Herbie’s Cabin
Every generation has that place. The one you return to — not just on the map, but in your heart. For me and a group of high school brothers from Brownfield, Texas, that place was Herbie’s Cabin in Ruidoso, New Mexico.
Since 1980, we gathered there — year after year — thanks to the kindness and open-hearted generosity of BG and Herbie Boswell, Kirk’s parents. Herbie’s Cabin wasn’t just a house in the pines. It was retreat, a refuge, and a reunion rolled into one. Our last trip was in 2020, but the memories still breathe.
Our crew? Kirk Boswell, Bobby Joe Hungerford, Danny McCrummen, Mickey Travis, Todd Brasher, and many years — our glue — Randy Barr, known simply as “The Bear.” Randy had the kind of presence that filled a room and settled it at the same time. Big in stature and soft in spirit, he was our teddy bear. But back in the day, just to remind everyone what he could do, he ate glass a time or two. That was Randy — equal parts strength and humor. We lost him in November 2022, and none of us has been quite the same since. We always parked at his house before heading to Ruidoso. He was our base, our quiet center. And yes — Kirk was the big toe. A lot of planning, organizing, and instigating came through him. The funny thing is, we had just as much fun planning our trips as we did living them. We called it three days of golf — though sometimes it turned into two. Our golf game? Let’s just say we were the kind of players who only take our clubs out a few times a year, but we made every shot count — mostly in laughter.
My friendship with the Boswells went back even further. During our eighth-grade spring break, I went to Possum Kingdom Lake with their family. BG took us fishing and trolling, and he taught me how to shuffle cards. Herbie cooked, laughed, and kept us honest with her playful grief. When small-town friends get together, the stories tend to circle back to those early years — and they’re just as likely to remember me accidentally hitting Mickey with a rock in the fifth grade as they are our senior trip.
Herbie’s presence wasn’t just felt at the cabin — it started long before we hit the New Mexico state line. She lived in Brownfield, and many trips started once we accompanied Kirk to see Herbie and — oh yes — get the key. We’d stop by her home, say hi, and never get out of there quickly. Herbie had important information to pass along about the cabin — reminders, expectations, maybe a quick weather update — and of course, she gave us a hard time while doing it. She’d smile and say, “You boys have fun but remember, I have to live with my neighbors when I get a chance to go back up there.” That was her way — blending hospitality with a little accountability. A little bit of teasing, a lot of love, and a look that said, “Don’t let me down, boys.” We never wanted to.
It was in the cabin that I watched The Catch — Dwight Clark’s impossible, unforgettable grab — cheering for our Cowboys with Kirk and Mickey, even as our hearts sank. We laughed, we argued, we stayed up too late. I still remember Danny coming in late one night after watching Logan out of state. Logan had been playing baseball far away, but after his game, he wasn’t going to miss our reunion weekend. That’s how important it was — to all of us. When Danny finally made it to the cabin, he knocked and knocked on the door until I got up to let him in. Joe, half-asleep and never missing a beat, mumbled from the couch, “Why are you answering the door for that woodpecker? He’s been knocking all weekend.” To Joe’s surprise, it wasn’t a woodpecker — it was Danny.
Those walls heard everything — our laughter, our stories, our snores. But the best thing Herbie’s Cabin gave us wasn’t just shelter. It gave us connection. Year after year, no matter where life took us, it was the place that drew us back together. Early mornings with coffee on the deck. Late nights filled with jokes and a few serious talks. The quiet moments in between.
And always — always — with Herbie’s presence felt, even though she never once joined us at the cabin. She stayed in Brownfield, but somehow, she was with us every time we were there. Her spirit lingered in every detail — the coasters, and the chairs on the deck, the framed pictures, and the quiet reminders of her care. Herbie had rules, and we respected them. Sign the guest book. Use a coaster. Leave the deck chairs just right. Wash the towels and sheets. Most importantly — leave it better than you found it. That wasn’t just about tidiness. It was about gratitude. Reverence, even. Herbie had that rare gift: the ability to give you grief and grace at the same time. When we’d stop by her house to say hi before a trip, she’d offer the perfect blend of teasing and tenderness. She was, in many ways, the soul of the place — without ever needing to set foot there.
Carla got the band back together in 2000 for my 40th birthday, and for the next twenty years it became a priority. Those trips weren’t optional — they were sacred. Today, we group text more than we pack bags, and our gatherings are usually for funerals and weddings. In Ecclesiastes, we’re reminded that there is a season for everything, and we’ve lived enough of them now to understand the truth. Through it all, Herbie’s love language never changed — it was hospitality and humor, the kind that disarmed us enough to be real and honest.
The older I get, the more I see Herbie’s Cabin for what it truly was: a spiritual gift. A sacred space wrapped in wood and stone. A holy ground of lifelong friendship and unwavering welcome. The kind of place that reminds you that geography doesn’t get the final word — love does.
As Mary Schmich wisely said in her Sunscreen column:
“Friends come and go, but with a precious few, you must hold on tight. Because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when.”
Herbie’s Cabin was just that for us. A place where we could relax, reconnect, and rejoice in our roots. A place where we laughed harder than we had all year. Where we were boys again, if only for a long weekend. And always — always — where we left feeling fuller than when we arrived.
Herbie herself was more than a host. She was a mother-friend. A steward of something sacred. A quiet spiritual force who made sure we knew that the little things — manners, coasters, clean towels — were really about something much bigger: respect, responsibility, and love.
That kind of love is a legacy. It’s spiritual. It’s steady, watchful, unconditional, and rare.
We all need a Herbie’s Cabin in our lives — that place where joy returns easily, where old friends feel like home, and where the world slows down just enough for your heart to catch up.
If you don’t have lifelong friends — get them. If you don’t have a Herbie’s Cabin — find one.
Here’s to the sacred spaces.
To the porch chairs.
To the woodpeckers.
To the coasters.
To The Bear and the big toe.
To the grace of lifelong friendship.
To the people who give us more than they’ll ever know.
Here’s to the Herbie’s Cabin in each of our lives.
Coach Stan Leech’s reflection on Herbie’s Cabin speaks to something that surfaces again and again in The Kendall Gentleman: the way place, friendship, and faith bind men together across decades. Read My Church for another perspective on sacred spaces, Being Present Is the Present for Your Family on showing up for the people who need you, and Mountain Laurel for a quiet Hill Country moment that honors the same spirit.
