Growing up the neighborhood eccentric was a guy named Herb. He wore loud pants (often bought from a yard sale) and would whistle and scat-sing as he strolled by, twirling a golf club modified into a walking stick. Herb always had a dalmatian by his side and usually a handful of redskin peanuts.

Herb was the kind of guy who would get up early, take your newspaper while you were asleep, read it, then roll it back up and throw it on your lawn. The neighborhood kids called that "Herbing a paper." Herb would also park his cars in your driveway when you were out of town. We called that "Herbing a car."

My neighbor here in Oregon is out of town for a bit and asked me to park my car in her driveway to ward off anybody casing the joint. Some homes nearby have reported burglaries over the past few months. I told her no problem. Herb and his wife, Ann, and their son Peter were the best neighbors a block could ever have. I'm happy to Herb my car and carry on his legacy.