his country has turned its back on him," said an old friend of Jack Dorrance, referring to what he thought were this country's exorbitant estate taxes.

Ireland makes it easy for men and women of Dorrance's means to become citizens.

All someone has to do is invest one million Irish pounds - or about 1.7 million U.S. dollars - in a business that creates jobs and the Irish government will grant a passport. (The United States has a similar program: For an investment of $1 million in a jobs-creating business, a foreigner can get a U.S. green card almost immediately.)

The very private Ippy Dorrance undoubtedly would have felt comfortable with the anonymity of giving up his U.S. citizenship. The requirements were simple. Walk into the distinctive, cylindrical U.S. Embassy building in Dublin and sign a one-page oath:

"I hereby absolutely and entirely renounce my United States nationality, together with all rights and privileges and all duties of allegiance and fidelity."

To finish the process, Ippy Dorrance had to swear his fidelity to Ireland in a perfunctory hearing before an Irish judge.

And with that, Dorrance no longer was one of America's richest men; he was one of Ireland's.

Even as an expatriate, Dorrance can go on with life more or less as usual.

He can visit his Wyoming ranch, which he transferred to his sons in 1993. He can travel to Camden for board meetings at Campbell Soup, where he has been a director for more than 10 years. But he cannot spend more than 120 days in the United States; otherwise the IRS could tax him as a resident.

There are plenty of other places around the world for Dorrance to roost. He spends most winters at his home in the exclusive community of Lyford Cay in Nassau, the Bahamas. Most spring and summer months are saved for Dublin.

Ireland was a natural fit for Dorrance, although his image remains more rough-hewn Wyoming rancher than refined Irish gentleman.

An avid sportsman, Ippy and his German-born wife, Gundel, enjoy hunting in Ireland. About two years ago, they bought a stately 19th-century home for about $500,000 in the attractive Dublin neighborhood of Dartry.

They live on a tree-lined street that is a mixture of genteel, old homes and newer, affordable, middle-class houses. Among their neighbors are the Nigerian ambassador and a Protestant archbishop.

It is a respectable neighborhood but not a place where a newcomer would move if he wanted to make a big splash.

Neighbors say the Dorrances do not flaunt their wealth. They have watched with pleasure, though, as the couple transformed their home into a much larger and grander residence by expanding and refurbishing the house and grounds.

The Dorrances added an English-designed glass conservatory, formal perennial gardens with a fountain and stucco additions to the main brick house. The effect is a house that would look at home in the tonier sections of Philadelphia's Chestnut Hill.

For the most part, the Dorrances keep to themselves. "Their gates are always closed and their curtains drawn," said one neighbor, who did not want to be named.

Ippy Dorrance, in particular, eschews publicity. Friends and business associates say he plays down his billionaire status.

"He hides that fact," said Maurice Ryan, who manages 1,000 acres that Dorrance is trying to reforest in Ireland. "The first time I met him, he was wearing a checked tweed jacket. Five years later, he's still wearing that same jacket."

When they inspect his land together, Ryan said Dorrance does not think twice about getting out of the car himself to clear brush from a drainage ditch or fix a fence.

Said another person who has had business dealings with Dorrance: "He likes to do things quietly. He keeps so much to himself that he doesn't make it known who his friends are, deliberately."

In a rare display of extravagance, the Dorrances had an elaborate party in August to mark Ippy's 50th birthday. It was held at a castle outside Dublin, with more than 70 guests, most flown in from the States.

At the fantasy birthday party, guests were offered medieval costumes - a selection of Maid Marian gowns of velvet and satin for the women, short bloomers and long vests with feathered hats for the men. A special Henry VIII costume was made for Ippy, of deep velvet with gold braid.

For a birthday present, his family gave him a big, shiny, black London- style taxicab, complete with a working meter to "charge" his friends for lifts to and from the airport.

When the Irish Times came out with a 200-word account of the party, Ippy Dorrance was so incensed that he told friends he would have had the affair in Switzerland, had he known there was going to be any publicity at all.