My friend Herb Ringer died on December 11th, 1998; he died on my birthday. It was a death in the family.

For many of you who are regular readers of this publication, you know of Herb's old photographs that have appeared regularly in The Zephyr for the last ten years. And you know something of his life, a remarkable journey that spanned eight and a half decades.

Herb kept it simple. He never had much money. He needed very little and wanted even less when it came to material things. Until four months before his death, he lived in the same 8 x 40 trailer that he and his parents bought in 1954. There was history inside that little tin home and Herb immersed himself in the memories that resided there, long after his traveling days were over.

His "traveling days" began in 1938 when he left his home in New Jersey and went West, settling ultimately in Reno, Nevada. In the next 52 years, he crossed and re-crossed America, logging (by his estimate) more than a million miles along the way. He loved America and he spent all those years documenting the land that he cherished through his remarkable pictures and the words he kept in his journals. Herb worried that when he died, all his old photos and artifacts would wind up in some dumpster. So he was delighted to find a receptive audience in The Zephyr. (His work will continue to appear each issue)

Herb had friends from one end of the continent to the other. He cherished his friends and treated us as if we were family. In a sense, we were. I was proud and grateful to have a very special friendship with Herb Ringer. We were kindred spirits, he and I. Over four decades separated our ages; yet I can't say that there was ever a generation gap. Or if there were, it didn't matter. Herb was there for me when life got rotten and I tried to be there for Herb when hard times came to him.

More than a year ago, I wrote a story about Herb's life in these pages and scores of you took the time to write Herb. You thanked him for his photographs and words, but many of you also expressed admiration for a life lived simply and well. He was overwhelmed. Herb's eyes had deteriorated to the point where he could not see the print anymore, but a friend in Fallon read each and every letter to him and taped them to the wall of his trailer. When I went to visit Herb later that spring, I got to read his 'fan mail' for myself and I was so impressed. These were not hastily scribbled notes but heart-felt letters of appreciation and thanks.

For years I had told Herb how much his work was admired but he always dismissed me with a chuckle. "You're just trying to make me feel good," he'd say. But as I read the letters, he stood beside me and said, "You know, I always thought you were just trying to be nice, but these people really care about me."

To all of you who wrote Herb, you have every right to feel very special. Give yourselves a round of applause---you did something very good for a very good and decent man. As he started to drift away last summer, he still basked in the glow of the warmth from your caring.

Herb was a very devout Christian and read his Bible every day. When he could no longer read, I bought him the New Testament on audio tape. He worried about my own skepticism but it never affected our friendship. "I'll put in a good word for you," he'd say and I'd answer, "There's nobody I'd rather have speaking on my behalf."