By Juan MontoyaWe won't say much because there isn't much to say.
A good friend, superb news photographer, and an all-round decent human being has passed away.
His name was Joe Hermosa and we had the good fortune of working our craft alongside of him at the Brownsville Herald, Henry Sanchez's Crossroads, and later, when he moved over, at the Valley Morning Star.
When we started working for the Herald, it was also Joe's first year as a photojournalist.
Joe was an old school news hound in the days when photographers processed and developed their film in the darkroom enveloped in the mists of chemicals. They – like Ron Schade, Mickey Torres, Brad Dougherty, and the others – only peeked out of the dark room when they had to.
We extend out condolences to his wife – our dear friend Lynn and her sons and daughters – and remember him as he was, a real-life homeboy who enjoyed it to the fullest and loved his wife and family. One of his sons – Joseph is a physician. One of his daughters was a cheerleader with the Texas Longhorns. Their talent – with his encouragement – has taken them far. To Scott, Joseph, Christine and Melissa, los acompaños en su pesar.
Michael Martinez wrote that "over a career spanning 34 years, Joe photographed news for print and the Internet. He covered hurricanes, uprisings in Matamoros, Mexico, U.S. presidents, Mexican presidents, musical groups, sports events, air shows, services held for soldiers killed in combat, the border patrol, undocumented works and many other subjects."
Many of the photos of our own kids came from Joe's shutter. In fact, we lived down the street from him in the Los Ebanos subdivision. A poem by William Carlos Williams will suffice. Until we meet again, Pretty Boy.
A Widow's Lament in Springtime
Sorrow is my own yard
where the new grass flames
as it has flamed often before
but not with the cold fire
that closes round me this year.
Thirty five years I lived with my husband.
The plum tree is white today
with masses of flowers.
Masses of flowers
load the cherry branches
and color some bushes
yellow and some red
but the grief in my heart
is stronger than they
for though they were my joy formerly,
today I notice them
and turn away forgetting.
Today my son told me
that in the meadows,
at the edge of the heavy woods
in the distance,
he saw trees of white flowers.
I feel that I would like
to go there
and fall into those flowers
and sink into the marsh near them.